It’s easier to see the beauty of chaos when you’re not in it.
Honshu (Dragonfly Island) Japan, Summer 2017
I was nearing the end of my enlistment and decided it was time for the big hike. Once I left Japan, there was no telling when I would get a chance to come back to this lovely land. I had to go for it.
Climbing Mt. Fuji was seen as one of the biggest milestones for those who traveled to Japan (especially for those of us who got stationed there). Like a rite-of-passage. And as someone who had never been up a major mountain before, to say it was intimidating was an understatement. Still, I was pretty excited.
Supposedly, those who failed to climb Mt. Fuji during their time in Japan were “doomed to return.” Not sure why some of my fellow enlisted folk emphasized the “doom” portion so much, especially since many I talked to enjoyed their stay in the country. I adored mine. Meat flavored wafer chips and all. (Yup, that’s a thing, haha.)
The friendly people, the distinct culture, and of course the natural beauty all around us was always breathtaking.
The biggest beauty for me was, of course, Mt. Fuji.
It’s the highest mountain in Japan and rises to 12,388 feet (3,776 meters) about 60 miles (100 km) west of Tokyo. Did you know it’s the country’s biggest dormant volcano? The more you know 🙂
The morning of the big day, the bus driver drove us to the starting point of the hike. Some called it the fifth station. I called it “go time.” I remember getting off the bus full of eager climbers and feeling a cool, yet gentle, morning breeze hit my face. Like, the sweetest of kisses a lover gives you when you’ll be gone for a while.
I looked at the path above and sized up the mountain. Fuji loomed over us like a gentle giant out of a fairy tale. Quiet and majestic. A faint mist still covered a chunk near the top, giving me goosebumps. With a rush of adrenaline kicking in, I took one deep breath and put one foot in front of the other. My walking-stick in hand.
Sure, I was nervous, but it was the excitement and sense of wonder that moved me forward.
Along the way, there were several stations where hikers could rest and get a stamp burned onto their walking stick, marking how high they’ve climbed. I gladly spent the yen to get mine and continued up.
There were waves of people attempting the hike. Some folks were slow. Some were fast. Some weren’t sure whether they’d make it. While others turned it into a race. Young, old, native, or foreigner. It didn’t matter. We were all on a similar journey. In fact, not much mattered other than getting to the top, or so I thought. I was younger, full of “quiet” testosterone, and naïve back then, so looking back, I’m not surprised at my single-mindedness.
Higher and higher I went as the clouds met my gaze and eventually said, “Goodbye.”
As I neared the top, the air thinned, and every step took more and more out of me. Yeah, I was pretty damn tired. Nearly everyone around me looked like zombies (myself included) as, one by one, we all slowly reached the top. And I mean excruciatingly slow. Every breath of air welcomed. Every step (no matter how small) earned.
After roughly 5 hours, I had reached the top. I made it!
I took another deep breath and realized just how thin the air had gotten. Just another reminder that I was still new to this type of stuff. To say I was tired was an understatement, even for someone who regularly ran twenty miles per week.
I baby-stepped to the last station and got my final walking-stick stamps. The smell of wood-burning was oh so sweet as I took a moment to appreciate the immediate sights and sounds. Words couldn’t describe how I felt.
During a much-needed break, I sat near my fellow hikers. We were all spread out somewhere all along the edge of the mountain, either appreciating or questioning what we had just been through. Good vibes all around.
I looked down and saw a snaking trail of people who were still in the fight.
Then I tilted my head back and stared into the pleasant blue sky. It was as if I could feel the planet smiling. Nothing but nature at its finest. Daunting yet inspiring. Making it to the top wasn’t enough for me, though. I HAD to get to the absolute tallest point in Japan.
Luckily, it was only several dozen yards away. I casually walked over and took several more steps to climb a tiny hill that sat on top of the mountain. There was a massive crater that looked like it wanted to swallow the sky whole. For a moment, I finally knew what it felt like to be at the tallest point in Japan.
It. Felt. Amazing.
After about 30 minutes of taking it all in, it was time to head back down. Sad face. I was on a time limit after all and the bus would take us back to base at 5:00pm sharp. No exceptions.
I found a spot near the edge of Mt. Fuji that lead to the trail back down. As I was about to make my descent, I asked a nearby traveler to snap the photo that you see at the top of this post. Forever tying me to this magical location. I thanked him and looked down at the world below.
At that moment, it happened.
I realized I hadn’t really taken the time to truly appreciate (I mean truly appreciate) the view before me. A great crystal blue sky that seemed eternal stared back at me, while the earth below felt so tiny. Like an afterthought. It felt like I was seeing the world for the first time. My eyes, mind, and heart all pried open in that instant. Mind-blown as it all hit me at once. The feeling I got was not only incredible, but awe-inspiring.
It was the most humbling experience I’ve had up to now.
All the cares, the worries, the good, the bad, the horrific, the ugly, the wars, the politics, the petty squabbles, the arguments, the chaos of life—pretty much all the things a human can be worried about…seemed so small.
So insignificant.
All that mattered in that moment was how small I was in the grand scheme of things. How small and fragile we are as humans in this vast world and universe. For those few moments, I was humbled beyond belief. And through the humbling, I felt at peace. Truly at peace. I felt right. I felt like how I believed a human should feel.
Alive.
It’s one of those feelings that’s indescribable. Being one with the universe and my place in it.
Life is funny like that. The world can often feel draining, like we’re just on this journey called life for a short time, only to wither and die in the end. But at that moment, on top of Mt. Fuji, I learned how to simply…be.
What it truly means to be alive.
It’s a moment I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life and will serve as a constant reminder of my place in it. No matter the struggles or heartaches I face, small or large, I know that there’s more to this world than the daily chaos that surrounds us all.
Life is fragile. Life is beautiful. Life is peaceful. At least it can be when you learn to simply…be.
After my humbling, I snapped back to reality and bid Mt. Fuji farewell and made the even more arduous journey back down.
When I say the trek back down was harder, I mean it. You would think it’d be easier. Sure, it was quicker, but most definitely harder. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Leaving the peaceful and carefree euphoria I experienced at the top and going back down to the world that awaited me…was hard. Part of me wanted to cry. Seriously.
Did I really have to go back down to all the worries of the world? The chaos?
In the end, I knew I had a life to get back to. In order for this experience to truly mean anything, I had to make it back down and continue living the best I could. That way, I truly could carry the beauty I felt with me for the rest of my life. (And share it, of course.)
Down and down I went in a zig-zag pattern trail with nothing to see but dirt, rock, and a heavy fog covering the path below. This went on for hours and all I could see each time I looked down over the edge were more clouds. It felt like I was stuck in an endless loop. More trail followed by more clouds and more trails and even more clouds. There came a point where I even questioned whether I was actually going down the trail or if I really was stuck in an endless loop (haha).
About four hours later, I made it back down and was greeted by a side of the trail that felt almost as humbling as the top. A quiet, lush green valley that looped around the mountain and (eventually) led back to the bus area where a crowd of people were waiting. Some who had also just finished the journey, and some who were on their way up.
The entire experience was unforgettable and surreal. It was my first climb, so I doubt I’d be able to replicate that feeling again. At least I can carry it in my heart.
If you ever get the chance to climb Mt. Fuji for yourself, please do. You might learn a little something about life, too.
Have you ever had a humbling experience with nature? I’d love to know.
Jeff Aybar is a Sci-Fi/Fantasy writer, creative introvert coach, INFJ, and veteran. If you enjoyed this post, consider joining his newsletter community and get a free creativity guide on navigating the creative journey. Discover book releases, personal stories, advice, inspiration, and other exclusive content and resources by signing up here.