The Japanese revere their highest mountain, which spears out of the surrounding flatlands near the coastline west of Tokyo. For most of the year, it hides in cloud, but when this creature deigns to appear, the sight is spectacular. Its conical form changes costume with the seasons, but as we approached in summer, lucky enough to catch it on a clear day, it had chosen a lush green base fading through a rough brown as it narrowed to the ever-present white crop at the peak. Jemma, another Australian exchange student, and I had joined my host parents for the journey, and we both had our faces pressed against the car window as the mountain loomed closer.
My host father, Otousan, had climbed it before and he’d planned the schedule to give us the best experience. We parked the car at the fourth marker to get out, stretch and rest until midnight. Roads only went to the fifth marker, but here we were close enough to drive the last stretch comfortably, yet away from the busloads of tourists. I fell asleep , then woke a number of hours later to find Otousan cooking us a camp dinner on a gas burner. We ate quickly, then drove up to the end of the road just before midnight.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” I asked Otousan.
“Yes, I’m sure. We have a saying in Japan. ‘A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji once. A fool climbs it twice.’ Go on. You’ll love it. Trust me.” I had no idea that I’d be repeating those same words ten years later.