How a Friend Saved My Life on Mount Fuji

He practically got naked

“It takes courage to turn back,” she’d told us.

I stripped away my jacket, my long sleeve, and my T-shirt, leaving only my tank top. I would’ve taken off my pants too if I had had shorts underneath. Also, removing shoes while on a hike is cumbersome (regrettably, I was not wearing the kind of pull-away or button-up bottoms that could be cinematically shed while keeping footwear on).

Sitting on a big rock might’ve been an option, but none were to be found. Sitting on the ground sounded even worse. I’m not a neat freak (or am I?), but I prefer not to walk around with a dusty butt. Standing and removing my shoes might’ve worked (I’ve got pretty good balance), but then the rest of the group would’ve had to wait for me.

The night air cooled me down. Even at the foot of the mountain, a breeze blew through our group (ten Americans, a handful of Japanese, and two Chinese).

My friends called me crazy. I reminded them that it was still August (apparently it was legal to climb Mount Fuji only during summertime because most people, like us, hiked up at night to make the sunrise, and it was too cold all other months of the year — I never independently verified this hearsay).

They would end up being right. I was crazy for doing what I’d done.

Although these other college-age people and I had only known each other for several weeks, we grew close with the kind of speed and eagerness that are often seen in study abroad programs. We were only going to be here for half a year. We might as well — no, we were determined to make the most of our experience.

Tears would be shed at the goodbyes in December. Those who love to accuse the Japanese of being subdued have an abundance of public evidence. I have personally and privately seen evidence to the contrary.

I enjoyed a bit of a reputation for being a fitness buff, and this opinion of others had gone to my head.

On a whimsical aside, the titular friend and I would eventually theorize that our Japanese tutors, all but one of whom were girls, cycled through us American boys over the months. No, not like that. As in, one of us would be the topic of gossip for the month (I was apparently it for August), and then they would move on. There was nothing malicious about it.

Also, I am not propagating the tired stereotype of white American men and docile Japanese women (although nearly two decades after the events recounted in this article, a white British man would gush to me at a colleague’s birthday party how much more accommodating the dating scene is in Asia for a white man than in his home country). Nearly half of us American boys were of Asian descent.

None of us was nikkei (Japanese diaspora), so no opportunities for double agenting there.

Anyway, let’s get back on track before I go full SJW.

Because I wanted to maintain this reputation, I volunteered to be scout; therefore, with all the running up and running back down that I did wearing nothing but my tank top, hiking pants, and sneakers, I spent more energy than was necessary. With the dropping temperature, heat also escaped my body quite fast.

But I was enjoying myself. I was helping. One among us was, shall we say, not exactly used to hiking. We slowed down our pace for her, which gave me extra time to do some exploring.

I even had extra time for a bathroom break. It was perhaps the most disgusting toilet I had and have seen in Japan, which is famous for its sparklingly clean toilets even in convenience stores.

Eventually, but perhaps too late, I put my clothes back on. It did not help.

We were near the summit. There had been some arguments about what we should do. One of us had somehow been designated the leader.

An exchange went like this:

“I’m the leader, so you have to listen to me.”

“I don’t remember signing anything.”

Also, the one of us who was athletically disinclined told us to move on. As a group, we agreed to keep our pace to match hers.

While climbing Mount Fuji, you find people there selling walking sticks branded with Japanese characters that are supposed to be auspicious on our way up.

We needed all the luck we could get.

This was more than reaching the top of a hill.

Before setting out on the hike, we had had a meeting with the program coordinator.

“It takes courage to turn back,” she’d told us.

Were we going to turn back?

I was starting to shiver from the cold.

The titular friend gave me his down jacket. Forced it upon me even.

He wore only a fleece (and pants — or trousers — and shoes) for the rest of the trip. I wish I could say I don’t remember or never found out what he was wearing underneath. But I do remember: He wore only a T-shirt underneath his fleece. He might’ve also been wearing thermal socks or something.

I was quite ashamed but not too proud to admit to anyone who would listen that he saved my life on Mount Fuji.

Then we all observed one of the most beautiful sunrises I had ever seen. Unlike the sunset in Hobart, this sunrise was not surprising at all. It was every bit as stunning as I had expected. Other than when I’ve been on planes, it probably is not only one of the most but also the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen.

In full acknowledgement of cultural appropriation, I’m going to say the rising sun’s rays resembled a katana slicing through the clouds. The spectacle was otherworldly. As if we had stepped into the heavens.

Skyscrapers, as much as I like them (with a few exceptions), have got nothing on this.

The (American) friend and I would end up fighting over one of the (Japanese) girls months later, but the three of us are still friends nearly two decades later.

Dash Ip is happy to be alive.

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