You could hear the wind barreling around the mountain that threatened your grip on the rocks, feel the sudden rain and sleet spitting out, and taste the mountain ash that forced it’s way onto anything that dared to tread it’s boundary.  The further you went up, the further you drifted away from life and into the dark coldness of space.  The further you went up, the more beautiful the world appeared as you measured it step by step.  The storm and splendor.

We started the climb at 9 pm.  By sheer accident, and because we started the climb at night, the group of us landed on the more difficult, steeper path up the mountain.

We tried singing songs to pass the time, but the air was already so thin we couldn’t seem to gather up enough of it to breath a single note.  Either breathe or sing, but not both.  I played Beatles songs in my head to calm my nerves.  “Don’t get too close to the edge of the trail.  Stay as low to the ground as possible, ” I thought.  I didn’t want to risk the wind catching me off guard.  I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if it did.

We quickly learned that when we heard an angry rumbling that wind was coming, and if you wanted to stay on that mountain you’d better cling to the most solid rock that was near.  Just focus on your footing.  Each step brought you that much closer to the summit.

Looking up, I could see a distant trail of flashlights that threaded up the mountain and out of sight; a trail to the stars.  Seeing that other people were also making their way to the top gave at least some reassurance on that cold, black mount.

I glanced out to see the cities glittering below. We were so high up that you could see over the surrounding  mountains all the way to the shining civilizations beyond; without peering out the window from the safety of a plane or a skyscraper.  It was just you and Mt. Fuji.

It was divine.  Never before have I been so cold or tired in my life, never have I felt air so thin, and never have I felt so speechless (literally) from the splendor that surrounded.  And even with my confidence that I would make it to the top dwindling as fast as the air in my lungs I still couldn’t help but recognize the marvelous sight before me.  I took every opportunity I had while I was clinging to that rocky face to glance out on that sight just one more time.  I just clutched the mountain thinking, “This is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen.  But what the hell were we thinking by trying to climb Fuji through the night?”

And once you start you can’t go back.  It’s next to impossible and far more dangerous to try to fumble back down the rocks you just climbed in the dark.  The only way to go is up.  We had to press on.  We had to make it to the 8th station.  It’s was there where a separate, safe down path started.

I was now 2 am.  The sun was to rise in under 3 hours,but it would take another 4 to reach the top.  Our idea to climb through the night and reach summit in time to watch the sun rise was romantic and naïve.  The thought proved to be good only in theory, but, at least this time, not in practice.

We finally reached the 8th station, over 10,000 feet above sea level and just over 2,000 to the top.  So close.  We had at least gained the comfort of knowing we could safely go back down; back to warmth, back to life if we needed to.  It was at that time, our group divided.

Two in the group were scared of heights.  After having 5 hours of the tumbling wind trying to pull them off the mountain and the cold biting at their bones they had had enough.  I myself was beginning to feel quite sick and increasingly concerned with my inability to breathe as well as everyone else.  The further we went, the more certain I felt I was suffering form altitude sickness.  The other two were simply waiting to finish the climb, unphased.  The latter two continued up while the rest of us handed over the $40 to stay in the station till dawn.

And so, not quite 3 hours of rest later, and barely time to warm our bodies, the three of us that stayed left the warm cradle of the shelter and went outside once again.  We accepted that we would not get the top by sunrise, and after nearly being broken by Fuji’s fierceness at night, we weren’t keen on trying to.  The most we could do was watch the sun rise from where we were.

It was 4:30 am.  The sky blended a rainbow of cool colors from the gray misty foothills to the darkened blue sky of the stars and moon above.  We looked out patiently as the sun gradually edged out of the horizon and chased away the night sky.  It colored the heavens like a drop of ink in a pool of cool water.

I took a deep breath and smiled.