A hike to the summit of Mt. Fuji is a journey of gratitude for a Northern Cal Yonsei.
By BRIAN SHIMOMURA
SPECIAL TO THE RAFU
It’s the middle of the night below the summit of Mount Fuji, and I’m celebrating our anniversary with my wife, Ali. Behind us, a cloud pulls itself into the shape of a heart and covers the moon.
“Do you know how many strings we had to pull to form that cloud?” I tell her.
I’m trying to lighten the mood. We don’t have a guide, and in the darkness, the trail is little more than a string of headlamps. A group of climbers walks past with portable oxygen. Were we supposed to bring oxygen? I guess we’ll find out.
The farthest documented place in Japan from which Fuji can be seen is in Wakayama Prefecture — Irokawa Fujimi Pass, about 200 miles from the peak.
My great-grandfather, Itaro Shimomura, was raised in Isonoura, a small fishing village about six miles up the coast from Wakayama Castle. His father died when he was an infant. His mother, Tsuna, raised him in her family home, which would pass to her brother. Friends from the same village had already written home that there was work in the U.S. In 1906, at 23, Itaro left for Winters, Calif. He later married Sawano, also from Wakayama. He never climbed Fuji.
He is the reason I exist to walk this trail.
I would not be on this mountain without him, or without the generations after him who had to start again. In 1942, Civilian Exclusion Order No. 78 forced the family out of Yolo County. They were sent first to the Merced Assembly Center, where they slept in horse stalls, then to Amache in Colorado by train with the shades drawn.
My grandparents, Ben and Lois, met there under a guard tower. Their son, my father, Floyd Shimomura, became the first Sansei national president of the Japanese American Citizens League in 1982 and helped lead the redress campaign that produced compensation and the government’s apology.
More than a century after Itaro left Wakayama, I am a Yonsei on Mount Fuji under a heart-shaped cloud with my wife.
We started at the Subashiri 5th Station in July 2023, the highest point the bus reaches on that side of the mountain. Most hikers start on the more popular Yoshida Trail. We were on the quieter eastern route, not because we had chosen the romantic option, but because it was the only trail with a hut that still had room.
The 6th station hut was not far. Inside, I was surprised to get curry and rice, a little salad, and hot tea. Even if it tasted like it had come off a 7-Eleven shelf, I was grateful. I wondered how they hauled everything up there.
Our bed was a top bunk in a room of about 30 people, with a divider between us and the next bunk. The surprise was the window. It looked as if we were sleeping in the clouds. Ali and I lay there a while, watching the weather move past the glass. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it got the job done.
We managed a couple of hours of sleep before going back out. It was still dark, and most of the climb was ahead. Most hikers try to reach the summit at sunrise. Our pace would not get us there in time, but from where we were, the sunrise was still amazing.
Higher up, the air thinned and my lungs started hunting for air. The stations were a relief: soda, water, socks, heat packs, coin toilets, and a place
to brand my wooden staff. At the 8th station, Subashiri merged with Yoshida, and the trail became a traffic jam.
Our pace was slower than most. A man who looked to be in his seventies jogged past. We stepped aside as best we could.
I hope I move like that at his age.
Above the 9th station, the slope turned to steeper rock. At points we were on all fours. I had heard about altitude sickness. Now I had a pounding head, a bad stomach, and dizziness. Ali was pale and moving as slowly as I was. We sat on the rocks until the worst of it eased. Turning around would have been the smarter choice, but we were close enough to finish.
When I saw the final torii ahead, I stopped for a moment.
For the record, I had a little something in my eye.
The summit was more built-up than I expected. A shrine. Two vending machines. A stall selling udon and souvenirs.
We paid too much for the udon. It tasted instant, but it was perfect. The hot, salty broth and thick noodles helped against the wind and cold. The room was filled with other hikers who had completed their journeys for reasons unknown to me. We all ate in silence.
It was so foggy we couldn’t see anything. We never saw the hole in the mountain we had just walked up. Since we couldn’t see much, we started down.
The way down was brutal. My knee swelled, and I borrowed one of Ali’s walking staffs as a crutch. There is a saying: a wise man climbs Fuji once; a fool climbs it twice. On the endless switchbacks, I started to understand it.
Itaro never climbed Fuji. My father said he would have been happy for me.
Brian Shimomura is a writer and photographer based in Daly City.