Sunrise at 12,388 Feet: A Marine’s Journey up Mount Fuji

The sun broke over the horizon in a brilliant display of orange and gold, painting the clouds below us as we stood at 12,388 feet—the highest point in Japan. It was July 4th, 1982, and a group of us Marines found ourselves watching dawn from the summit of Mount Fuji. The moment wasn’t planned that way, but there was something undeniably poetic about experiencing this quintessentially Japanese achievement on America’s Independence Day, thousands of miles from home.

The Invitation
In the summer of 1982, while stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni, I signed up for a trip I will never forget. The opportunity came through a woman affectionately known around base as “Mama San.” She wasn’t military, but she was part of the Iwakuni experience. A sharp, organized local woman, Mama San ran weekend trips all over Japan for service members. She had a way of making you feel like you belonged, even when you were thousands of miles from home.

She arranged everything – transportation, schedules, even meals. So, when we heard she was putting together a group to climb Japan’s most iconic peak, about a dozen of us decided to go for it. We were Marines, looking for something different. Some saw it as a chance to challenge themselves physically. Others just thought it sounded like a story worth telling someday. Either way, we signed the list, boarded the bullet train, and headed toward Mt. Fuji – the sacred mountain that has inspired Japanese art, poetry, and spiritual practices for centuries.

The Ascent Begins
After a day of traveling, we arrived at the “Fifth Station,” which sits at about 7,500 feet above sea level. It’s the starting point for most Fuji climbers and offers some basic amenities—food stalls selling warm bowls of ramen, souvenir shops with colorful trinkets, and a few wooden signs explaining what lies ahead. The air already felt different here – crisp and thin, carrying the earthy scent of volcanic soil mixed with the aroma of grilled snacks from nearby vendors.

That’s where we picked up our kongō-zue, traditional wooden walking sticks. At each station on the way up, you could have your stick branded with a unique stamp, burned deeply into the wood with a satisfying hiss. It was more than a memento; it was a visual record of your progress.

We began the hike in the late afternoon. The trail started with packed dirt paths and occasional railings but gradually turned steeper and rockier. You quickly realized this wasn’t a casual stroll. Mt. Fuji may be a symmetrical cone from a distance, but up close, it’s uneven, rugged, and demanding. The terrain shifted from wooded paths to barren volcanic gravel that crunched rhythmically beneath our boots. The higher we climbed, the thinner the air became, and the temperature dropped.

Station by Station
We passed station after station, pausing to rest, rehydrate, and brand our walking sticks. Some of the huts sold hot tea, miso soup, or small meals like curry rice. We’d sit for a few minutes on rough wooden benches, catching our breath and shaking the fatigue from our legs, before heading out again. The camaraderie helped. We weren’t talking much, but we were all moving forward, sharing in the same challenge, one step at a time.

By early evening, we reached one of the higher mountain huts where we’d sleep for the night. “Sleep” is a generous word. Inside were long, narrow rows of sleeping pads laid out side by side. No dividers, no pillows, just wall-to-wall people. Hikers from all over the world and a group of Marines trying not to snore or step on each other. You took off your boots at the door, stashed your gear, and hoped your body would rest enough to make it through the final stretch in the morning.

The hut smelled of damp clothes, sweaty hikers, and the woody aroma of the structure itself. Outside, the wind whistled around the corners of the building, a constant reminder of our exposure on the mountainside.

The Final Push
At around 0200, staff members walked through the hut waking everyone up. The goal was to reach the summit before sunrise. We layered up. It was cold, windy, and still pitch-black outside. The air was thin, and the trail crowded, lit only by flashlights and headlamps. Looking up the path, we could see a long line of tiny lights stretching up into the darkness, other climbers all heading in the same direction.

The last few hours were the toughest. The trail became steeper and narrower, and many people stopped frequently to catch their breath. It was quiet; some joking and conversation, but mostly just the sound of boots on gravel and the wind moving across the slope. The volcanic rock beneath our feet was loose in places, causing occasional slips that sent hearts racing.

Summit Sunrise
We reached the summit just before sunrise. At 12,388 feet, Mt. Fuji is Japan’s highest peak, and standing there, we could see clouds below us and the faint orange glow beginning to rise over the horizon. There were a few small buildings, a weather station, a shrine, a post office that actually stamped postcards, but what most people came for was the view. It wasn’t flashy. It was quiet, calm, and beautiful in a way that only makes sense after you’ve worked to get there.

The summit air carried a distinctive scent, a mineral sharpness from the volcanic crater mixed with the clean purity of high-altitude winds. The ground beneath our feet felt alien, dark, porous rock formed from ancient eruptions, a stark reminder that this beautiful mountain is an active volcano.

Watching the sun rise over Japan from the top of Mt. Fuji on the Fourth of July, it hit us. It wasn’t planned that way, but there was something poetic about it. We were thousands of miles from home, but for a few minutes, we felt completely grounded. Looking out over the landscape, I understood why the Japanese have revered this mountain for centuries. There’s a humbling power to standing at the top, seeing the country spread out before you like a living map.

The Descent
The descent was no easier. It followed a different trail, one made almost entirely of loose gravel and ash. It was steep and dusty, and if you weren’t careful, your feet would slide out from under you. Everyone was tired, sore, and coated in fine volcanic dust by the time we returned to the Fifth Station. Our boots and pants were covered in the dark soil of the mountain, as if Fuji itself had marked us.

Mama San was there waiting with snacks, drinks, and that proud, knowing smile of hers. She had seen it all before. Young Marines thinking they were invincible, then coming down from that mountain humbled and grateful. We loaded back into the bus and made the long ride home on the Bullet Train, most of us dozing to the hypnotic rhythm of the rails.

The Lasting Mark
I kept my walking stick for the rest of my time in Iwakuni. Each station had left its mark, a row of branded stamps that still carried the faint scent of wood smoke. Unfortunately, the stick didn’t make it back to the States with me after my tour ended. I honestly don’t remember what happened to it. What I did bring home was a small bottle filled with volcanic rock from the summit of Mt. Fuji. It’s still packed away somewhere, labeled in my own fading handwriting: “July 4, 1982.”

The climb changed something in me. It taught me about perseverance in a way that even Marine training hadn’t. This wasn’t about pushing through pain because someone was ordering you to; it was about finding your own reason to continue when every step feels impossible. That lesson has stayed with me far longer than any souvenir could.
If you ever get the chance to climb Mt. Fuji, take it. It’s not easy, and it’s certainly not glamorous, but the experience sticks with you long after the climb is over.

What’s your Fuji story? Did you make the climb during summer or winter? Did you keep your walking stick, or do you have another memento that reminds you of your journey? Share your most memorable moment on the mountain in the comments below.