Onward!

Did you know that Mount Fuji – the same mountain we see on banknotes, posters, and woodblock prints – is not merely a dormant volcano and a symbol of Japan, but also an ancient destination for journeys, or even a home for philosophers, poets, monks, pilgrims, and dozens of spirits and yōkai, deities, monsters, demons, and forgotten legends? That every few hundred meters upward is a different realm – from the dark, humid forests (such as the “suicide forest” Aokigahara) at its foot to the cracked, wind-dried edges of the crater – each with not only its own flora and fauna, but also its own supernatural beings that have watched over this region for centuries? No? Then it’s perfect timing! For I am just about to set out on a climb – from the temple in the shadow of old sugi trees, through the dense woods of Aokigahara, across the harsh land of stunted trees on the uplands, and finally to the barren wasteland of naked rock, where the air grows thin and the sky feels close enough to touch. We will go all the way to the summit – to the edge of the crater, where, in sacred and absolute silence, we will touch the world of the kami. Along the way, we will meet not only the places, but also the beings that inhabit them. Will you come with me?

Fuji is not merely a point on a map – it is the spiritual axis of Japan, the axis mundi of its history and imagination. For centuries, pilgrims, monks, poets, and solitary rōnin have followed its paths in search of enlightenment, purification, or answers to questions they feared to speak aloud. But they were not the only ones who walked its slopes. In the shadows of the trees slip kitsune foxes, able in an instant to take human form. Above the shimmering surfaces of the Five Lakes lurk water dragons, and amid storms and lightning dance the gods of wind and thunder. In the depths of the suicide forest – Aokigahara – one can hear the whispers of onryō, spirits who left this world too soon. On the slopes of Fuji, the worlds of humans, animals, and spirits meet – a place that has endlessly nourished the imagination of countless generations of Japanese, from great artists to humble storytellers.

Today we will climb Fuji together – step by step, zone by zone. At each elevation we will touch different plants, meet the gaze of different animals, hear a different wind, and encounter different strange beings – sometimes gentle, sometimes mischievous, sometimes fearsome. We will stop at temples, speak with priests, listen to legends, and look at the world from above the clouds. Fuji is not only a volcano – it is an entire ecosystem of biology and metaphysics, where every path leads both upward and inward. Backpacks ready? Heart ready? Then let us set out!

0–600 m above sea level

We begin at the foot of the mountain

The green foothills of Fuji

The air smells of damp earth and pine needles, with those particular refreshing tones of early spring. Somewhere in the distance we hear the sound of bells hanging by a torii gate – swaying lazily in the wind, as if to announce that what lies above still sleeps deeply, hidden under a cap of snow – yet is there – and must not be forgotten. Here, however, down below, life is already awakening. We stand in a region that encircles Fuji with a wide crown – a belt vibrant with history, flora, and culture. Before we set out on the trail, it is worth looking around – for it is here that our journey begins.

The base of Fuji lies within Yamanashi and Shizuoka Prefectures, and at its feet stretch several picturesque lakes known as Fuji-goko – the “Five Lakes of Fuji.” They are: Kawaguchi, Yamanaka, Saiko, Shōji, and Motosu. Each has its own character – Kawaguchi is the most visited, with a well-developed tourist infrastructure and a view of Fuji that has become an icon of Japanese travel brochures. But it is at Motosu, the deepest and most mysterious of the lakes, that the famous photograph of the mountain was taken – the one that appears on the 1,000-yen banknote. The water here is so clear that on windless days it is easy to mistake the reflection for reality.

The villages scattered among the hills have something of a world forgotten by time. In wooden houses, wood-burning stoves are still lit; in gardens, plum blossoms bloom, and soon the first cherry trees will follow. Among the branches at the forest edges slip Japanese macaques, and here and there one may catch the flash of a red fox darting between the fields. The forests around the lakes are ruled by maples, firs, oaks, and ancient beeches. When autumn comes, the mountain and its surroundings blaze with reds and golds – but now, in early spring, the leaves are only just beginning to take on the vibrant green of new life. The air smells of resin. Sometimes, in the treetops, one hears the caw of crows or the tapping of a woodpecker. Frogs croak in the irrigation ditches fed by mountain streams. Even though we have not yet begun the climb, we are already in the realm of nature – in a place where the elements are close and everything has its place.

Right beside us begins what is most important – the spiritual threshold. The Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha (富士山本宮浅間大社) shrine, the main center of worship of Mount Fuji, has stood here for centuries as guardian, guide, and gate to the world of the sacred. It was from here that pilgrims of old set out, dressed in white robes, prayer on their lips, and staff in hand. We too, just as Bashō once did, will begin our ascent of the sacred Fuji from this quiet place. The shrine itself was founded in 806 and is dedicated to Konohanasakuya-hime – the goddess of the mountain and of spring blossoms (perhaps we shall meet her today?). Around it grow mighty sugi (杉 – Japanese cryptomeria), some over a thousand years old. Beside the shrine flows a stream from which pilgrims draw water for the ritual washing of hands. Even now one can see people praying here, the scent of incense drifting through the air, and red torii leading onward to the path up the mountain.

Thus we stand at the threshold – between the world of humans and the world of beings that linger somewhere above. We do not yet see them. But we know they are there. In every valley, under every rock, among the roots of trees and the surfaces of the lakes. This is the essence of Shinto – if you have ever wondered what it truly is. Mount Fuji begins right here – among the sound of bells, the songs of birds, and the silent shade of ancient sugi. Beyond this, the trail begins. Let us go!

Colorful inhabitants

We are still at the foot of the mountain, and the morning light, delicate as a breeze over water, spills over the roofs of the shrine and reflects in small puddles between the stones. The sun is only beginning to break through the mist, which glides over the ground like a spirit seeking a body it no longer has. Early spring smells of wind from the lake and the pinkish buds of ume (plum) blossoms. It is quiet – but not empty. It is a silence in which something more is hidden. Something that does not reveal itself at first glance.

From behind a wooden pillar of Fujisan Hongū Sengen Taisha steps an old man in white robes. On his head he wears a simple eboshi cap, in his hands he holds a staff topped with a metal ring – it jingles softly with each step. He bows politely and invites us to join him, pointing to a bench beneath a blooming tsubaki (椿 – camellia) bush. “Is this your first time here?” he asks, without waiting for an answer. “Mount Fuji does not begin on the trail. It begins in history. And that history is older than any guidebook.”

The priest tells us that before the mountain existed, there was a woman – Konohanasakuya-hime (木花咲耶姫), goddess of cherry blossoms, life, and fire. Daughter of the mountain god Ōyamatsumi and wife of Ninigi, grandson of the sun goddess Amaterasu. When Ninigi accused her of infidelity while she was pregnant, she shut herself in a hut and set it ablaze, saying that if the children were truly his, they would survive the flames. And so it was – from the fire were born three sons, and Konohanasakuya-hime herself gained the status of guardian of life, fertility, and Mount Fuji. “Yes, the mountain is feminine,” says the priest. “And like a woman, she can be gentle, but also unpredictable.”

As the priest speaks, a splash comes from the nearby stream – as though something moved beneath the surface. Perhaps it was only a fish. Or perhaps not. “Here, at the foot of the mountain, where the lakes are like the mountain’s eyes, lives another,” he continues. “Ryūjin (龍神), the dragon god of the waters, ruler of the oceans and underground springs. Once he was worshipped in every fishing village, offered rice and sake. Some say it was he who created the lakes of Fuji – he forced his way underground, leaving behind empty basins that filled with the tears of the gods.”

The priest goes on to speak of kappa – small, yellowish-green yōkai said to inhabit the rivers and streams in this area. Their bodies are moist like a frog’s, their backs covered with a shell like a turtle’s, and on their heads a depression filled with water – the source of their life (more about them here: Kappa - the Face of Japanese Folklore and the Star of All Yōkai). They are mischievous, sometimes dangerous, but by nature rather curious. They like cucumbers, especially those with the donor’s name carved into them. But their greatest weakness is etiquette – if you bow deeply to a kappa, it will return the bow… and spill the water from the basin on its head, losing its strength. “In old times, children were taught never to go near the water without a protective amulet,” says the priest, “for you never know whether it is a human watching you – or a kappa.”

We fall silent for a moment, gazing at the surface of the lake in which the sacred peak is reflected.

“Some say,” he continues, “that along the shores of these lakes, footsteps can sometimes be heard. But when you turn around, there is no one there. They are the spirits of pilgrims who never completed their journey. Their intent was pure, but their bodies could not endure. Their tamashii – souls – refuse to leave until they reach their destination. At times, they help – whispering in dreams which path to take so that the trail will be safe. At other times, however, out of jealousy, they lead one astray. No one knows which will offer support and which will lure you into danger. The unfriendly ones are most often called 無縁仏 (muenbotoke) – ‘souls without ties’ – they suffer because, having died alone on the trail, there was no one to perform a funeral rite for them. Thus they cannot leave the place of their death – time does not flow where there is no memory. And the benevolent ones, who help from the shadows, are sometimes called 旅人の守り (tabibito no mamori) – guardians of travellers…”

The rising sun now glints on the temple bell. The priest falls silent. For a moment everything grows still – even the wind.

“Remember,” he says at last, “on this mountain, you are never alone. No matter how high you climb.”

We bow slowly, low, and with respect, and thank him. Then we move on – between the red torii, over moss and stones, toward the forests that await their story. We climb higher!

600–1500 m above sea level

Lower slopes

Aokigahara and the mountain forests

The transition from the broad foothills to slightly higher elevations is almost imperceptible – the path rises gradually, and the landscape thickens with greenery. The air becomes cooler and more humid, and beneath our feet the texture of the ground changes: the soft humus gives way to the hard, black surface of ancient lava. It was here, on the northwestern slopes of the mountain, that in 864 a powerful stream of magma poured down after an eruption near the summit. It advanced for many kilometres before halting, burying villages and rice fields, and centuries later its cooled surface gave birth to one of Japan’s most famous forests – Aokigahara, known as Jukai, the “Sea of Trees,” or also as the suicide forest (more about this here: The Aokigahara Suicide Forest: What Secrets Do the Silent Trees Guard?).

The roots of the trees cling to the unstable, porous ground, which does not allow water to seep deeper – thus water collects in damp depressions, creating ideal conditions for mosses and ferns. Dewdrops glisten on moss-covered boulders, and lichens in shades of celadon and silver coat the bark. Rising above it all are the straight, slender trunks of sugi – the so-called Japanese cedars (though – take note – they are not cedars at all: there are no true cedars in Japan; these are in fact Japanese cryptomeria) – and massive hinoki cypresses, whose wood has been prized for centuries in shrine architecture. In the shade of these giants hide younger shrubs of camellia and rhododendron, which in early spring stain the dark green with vivid patches of red and pink.

Aokigahara is a place without wind – the densely intertwined crowns of the trees muffle every gust, and the ground swallows sound. All you hear are your own footsteps and the occasional rustle when the reddish shadow of a fox slips between the leaves. Sometimes a nihonjika deer darts out from the undergrowth, only to vanish moments later among the trunks. In the branches, owls lurk, their round eyes gleaming in the half-light, and high above, squirrels leap from tree to tree, leaving behind a faint shower of dry needles.

At this altitude, unusual formations lie hidden – ice caves such as Narusawa Hyōketsu and Fugaku Fūkei (Fugaku Wind Cave – highly recommended if you have the chance and happen to be exploring the suicide forest!). They formed when lava flowed around valleys, leaving behind hollow tunnels. Inside, the air remains cool even in mid-summer, and in winter ice columns form, glittering like crystal in the dim beam of a torch. In the Edo period, local people kept silkworms and seeds here, using the caves as a natural refrigerator, and also harvested ice that made its way to the tables of wealthy merchants in Edo.

The path leads us deeper into this dense, shadow-filled forest. Sunlight only occasionally pierces the tangled branches, creating bright circles on the ground that slowly drift with the course of the day. It is a space where geology, history, and nature are so tightly woven together that it is hard to imagine that once a bare, blazing stream of magma ran here. Yet the air grows thick and strangely cold… Something feels amiss…

Inhabitants of the lower slopes

The sun still seems low, though its rays rarely and with difficulty break through the dense canopy. It is quite dark here. Aokigahara has the reputation of being a place where the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead is unusually thin. In the shadows of the trunks, where light seldom reaches the ground, yūrei (幽霊) are said to wander – the ghosts of those who died here tragically or took their own lives. In Japanese imagination, yūrei often wear white burial kimono, have loose hair, and no feet, and their presence is heralded by a sudden drop in temperature. In Aokigahara, it is said that their voices may resemble the rustling of leaves or a distant whisper urging you to step off the trail. Some people hang ribbons or cords in the forest to find their way back – not only for fear of getting lost, but also to avoid being lured away by unwanted guides from the other side.

In Japan’s old beliefs (or rather – let’s be honest – in its present-day beliefs too; just look at films, anime, and games that so eagerly draw on this peculiar place), yūrei who died by suicide, especially in remote areas like Aokigahara, were often linked to the category of onryō (怨霊) – “vengeful spirits” burdened with a strong charge of urami (怨 – more here: Urami: the Silenced Wrong, All-Encompassing Grief, Fury — What Emotions Are Encoded in the Character “怨”), a deep, unquenched grudge. In folk tales, onryō do not return to find peace, but to settle scores with those they believe caused their death (or simply with all the living) – sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, through betrayal, rejection, or neglect. In the context of Aokigahara, this means the forest may not only be a place of melancholy wandering for souls, but also a space tense with invisible hostility, where some spirits still try to give back the pain they themselves received. This is precisely why in both Shinto and Buddhist tradition great importance was attached to proper funeral rites and prayers for the dead – to break this circle of suffering and prevent the creation of onryō.

Suicides here, though sadly still frequent today, also carry a mythological and symbolic element in the background. In Japanese culture for centuries there has been a belief that mountains, forests, and remote places belong to kakuriyo (隠世) – the “hidden world” of spirits, deities, and the dead, separate from utsushiyo (現世) – the world of the living. Aokigahara, with its lava ground that muffles footsteps, tangled thickets, and almost supernatural silence, fits perfectly into this archetype of a “passage between worlds.” For some, especially in a moment of despair, entering such a forest could be seen as a symbolic step into the realm of death – a step into a space from which there is no return. Old tales say that if someone dies here by their own hand, their soul may remain forever trapped among the trees, wandering in the twilight, searching for someone to help them complete that last, unfulfilled journey.

Called the “Suicide Forest,” Aokigahara did not gain this nickname without reason. As early as the 1950s, local authorities recorded an average of around thirty suicides a year. In the following decades this number grew, reaching a tragic peak in 2003, when as many as 105 bodies were found in the forest (seems little? – imagine: for an entire year, a dead person was found in this forest every three days) — it was the record year in the history of this place. In 2010, around 247 suicide attempts were recorded, 54 of which ended in death. The latest available figures are from 2023 – 235 people (but as many as 131 of them were rescued by prefectural officials – Aokigahara is now under very close watch by local authorities).

In response to the escalation of tragedy, the Yamanashi Prefectural Government and local police introduced a number of preventive measures. Regular searches for missing persons are conducted, with police, firefighters, and volunteers patrolling the thickets. At the entrances to the forest and in key locations, signs have been placed with appeals: “Life is a precious gift from your parents” or “Before you take another step — talk to someone,” meant to dissuade the desperate from a fatal decision. In recent years, traditional foot patrols have been joined by drones monitoring the area from above to respond more quickly to potential threats.

But we walk on, making our way through the dark thickets of this ancient forest…

Amid the old trees, however, hides something else just as extraordinary – the jubokko (樹木子), a mythical tree born in places where much blood was once spilled. According to legend, its branches hide sharp thorns, and if anyone dares to wound the trunk or break a branch, from the wound will flow not green sap, but a thick, red liquid resembling human blood. Although Aokigahara is not the site of an ancient battle, and this tree-yōkai usually grew in such places, the forest is a site of numerous tragic deaths. Hence the belief that a jubokko may also have grown here – stunted, twisted, like the minds of the people whose bodies nourished it.

There are also in these mountains more ambiguous figures – yamauba or yamanba (山姥), mountain witches. Some legends speak of them as murderers of travellers, others as kindly old women who help the lost find their way or give them food. In art they are often shown with dishevelled hair, a staff in hand, and a basket on their back in which they carry plants, mushrooms… or children. Sometimes they live in huts that appear in the forest suddenly, as if sprung from the moss (they are also a deeper archetype in Japanese culture, expressing the fear of men toward femininity – more on this here: The Mountain Witch Yamanba – Feminine Wildness That Terrified the Patriarchal Men of Traditional Japan).

And above all watch the tengu (天狗) – winged guardians of the mountains, with long noses or bird beaks. In folklore they can be both guides and tempters. They can summon a storm or lead a traveller astray, but also teach the martial arts or meditation (as in the legend of Minamoto no Yoshitsune – more here: Duel on the Gojō Bridge: A Meeting We've Remembered for 900 Years). Most often they appear as yamabushi monks, with a horagai conch shell slung across their shoulder. In the Fuji region it was believed that some mountain paths were their “sacred roads,” and that desecrating them could bring down their wrath.

And so, walking the quiet path winding among the trunks, keeping a careful eye on our surroundings – we make our way through the forest of Aokigahara – a place as frightening as it is beautiful.

1500–2500 m above sea level

The middle slopes

The highland landscape

The middle slopes of Fuji, stretching from roughly 1,500 to 2,500 meters in elevation, have a completely different character from the green, dense shadows of Aokigahara. The higher we climb, the thinner the forest grows, until it finally gives way to a stark landscape dominated by bare black rock and lava rubble. The surface here is often so rough and jagged that it resembles frozen ocean waves, stilled in motion hundreds of years ago – the result of ancient eruptions whose lava poured down here in an unstoppable flow, cooling slowly in the crisp mountain air. In cracks and hollows, small pockets of soil have formed, allowing a few hardy plants to take root – stunted black pines (kuromatsu), tufts of mountain grass, and alpine lichens that tint the rocks with a greenish or silvery hue.

In this zone one may encounter snakes, crows with glossy black feathers, and sometimes – though rarely – mountain deer venturing here in search of food. The air is cooler and drier, and the horizon suddenly widens: on a clear day, one’s gaze takes in the entire Izu mountain range, the shining surface of Suruga Bay, and the glittering rooftops of distant towns.

It is here that the famous Fifth Stations are found – the Fujinomiya Trail 5th Station and the Yoshida Trail 5th Station – today the starting points for most tourists and pilgrims, but once important places of rest and prayer. In the days when climbing Fuji was an act of religious devotion, pilgrims stopped here to purify body and spirit, offer prayers in small shrines, and gather strength before venturing into the “above-life” zone – where vegetation ends and the stony realm of gods and spirits begins.

For centuries, the middle slopes of the mountain have been described in literature and poetry as the threshold between the human and the divine. In Edo-period works, this altitude often appears as the “gate between worlds” (開界の門 – kaikai no mon) – the place where the traveller bids farewell to everyday life, and every step upward leads toward transcendence. Ukiyo-e artists such as Katsushika Hokusai and Utagawa Hiroshige depicted this belt of slope as a zone of contrasts: dark, jagged lava fields set against the white of snow or the pastel glow of the sky. In the haiku of Matsuo Bashō and his successors, the rare stunted pines and sharp stones became metaphors for perseverance, the austerity of life, and the purity of the pilgrim’s intent.

At these heights, Fuji is no longer just a mountain – it becomes a living archive of Japan’s history. Among the rubble lie layers of lava from eruptions dated to the 8th century, the Heian period, and the great eruption of 1707 (Edo period), whose ash buried fields and rooftops as far away as Edo itself. Every fragment of this lava desert is part of a chronicle – a record of the violent moments when the mountain spoke in fire and smoke, only to fall silent again for centuries.

The gate to another world

Above fifteen hundred meters, the wind is different – colder, sharper, as if carrying with it the echo of something that has circled the slopes of Fuji for ages. Pilgrims of old believed that in these harsh reaches one could meet beings that descended from the summit during storms and moonless nights. Such beings were oni (鬼) – demons and monsters with human bodies and animal traits, armed with spiked iron clubs called kanabō (金棒 – literally “metal club”). In folklore they were often portrayed as ruthless guardians of the boundaries between worlds. Some said they came down from the peak to tempt or punish those who climbed the mountain without respect for the gods. In the Heian and Kamakura periods, paintings sometimes showed them as fearsome, but at times also converted to goodness if someone managed to outwit them or move them with sincere piety.

The kanji oni – 鬼 – is composed of a part meaning “soul/spirit” (from the elements 匕 and a variant of the head 儿) and an element resembling horns, which in the character itself already suggests a supernatural and dangerous being. Literally, the sign means “demon,” “ogre,” or “ghost,” but in old language it also referred to the souls of the dead and invisible entities that could both harm and protect humans. In Buddhist and Shinto mythology, oni combine traits of the Chinese guǐ (鬼) and the Indian rakshasas, becoming guardians of hells, punishers of sinners, and trials for travellers. In Japanese art, especially in Heian-period emakimono scrolls, they were shown as muscular, horned beings with red, blue, or black skin, often wearing nothing but a tiger-skin loincloth. Their kanabō symbolised brute force against which nothing could stand.

In legends connected with Fuji, the demonic oni are not mere mindless monsters, but guardian spirits of the mountain, dwelling in its upper reaches and rocky ravines. Old tales from the provinces of Suruga and Kai speak of stormy nights when fiery silhouettes were seen on the slopes, and the roar of rockfalls mingled with the thunder of heavy footsteps – a sign that the oni had descended to punish desecrators of sacred paths. In one recorded story from the Edo period, a young pilgrim (his name is lost to the legend) encountered a horned deity with a kanabō near the eighth station. The demon did not attack immediately – it asked whether the traveller carried respect for the mountain in his heart. The boy knelt and offered a prayer to Konohanasakuya-hime, goddess of Fuji. Then the oni struck the ground with its club, revealing a spring hidden beneath a rock, which quenched the pilgrim’s thirst, for he had run out of water. This legend, known to local guides, served as a reminder that even the fiercest forces of the mountain respect those who climb Fuji with a pure heart.

Amid the rock fields and twisted branches, one may also hear tales of yamajijii (山爺) – old mountain giants with beards as long as the roots of ancient sugi trees. These are spirit-guides who, according to lore, can protect one traveller while judging and turning back another. In some legends, yamajijii lived alone in mountain caves, drinking from icy springs and watching the trails for hundreds of years. They were the embodiment of the mountain’s wisdom – their judgments could not be challenged, for they represented the will of nature itself.

There are also traces here of kitsune (狐) – foxes, messengers of the deity Inari. Masters of illusion, they can take the form of a young woman, an old man, or even a monk. Travellers told of seeing a red shape among the rocks while half-asleep, weary from the climb and the altitude. These foxes were said to lead them to places “that are on no map” – sometimes to a sacred spring, sometimes to an inn that no one could ever find again. In Shinto tradition, kitsune were both guardians of rice fields and tricksters, testing whether a person could remain humble.

On the trail, a kitsune might lead us to dazzling, magical places where we find rest, relief, and luxury. But rarely do kitsune help out of “goodness of heart.” From such places – those that do not appear on any map and cannot be found again on one’s own – many pilgrims never returned at all. So let us march briskly upward – and keep our wits about us – we will not trust the kitsune and their deceptive illusions!

2500–3200 m above sea level

The austere expanse before the summit

A world of emptiness…

Behind us lie the forests of clouded souls and vengeful onryō, the perilous gorges haunted by furious oni demons, and the illusions of cunning kitsune lying in wait for credulous pilgrims. Now the trail leads into a world where nature suddenly grows spare and restrained. Altitude, wind, and cold create a visible boundary – behind us remain the realms of trees, grasses, or even lichens; ahead begins the domain of rock, snow, and silence. Beneath our feet crunch black, porous stone – basalt, andesite, and pumice, frozen traces of ancient eruptions. Some tongues of lava visible on the slopes recall the eruption of 864, others the dramatic Hōei eruption of 1707, when a cloud of ash shrouded Edo and fell even hundreds of kilometres further.

Vegetation here is nonexistent or, at best, meagre, limited to hardy mosses, lichens, and a few stunted perennials capable of surviving in a scant layer of soil. Instead of forest birds, we hear the screech of the wind and, at times, the cry of the iwa-taka (岩鷹 – lit. “rock hawk” – the black kite) passing over the rocky fields. On clear days, one may spot the small nihon tokage (日本蜥蜴 – lit. “Japanese lizard”) basking in sunlit fissures of lava. In spring and summer, when the snow recedes, the slopes briefly bloom with clumps of alpine bellflowers and the silvery iwagiku (岩菊 – lit. “rock chrysanthemum”), plants whose leaves guard against the loss of moisture.

Here, on the border between the world of life and the world of emptiness, it is easy to understand why in ancient times it was believed that above this height began the realm of the kami and the yōkai. The air is thin, and each step demands effort. The wind carries fine particles of volcanic dust, settling on the skin like a delicate reminder that we stand upon a still-living volcano. Beneath our feet – the silence of a sleeping mountain. Somewhere deep within – the pulse of magma that could awaken at any moment.

…not so empty after all.

At this altitude, where the air is already rarefied and every step echoes in the void, one may encounter beings that for centuries have guarded the boundary between the human world and that of the gods (kami). When dark clouds gather over Fuji and the wind begins to wail like an immense flute, we know that it is Fūjin (風神) – the god of wind – unfurling his great sack full of gales. Moments later, in thunder and lightning, comes his brother – Raijin (雷神), the god of thunder, surrounded by a ring of drums, each one calling forth a peal of thunder. Their meeting upon the mountain slopes is like a duel of natural forces – brief, violent, and for humans always overwhelming.

In Japanese belief, Fūjin and Raijin are among the oldest and most recognisable kami, appearing already in the myths of the “Kojiki” and “Nihon Shoki”. They dwell, according to many tales, at the summit of Mount Fuji. They are usually depicted as muscular deities with wild faces, floating upon clouds above the landscape – Fūjin with an enormous sack on his back from which he releases the winds, Raijin with a wreath of taiko drums, which he strikes to bring forth lightning. In the context of Fuji, their presence held a special meaning: ancient and medieval pilgrims saw the violent storms on the mountain’s slopes as signs of these gods’ anger or warning. In times of heightened volcanic activity, it was believed that it was Raijin’s roar and flashes that roused the dormant powers of Fuji, and that Fūjin, following him, sent hurricanes that could blow away entire camps. In paintings and scrolls connected with the Fuji cult, they often appear together as guardians of the heavenly border – those who decide whether a human has earned the right to climb the sacred peak.

Yet even when the storms subside, it does not mean safety. In the stillness that follows the wrath of Fūjin and Raijin, snow can become even more treacherous. In the blizzards that can strike without warning, she appears – Yuki-onna (雪女) – the snow woman. In the white of her kimono she blends with the landscape so perfectly that it is hard to see her approaching. Her face is beautiful and unsettlingly serene, her breath as cold as the last you feel before freezing to death. Legend says that sometimes she spares those she deems pure of heart, but more often she lures them into deep drifts from which there is no return.

Folklore holds many versions of her story. In some, she is the spirit of a woman who perished in a snowstorm and now wanders the mountains, seeking companionship in death. In others, she is an ancient being, one of the yōkai that have inhabited Japan’s snowy wastes for centuries. Her gaze can freeze the blood in your veins, her touch can take life in an instant. Sometimes she appears before a lone traveller, offering help or shelter, only to lead him ever deeper into the white wilderness. She is known to transform into mist or a snowflake, vanishing the moment one tries to grasp her. Old beliefs say that if someone answers truthfully when she asks whether they have seen her before, they may escape with their life – but if they lie, they will never find the way back.

Her image has permeated literature, theatre, and film. In the tales of Lafcadio Hearn, who popularised her legend in the West, Yuki-onna is both deadly and capable of mercy – able to spare a young man’s life if moved to compassion. In Japanese art, she is most often portrayed as a slender woman with long black hair contrasting against the whiteness of snow. Her figure appears in woodblock prints, in ukiyo-e paintings, and in cinema – in Masaki Kobayashi’s classic film "Kwaidan", where her presence is as beautiful as it is fatal. On the slopes of Fuji, stories of her gain even greater power – here, where death may come as swiftly from frost as from a misstep, an encounter with Yuki-onna embodies a very real fear.

The most dangerous, however, are not the storms nor the snowy apparitions, but that which is invisible. At this altitude, where earth touches sky, wander the reikon (霊魂) – souls that have not found the path to the afterlife. They do not scream or terrify – they simply are. Sometimes their presence is felt in the sudden halting of the wind, in an inexplicable shiver, in a shadow gliding across the rocks. For some they are a warning, for others – a reminder that Fuji is not only a mountain, but also a gate to another world…

It is strange. It is frightening. But it is also beautiful – the views that spread out from here fill the heart with an inexpressible gratitude for the fact that the world exists. And that we may look upon it and feel it. No matter – let us move on, for ahead lies the very summit!

3776 m above sea level

The summit of Fuji

The crater, the sky, absolute silence

The final steps before the summit lead through a landscape that seems more lunar than earthly. Beneath our feet crunch volcanic gravel – fine, sharp fragments of basalt and andesite that remember the last great eruption. Dark rocks, stripped of vegetation, form an almost monochromatic mosaic, interrupted only by patches of reddish tuff and pale grey pumice.

When at last we stand upon the edge of the crater, a breathtaking sight opens before us – and not only because of the altitude. The crater, called Ōhachi-meguri (お鉢巡り – “The path of eight shrines”, or “the shrine of the great bowl”, depending on how one reads the characters), is about 780 metres in diameter and 240 metres deep. Its interior is austere and silent, yet monumental. A temple shaped by nature itself, vast and surpassing in majesty any shrine that human hands could build.

Traditionally, pilgrims upon reaching the summit would walk its full circumference, stopping at small shrines and directional markers, believing that this purified the soul and completed the spiritual cycle of the journey. On a clear day, the crater’s rim allows one to see both the Pacific and the Sea of Japan at the same time – a rare privilege, possible in only a few places in the archipelago. Let us too walk along the edge of the crater – to see what we may find. Or meet?

Here, above 3700 metres, biological life scarcely exists. There are no trees, shrubs, or even moss – wind, frost, and intense UV radiation prevent plants from taking root. The only companions are fellow travellers and, if we are fortunate, the distant form of an eagle circling above the slopes. The air is thin, each breath deeper, and the sounds – muted, as though the mountain absorbs all unnecessary noise, leaving only the essence. In this absolute silence, one hears only one’s own heartbeat and the crunch of stones underfoot. Looking down at the clouds drifting hundreds of metres below, one can fully feel and understand why for centuries this place was regarded as the boundary between worlds – both in the geographical and the spiritual sense.

Encounters along the crater

At this altitude, the world is no longer the same. The air becomes thin as mist, and the horizon seems like the very curve of the sky itself. Every step along the ring of the crater is like entering a space where the breath of the Earth meets the breath of the cosmos. Here, on the roof of Japan, pilgrims have for centuries paid homage to Konohanasakuya-hime (木花咲耶姫) – the goddess of blooming cherry trees, guardian of the mountain, and symbol of the fleeting beauty of life. Her presence at the summit is like a delicate fragrance of flowers drifting through the frosty air – almost imperceptible, yet changing everything. In old chronicles it is written how prayers were offered here for bountiful harvests, safe returns from war, and the birth of children, in the belief that the goddess’s smile would bring blessing.

But Konohanasakuya-hime is not alone here. In the crystalline chill of the rarefied air, one can sense the presence of the heavenly kami – deities of light, order, and the starry pathways. In Shintō it is believed that above the clouds stretches the realm of Takama no Hara (高天原) – the High Plain of Heaven – the land where Japan’s most important gods dwell. Walking the ring of the crater thus becomes a symbolic procession along the border of this celestial world. When the sun’s rays reflect off the black pumice and solidified lava, and the shadows of our figures fall upon the clouds far below, it is hard to resist the feeling that we are guests in the palace of the gods.

The folklore of Fuji also tells that here, upon the highest rocks, on windless nights appear luminous beings resembling human figures, their faces blurred as if reflected in water. Some call them the messengers of Konohanasakuya-hime, others see in them travellers who never descended the mountain – chosen by the kami to guard its sanctity. For the pilgrims of old, these tales were not mere stories. In their eyes, Fuji was a living being, and the summit – a place where the earthly journey becomes a spiritual pilgrimage beyond time.

Standing here – we feel the reality of these tales. We are at the threshold of the divine palace of the kami…

The final encounter

Thus ends our road. From the first dawn at the mountain’s foot, when in the quiet of a temple courtyard a priest bade us farewell with a blessing; through the dense, shadowed forests of Aokigahara, where the shades of the past and the spirits of those who chose eternal silence entwine with the roots of trees; from those dark places to the light-filled passes, temples, and stations, to encounters with deities and legends – Konohanasakuya-hime, the heavenly kami, the tales of ancient pilgrims. All of it was like a bouquet in which each flower carried its own beauty and its own shadow, forming together the whole that is this sacred Japanese mountain. Mount Fuji is not a single picture on a postcard – it is a mosaic of beautiful vistas, austere landscapes, and the interweaving of countless legends, beliefs, and beings. Only after tasting all of this can we say we have touched the essence of Mount Fuji. Everything we knew before was but a picture, a postcard, an encyclopaedia entry.

We have seen the deity of the heavens and of the mountain – and yet – the final encounter still lies ahead. There is only one figure here – the one whose face you have always known, but whose gaze has at times been a stranger to you. At this height, above the clouds, above the turmoil of life, in a place where all voices fall silent, including your own, you are left alone. There are no more stories to distract you, no legends to hide behind. There is only “I” and the boundless sky – as unfathomable as your own inner self. The ultimate encounter at the summit of Mount Fuji is the encounter – with oneself.

Japanese tradition has known for centuries that a journey towards something sacred is, in essence, a journey towards oneself. That is why mountains are treated here as living kami – for in their silence one can hear the most difficult voice of all: one’s own. Standing at the threshold of the palace of the gods, we discover that all the beauty and all the terror of this road have led to a single moment – the meeting with the truth we have carried within us all along. And perhaps this is the very essence of every ascent: to descend again, but as someone different – someone who, at the summit, saw not only the horizon, but their very self.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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