The humid Tokyo summer air is already thick enough to drink as I step onto the Yamanote line. It’s 1999—can you imagine? No smartphones to check, no GPS to guide us—just a crumpled paper map in my pocket and a pager that probably won’t even work up there. I hop off at Shibuya and weave through the early morning crowd to the Hachiko Statue.

Look, Hachiko is THAT classic meeting spot—everyone knows it. But today? Today it feels DIFFERENT. We aren’t just meeting for ramen and beers. We’re meeting for the climb of our LIVES. My crew of 25 gathers, and you can FEEL the electricity in the air—a mix of excitement and nervous energy bouncing between us like ping pong balls. We pile into taxis, racing through those iconic neon-lit streets toward the bus terminal. Let the chaos begin!

The Journey to Station 5

The bus ride takes about two hours, slowly winding away from the urban sprawl toward something majestic. And then we see it—the silhouette of the “Big Boss” herself, dominating the horizon like she owns it (spoiler: she does). As we pull into Fuji Subaru Line 5th Station (Base Camp), the air hits different. Crisp. Clean. It’s 2,305 meters up, and the world looks… simpler from here.

We spend the afternoon in this weird “calm before the storm” bubble. Shopping for wooden hiking sticks (the ones they’ll brand at each station like badges of honor), eating heavy meals for fuel (carbs = life right now), and watching the tourists who are just here for the view. At 5:00 PM, as the sun begins its long, slow goodbye, we tighten our laces. Deep breath. It’s time.

The Low Road (Stations 5 to 7)

Okay, so the trek from Station 5 to 6 is almost a TEASE. It’s this wide, easy path that makes you think, “Wait, people say this is HARD? We’ve got this!” We’re laughing, talking, feeling like world-class explorers on some National Geographic mission.

But then we hit the trail toward Station 7, and ohhhh boy—the incline starts to BITE. The path gets rocky, steep, and seriously real. The sky turns this deep indigo, and then—BAM—total darkness. We click on our torch lights, and what happens next is pure magic. Looking up, it’s like a constellation of stars is walking up the mountain. Looking down, a trail of light follows us. Hundreds of climbers, all connected by these tiny beams in the vast darkness. It’s one of the most surreal things I’ve EVER seen.

The Wall (Station 7 to 9)

This is where the mountain stops playing games. Station 7 to 9 is a BRUTAL stretch of volcanic rock that just keeps going. And going. And going. Every station we reach feels like finding an oasis in the desert—we literally CHEER when we see the lights.

And here’s the thing about Japan that still blows my mind—YES, there are even vending machines on the side of a VOLCANO! We’re clutching hot coffee like it’s liquid gold, grabbing quick meals, our breath visible in the cooling air. The group is getting quieter now. The 25 of us are starting to spread out, each fighting our own battle with the mountain. The chatter has been replaced by heavy breathing and the crunch of boots on volcanic rock.

The 10-Pace Rule

From Station 9 to the Summit, the oxygen feels different. Thinner. Precious. My legs aren’t just tired—they feel like they’re made of LEAD. I develop this desperate rhythm: Step… step… step… After 9 or 10 paces, I HAVE to stop. My heart is drumming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

I look back at the trail of torches behind me—a glowing serpent winding up the mountain, full of strangers now connected by this shared suffering. We are all dying together in the dark, pushing through the pain, asking ourselves “WHY?” while knowing exactly why.

The Moment of Gold

Somewhere between Station 8 and 9, the sky starts to bleed orange. Just a hint at first, then more. I see people just… sitting. They’ve stopped climbing. I tap someone on the shoulder and ask what’s happening.

“We’re waiting,” he whispers, like it’s sacred. “The sun is coming.”

I take a seat on a cold rock, and suddenly nothing else matters. The horizon in the east begins to glow—softly at first, then building. And then it happens. The Goraiko (the sunrise) breaks through the clouds, and I’m not prepared for this. There’s a literal SEA of clouds below us, stretching endlessly, and for a few precious minutes, everything is bathed in liquid gold. The exhaustion? Gone. Vanished. This is why we came. This moment right here.

The Summit

Finally—FINALLY—at 8:00 AM, I step through the stone torii gate at the top. I MADE IT. I actually made it.

I look around for our group, and here’s the reality check: Of the 25 people who started at Hachiko, only 5 of us reached the summit. We’re exhausted, we’re winded, our legs are shaking, but the feeling? INCREDIBLE. We spend an hour taking photos (on film cameras, fingers crossed they turn out!), eating a well-deserved breakfast at the peak of Japan, and just soaking in the fact that we’re standing on top of the country. The air is thin, but the vibes are THICK.

The Never-Ending Descent

They say climbing Fuji is optional, but coming down is mandatory. I thought the way down would be easy. Oh, sweet summer child that I was.

I was SO WRONG.

The descent is this separate, zigzagging track of loose volcanic ash and gravel that feels designed by someone who really hates knees. Every step is a slide. My knees are SCREAMING. It feels like it will NEVER end. Down, down, down—each step reminding you that what took hours up takes just as long down. The euphoria of the summit feels like a distant dream now. This is the reality check.

Full Circle

I finally—FINALLY—stumble back into Station 5. I’m covered in red dust and sweat, looking like I’ve been through a war (spoiler: I have). I find the rest of my friends, and the stories start FLYING. We’re comparing blisters like battle scars, sharing the photos we didn’t take, and laughing at how HARD it actually was. The ones who didn’t make the summit? They’ve been resting, eating, and cheering for us like we just won Olympic gold.

At 6:00 PM, we board our hired bus back to Tokyo. As I lean my head against the window and watch the silhouette of Mt. Fuji disappear into the night, I realize something profound: I’m not the same person who left Shibuya this morning.

Tired? Beyond words. Broken? Almost.

But that memory? That feeling?

That stays forever.

 

Thawngno