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If ever again we climb Mt Fuji, we will not hike so quickly to our overnight lodge, dumping off our bloated packs, chocolate bars, bottled water, granola bars, bags of peanuts, sunflower seeds, coffee cans. No, when we finally reach the highest lodge, constructed horizontally into the volcanic ash and rocks, built with railroad ties and pine logs, it's difficult to arrive before dark—takes many exhausting, tedious hours to hike up, then sleeping just seven hours, and when 4 a.m. dings our phones, we won't bother to rise up our sore and over-strained leg and back and shoulder and neck muscles, and swollen feet and ankles and reach for our dusty, Vasque hiking boots, and trudge on up one hour more—treading our way with a flashlight, up through the chilling, freezing, bouldered morning darkness toward the rim in the thin oxygen of pre-dawn—we physically able to trudge no more than 10 or 15 steps before pausing to gulp another half-minute of frantic breath-- to finally pass under the red Torii at the snowy top; which we can verify, is more esthetically pleasing from the distance of our balcony in Tokyo than when we are standing ankle deep in volcanic pebbles and dust, and when we're breathing too fast and sweating too much inside our trekking gear and clothes—when we are straining up and around boulders, or slipping back in volcanic ash, and if it is clear weather—to finally gaze out over a vast table of sublime morning clouds—stretching all the way to the inland sea, and we remember why some "wasabi" farmers on the Izu Peninsula, far below, still say the earth must be flat; for otherwise, how would the sun rise first over this island of "Nippon?" |
TWO
No, if ever we trudge up again—that volcanic
trail of Fuji-San, we'll start again from the bottom
early in morning, earlier than the first time, and
trek on that long day's journey into dusk, but
we will carry one thing more—aspirin, or some
Tylenol for when we get that feverish headache
from the lack of oxygen, and next time, we
surely will lug fewer cans and goods, some
of which we'll throw away, anyway, to lighten
loads by the time we reach the timberline,
where the red ash of Hokusai's famed print
extends then ends, and when we finally enter
the highest lodging, positioned an hour's trek
below the top (positioned so that a hiker can
sleep over and rise early to finish the hike in time
to see the glory of the rising sun), we'll be
exhausted, and, no matter, having no shower,
no matter how many blisters worn, we'll snooze
as late as we can, even sleeping in 'til 8 or
9 a.m; then eat a traditional Japanese breakfast
of spinach and tofu in hot broth with dried fish,
cooked by the white-haired Japanese lady who
lives there with her husband, and when 4 a.m.
dings our phones, and when we hear other
sleepy hikers rise with moans as slowly as
Lazarus would, we will not reach for our boots,
so dusty and over worn; no we will give ourselves
a precious day of laziness to recover from the mad
strain of yesterday's hike—we'll take an extra day
to laze and lie about on the tatami mats that floor
the hearth, while we band-aid our blisters and
massage our feet muscles with a volcanic stone.
We'll laze and gaze up at the lichens under the old
tiles and smile with that feeling of relaxation after
muscles have been worked too hard. And as we
wake from an afternoon nap, we'll open our book
to Issa or Basho and read again those poems:
So simple, yet so profound—they don't need
a word of Latin or Greek to make them shine:
"Down on his knees in the dust and ash,
the farmer holding a daikon radish in hand,
points out our trail—where we slowly turn."
"Under the dry wind of cemetery grass,
young soldiers grown old, doomed forever
to dream what might have been."
No, in the warm, rustic room of that compact
mountain lodge, we'll sip fine, green tea
from Shizoka; we will stretch out on futons;
we will chat with other hikers— Brits, Aussies,
Japanese, Germans—because on mountains
that raise the world, we often find those.
And we'll examine those ancient kettles made
during the Heian period, tethered up with
rusty chains, hanging deep into the hearth
in the center of the lodge, and cooking rice
and warming stew (different pots) and we listen
to the gusting cacophony of the raw, cold
mountain wind, whipping and slapping ash
against the slim, slitted windows, built low
to the volcanic soil; and in the afternoon, we'll
hear a violent, whirling noise and peer out
to see a helicopter hovering dangerously above,
making great racket and a mighty dust storm,
as it drops a net of supplies—bottled drinks, bags
of rice, tea, canned goods, as it does once a week,
so says in Osaka Japanese, the old man who
maintains the lodge with his wife, who treads to us,
wearing her yukata, carrying cups of tepid tea
and asks us with a bow—where do we fly from?
THREE
When dusk comes early again on the eastern,
shaded side of Fuji-san volcano, we will amble
back to the bunk room and futons and fall
fast and dream deep inside the rough sleep
of that eerie screaming whistle that the wind
makes before we wake on the second day.
And when our alarm sounds at 4 a.m.
we will not feel like we're half dead—we will rise
to reach for those inviting, old hiking boots,
and we will not feel like dreading the hike
from having another blister or headache, which
we often get in high-altitude places.
At 4:10 a.m. we will slurp down a can
of cold coffee, and linger at the door of the loo,
and soon step out into the breach, out
into the freezing wind that makes us glad
for feather-light down jackets, and on up,
we go, up the trail, we'll go, and that morning
we'll stop no less than every 15 or 20
steps to fight for breath, for the trail gets
steeper, the closer to the top; and finally
with the glowing feeling of entering the steps
of heaven, we stumble under the "torii," that
sees the finish of the trail and opens to the rim,
where, dazed, sore, exhausted, we wander
to locate a place among many other hikers who
have also chosen this freezing morning to reach
the highest ground on this island of Honshu,
where we gaze down into the smoky, bubbling
cauldron in the center, not blown up since 1707,
when it is written that so much ash fell from
the clouds over Tokyo (Edo), that the sky went dark,
and candles were lit in midday just to see their lunch;
but in the transitional hour of charcoal dawn, but now
we stand above a sublime layer of cloud mass
that surrounds, and in the diminishing dark, wait
for the light, we gathered with the other hikers, and
we wait for the rise of our morning star to give the
illumination to descend, and as we wait in silence,
we hear behind a prayer offered to the mountain god
by someone whispering Japanese—that descending
this volcano may only be half as hard as the hiking up.
No, if ever we trudge up again—that volcanic
trail of Fuji-San, we'll start again from the bottom
early in morning, earlier than the first time, and
trek on that long day's journey into dusk, but
we will carry one thing more—aspirin, or some
Tylenol for when we get that feverish headache
from the lack of oxygen, and next time, we
surely will lug fewer cans and goods, some
of which we'll throw away, anyway, to lighten
loads by the time we reach the timberline,
where the red ash of Hokusai's famed print
extends then ends, and when we finally enter
the highest lodging, positioned an hour's trek
below the top (positioned so that a hiker can
sleep over and rise early to finish the hike in time
to see the glory of the rising sun), we'll be
exhausted, and, no matter, having no shower,
no matter how many blisters worn, we'll snooze
as late as we can, even sleeping in 'til 8 or
9 a.m; then eat a traditional Japanese breakfast
of spinach and tofu in hot broth with dried fish,
cooked by the white-haired Japanese lady who
lives there with her husband, and when 4 a.m.
dings our phones, and when we hear other
sleepy hikers rise with moans as slowly as
Lazarus would, we will not reach for our boots,
so dusty and over worn; no we will give ourselves
a precious day of laziness to recover from the mad
strain of yesterday's hike—we'll take an extra day
to laze and lie about on the tatami mats that floor
the hearth, while we band-aid our blisters and
massage our feet muscles with a volcanic stone.
We'll laze and gaze up at the lichens under the old
tiles and smile with that feeling of relaxation after
muscles have been worked too hard. And as we
wake from an afternoon nap, we'll open our book
to Issa or Basho and read again those poems:
So simple, yet so profound—they don't need
a word of Latin or Greek to make them shine:
"Down on his knees in the dust and ash,
the farmer holding a daikon radish in hand,
points out our trail—where we slowly turn."
"Under the dry wind of cemetery grass,
young soldiers grown old, doomed forever
to dream what might have been."
No, in the warm, rustic room of that compact
mountain lodge, we'll sip fine, green tea
from Shizoka; we will stretch out on futons;
we will chat with other hikers— Brits, Aussies,
Japanese, Germans—because on mountains
that raise the world, we often find those.
And we'll examine those ancient kettles made
during the Heian period, tethered up with
rusty chains, hanging deep into the hearth
in the center of the lodge, and cooking rice
and warming stew (different pots) and we listen
to the gusting cacophony of the raw, cold
mountain wind, whipping and slapping ash
against the slim, slitted windows, built low
to the volcanic soil; and in the afternoon, we'll
hear a violent, whirling noise and peer out
to see a helicopter hovering dangerously above,
making great racket and a mighty dust storm,
as it drops a net of supplies—bottled drinks, bags
of rice, tea, canned goods, as it does once a week,
so says in Osaka Japanese, the old man who
maintains the lodge with his wife, who treads to us,
wearing her yukata, carrying cups of tepid tea
and asks us with a bow—where do we fly from?
THREE
When dusk comes early again on the eastern,
shaded side of Fuji-san volcano, we will amble
back to the bunk room and futons and fall
fast and dream deep inside the rough sleep
of that eerie screaming whistle that the wind
makes before we wake on the second day.
And when our alarm sounds at 4 a.m.
we will not feel like we're half dead—we will rise
to reach for those inviting, old hiking boots,
and we will not feel like dreading the hike
from having another blister or headache, which
we often get in high-altitude places.
At 4:10 a.m. we will slurp down a can
of cold coffee, and linger at the door of the loo,
and soon step out into the breach, out
into the freezing wind that makes us glad
for feather-light down jackets, and on up,
we go, up the trail, we'll go, and that morning
we'll stop no less than every 15 or 20
steps to fight for breath, for the trail gets
steeper, the closer to the top; and finally
with the glowing feeling of entering the steps
of heaven, we stumble under the "torii," that
sees the finish of the trail and opens to the rim,
where, dazed, sore, exhausted, we wander
to locate a place among many other hikers who
have also chosen this freezing morning to reach
the highest ground on this island of Honshu,
where we gaze down into the smoky, bubbling
cauldron in the center, not blown up since 1707,
when it is written that so much ash fell from
the clouds over Tokyo (Edo), that the sky went dark,
and candles were lit in midday just to see their lunch;
but in the transitional hour of charcoal dawn, but now
we stand above a sublime layer of cloud mass
that surrounds, and in the diminishing dark, wait
for the light, we gathered with the other hikers, and
we wait for the rise of our morning star to give the
illumination to descend, and as we wait in silence,
we hear behind a prayer offered to the mountain god
by someone whispering Japanese—that descending
this volcano may only be half as hard as the hiking up.
Reed Venrick, formerly an assistant professor at Sophia University for composition (Ichigaya campus) and Sophia Jr. College (Hadano), usually writes poems with nature/and or travel themes. During a summer break, Venrick achieved a lifetime goal of climbing Mt. Fuji.
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