Not so for many visitors to Japan. Seduced by photographs of its perfect volcanic cone crowned with a romantic dusting of snow over the summit, clusters of gaijin (foreigners) throughout ultra-modern Japan relish the opportunity to interact with this “traditional” symbol. The majority stumble away from the encounter disillusioned by bad weather, altitude sickness or bleak views; some even fall victim to the ill-hygiene of the mountain’s numerous litter-strewn rest stations. For a few, however, the gamble pays off. This is the story of a happy trio who braved it and lived to tell the tale.

We made the ascent during the second last week of the official climbing season (July and August) - for who in super-regulated Japan would dare to consider climbing outside the official season? Here lies problem number one. Forget about those beautiful images you have in mind of Fuji standing majestic in the distance with pale pink cherry blossoms or burning red maple leaves in the foreground. They are products of the cooler months from October to April, when the air is (for short periods of time at least) crisp and clear. The Japanese summer is hot and humid, and Fuji is covered in cloud and haze most of the time, invisible behind a grey wall stretching up 2000 metres. So it’s quite possible to climb up the mountain without ever actually seeing it!

The route to the top
Our starting point was Fujinomiya, a town to the south of the mountain and another depressing concrete jungle. With Fuji hidden by cloud, we took a bus up the southern slopes of the montain to the Fujinomiya route’s "go-gome" or fifth station - the usual point of departure for amateur climbers. Still no sign of Fuji, but the bus’ straining engine and our popping ears told us we were getting higher, and quickly.

Click here to see Mount Fuji on a live webcam

The weather was gloomy. We were gloomy too, although we would never have admitted it, so you can imagine our relief and delight when a few patches of late-afternoon blue sky appeared. Soon it was clear, and when we climbed out of the bus, we were met by a strange sight: a blanket of cloud 100 feet below us! We were now over halfway up. Well, that was easy enough!

We had decided to follow the tradition of climbing at night, with the aim of reaching the summit just before dawn. So we swallowed a carbo-boosting “cup-noodle” (two-minute noodles, Japanese style) as the light faded gracefully, and browsed the souvenir/rip-off shop that has a monopoly on mountain-related merchandise.

The night-climbing theory is that, in the land of the rising sun, you just can’t get a better seat than at 3776 metres. I was a bit concerned about climbing at night though, as what’s the point of climbing a mountain if you can’t appreciate the views on the way up? I was wrong on two counts however, as in the harsh midday sunlight the upper half of Fuji-san hardly presents an inspiring landscape. In summer the snow melts away to reveal a lifeless and bleak surface formed by the pre-historic volcanic eruptions, which is turned into a nightmarish black-brown sludge by the rain.

A Haiku on Mount Fuji In a way It was fun Not to see Mount Fuji In foggy rain - Bashô -

There are in fact amazing views on the mountain at night. For starters, look up. Straight up. The stars are spectacular and the moon dances behind clouds or rocky outcrops and back out again. The dimly lightened sky brings the black silhouette of the mountainside into stark contrast, reminding you (if your legs aren’t already) of the steep gradient you are on. Looking down, you can track your progress by following the distant bobbing torches of climbers further down. The blanket of cloud below lets through isolated glowing patches, but the cities are long forgotten and do not threaten the brooding quiet of the mountain. You glance nervously over your shoulder at the looming bank of black cloud that rises even as you climb, and think of those stories you have heard others tell about thunderstorms and driving wind and torrential rain. There’s no doubting it, the almost invisible mountain has a remarkable presence.

With altitude, inevitably, came the cold, and as we approached the summit the necessary rest-breaks became less and less bearable. But our under-dressed bodies were kept warm enough with the energy spent on the climb, and there was generally a very friendly spirit of encouragement shared by climbers, irrespective of language barriers. A cheery “gambatte kudasai” (“good luck, please” - it’s only polite) worked wonders!

And then we were at the top. Somehow a jubilant Everest-style whooping and throwing of arms into the air didn’t quite seem appropriate. Even though there was no light to capture the moment in a photo, we were all filled with a quiet sense of achievement. At about 4am, the sky began to lighten and we set off to the eastern side of the summit to watch the sun rise. It was glorious. Oranges and pinks fired up a more-than-blue sky on the horizon: and the surrounding mountain tops made islands in a sea of cloud.

What goes up...
But let’s not get romantic. It was freezing cold, and the insult of Y500 (R50) for a small cup of coffee was all the encouragement we needed, after a couple of hours rest, to begin the descent. Inevitably, this was the tough part. Our knees wobbled; our toes blistered; our calves struggled against the crumbling sand. The weather was far too good, we were far too close to the sun, we had far too little sunscreen (none) and, worst of all, we made the mistake of following the Gotemba route down - the longest, to a base station 1000m lower than the rest. At about 11am, we hobbled to a halt and sat down to glasses of “Pocari Sweat”, which is supposed to sound refreshing in Japanese English. We cursed. We threw our shoes into the bin. It was great.

Two bus trips later we dragged our weary, sun-burnt bodies into a hot bath. No trip to Fuji-san would be complete without a relaxing day or two at an onsen - hot spring resort. Aches and pains soothed away, and ever-friendly guesthouse staff who are very indulgent of climbers’ moans and groans. And so, in the end, after 36 hours (13 on buses and trains, seven going up, four on top, four coming down and eight wishing the world would end), it was time to get some sleep.

And the disappearing mountain? Well, it was a close thing, and we had almost given up hope: but craning our necks and squinting our eyes to look through the train windows on the way home, we managed to glimpse the faint outline of an instantly recognisable silhouette in the distance. It was Fuji-san. It was fantastic.