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We were five pilgrims amongst thousands undergoing our skywards rite of passage under the cover of darkness. The Yoshidaguchu Trail lit by a fat July full moon and the headtorches of the faithful was our pathway to the stars, to Fuji-san, Japan's sacred mountain.
Over 12,000 feet high, this majestic mistress totally dominates the landscape around, her magnetic allure enough to draw more than 100,000 hikers of all ages, experiences and fitness levels from start to summit every year. We were taking the classic approach: a hike in darkness to watch the sun rise from Fuji's peak.
The coach trip from Shinjuki to Fuji's 5th station starting point was a serene one, Tokyo's buzz fading to a countryside calm as the time passed by. In just over 2 hours we were there, winding up on a vertiginous avenue that cut its way through the forest that carpets Fuji's foothills. According to Reiko, this is the suicide forest: a dense wilderness where people who have lost their way come to die; they come to hang themselves in a place where they cannot be found; where compasses do not work; where they enter knowing they will not, cannot leave.
We drew into the 5th station carpark at around 8pm, dusk painting a breathtaking canvas of colour across the western sky. Mushrooming clouds of burnt oranges and fiery crimsons collided and funnelled between heavier banks of dense cotton wool cumulus.
Far beneath this airy ocean lay Lakes Kamaguchi and Yamanaka and beyond, to the north-east, a city's lights were being switched on, an inverted electric constellation as darkness fell.
We had 2 hours to fill before our pilgrimage could begin. It was a strange period of time where our urge to climb, to keep moving as the temperature dropped and the clock moved on had to be balanced and beaten by the knowledge that an early start would mean making the peak before sunrise, negating the entire purpose of our night hike. So we waited and we watched. Doug, Robin, Yuki, Reiko and I made an eclectic team, setting up our own little base camp to mark out the minutes in our own ways.
Of course, we were not alone. Before we set off, I watched scores of hiking parties gather, chatter, stretch and sleep together. They come in their droves to ascend Fuji-San wearing dazzlingly, dizzingly garish clothes. This is a mountain to dress up for. It is a peak where polka dots, stripes and bright, bright colours converge. Fuji is an explosion of clashing fashions.
Doug was our allotted expedition leader, a veteran of 4 previous ascents. Last summer, Yuki and Reiko had been defeated by typhoon conditions at the 8th station, blown groundwards with the cone-topped summit in sight. Tonight was their night, and ours too. With sunrise at 4.30 am Doug was sure that an easy-paced ascent would see us top out in good time to watch the new day break so we set off into the night, me elated to finally make tracks on the trail one year after first glimpsing her from the window of a Kamakura-Tokyo night train. Fuji was out of reach for me then but I had been called back and as the altitude increased ffrom 5th to 6th station and the night grew colder I didn't want to be anywhere else.
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The trail is well-made and easy to negotiate, the ground like coarse powder underfoot in the gloom. Fuji was staying out of sight for just a little longer. The stations stretched out into the distance, their lights marking our route to the top: chains of lanterns 3000 metres in the air connected byt the strung-out pinprick glows of so many hikers' head torches. Or were they upwardly mobile ants making a moonlit commute to their lofty place of work?
With the temperature dropping Station 6 had a Himalayan feel to it: a rickety refuge propped up by solid wooden stilts and populated by hawkers of oxygen, noodles and other pick-me-ups.
A low burble of chatter was our soundtrack as we prepared to continue into the thinning night air. Minutes blurred as we passed the stations. Fuji became our world condensed, simplified into step after wearying step, a deadening sense of the increased altitude exaggerating the normal debilitating effects of sleep deprivation and exercise combined.
As the horizon begin to lighten we realised that we wouldn't make it to the summit in time for sunrise and with the temperature dropping to near zero, our fatigue called us to a halt somewhere between the 8th and 9th stations. It was time to wait, to our thoughts and our breath, to fight off the cold and the urge to sleep. We had taken our rocky seats, perched high in the upper circle and we were ready for the day's performance to begin. And so it did. Illuminated by the first glow of the sun, an ethereal band of red on the horizon turned darkness into dawn.
As the chord of light grew thicker the sun emerged, astonishingly fiery, nature's neon outdoing the wattage of our world effortlessly, languidly and gloriously.
We couldn't help but gasp at the sight, awe-struck by this great reveal: the new day laid out before us.
Countless peaks lay far below. To the north, east and west, clouds concealed their bases like frothy waves lapping rocks at sea. We were energised by the sun as it slowly soared higher, the colours changing as the temperature rose. Time seemed to slow again as this soundless performance continued. I've never seen such a beautiful sight and I'll hold it close. Climb Mount Fuji and you'll take a part of it away: it's priceless and it's free. We pushed on to the summit knowing that we had to move quickly both to defeat the sapping fatigue and to try and keep clear of the amazing queues that build up the higher you go.
In both our objectives we failed. With the top in sight we ground to a halt, just one group amongst hundreds more waiting patiently in line. Tiredness overcame me and without any momentum to keep me awake I fell asleep standing up.
I almost crawled to the top and utterly shattered, lay flat out, the hard ashy ground like a quilt. The top seems of another planet, the huge volcanic crater like a burnt martian marshmallow.
Another hour takes you round to the true summit, past the Post Office and the Observatory. We hadn't the time to get there, a bus already booked to take us back to Tokyo at 11am, so we took our photographs and made our descent. Rapidly. With our settings switched to auto-pilot we started down the powdery path like spaced-out spacemen bouncing back to terrafirma.
As the altitude decreased our senses sharpened and in 3 hours we were back at the 5th station carpark. The coach trip back to Shinjuku was a quiet one.
