Meet two inspiring participants who joined the Under 30 Campaign in 2024, a special initiative by JIN offering exclusive discounts to encourage young adventurers to experience the unforgettable journey of climbing Mt. Fuji.

Amalia Saporetti

Climbing Mount Fuji with Daiki and the team was an unforgettable experience. I joined through the Under 30 program, which offered a reduced price and made this incredible adventure more accessible for students like me. Actually, it was a gift from my parents for the end of my bachelor degree. Our group consisted of just three participants, accompanied by two fantastic guides who were with us every step of the way.

The guides not only ensured our safety throughout the climb but also shared fascinating insights about Mount Fuji and Japanese culture in general. They were incredibly friendly, supportive, and made the experience even more enjoyable.

Unfortunately, we weren’t lucky with the weather—it rained heavily, and the wind was relentless. But, undeterred and fueled by determination, we made it to the summit. The guides constantly checked in to make sure we were safe, which gave us the confidence to keep pushing forward.

Reaching the top was nothing short of magical. Soaking wet, shivering from the cold, we all hugged each other tightly and let out cheers and laughter. The sense of accomplishment we felt in that moment was indescribable.

I’m so grateful for this opportunity and for Daiki’s exceptional guidance. The Under 30 program made it possible for me to take part in this once-in-a-lifetime adventure, and I couldn’t be happier. I hope to return to Japan someday and maybe climb Mount Fuji again—this time with sunny skies!

Thank you so much, Daiki, and the whole team, for making this journey so special !!

Liam Malvern

Photo by Liam Malvern

It’s 4:30am, 29th August 2024. The weather looks grim. I’m sure when the weather bureau released their typhoon warning a few days back it didn’t include anything along the lines of “don’t climb mountains”.

Stories fly out of the media outlets. “Typhoon Shanshan pummels Kyushu”, “Emergency warning, Shanshan approaching”. At least in this region, the rest of society shrugs it off. I’m not sure whether the Japanese media is being sensationalist or this really is a dangerous storm.

I choose to approach the climb with an optimistic naivety that has led to mixed results in the past. They say typhoon, I say it’s just wind and rain. Altitude sickness? Not me, not a chance.

Preparing for the climb

I make my way to the rental store to meet up with our guide, his apprentice and two fellow climbers. When I arrive, everyone is in full kit — wet weather gear, walking poles, helmets, gaiters. You name it, they’ve got it.

I’ve chosen to rely on a trusty windbreaker I bought three years ago for $10. Whether it’s white water rafting or jetboating across the ocean in five-meter swells, we’ve been through a lot together. And this climb is no exception.

As I approach the counter, I’m greeted with a wry smile. The attendant has seen my kind before. His livelihood is likely built on blissfully unassuming tourists like me.

“Just a headlamp, hey?” His quip tugs at the seams of the strength forged between a boy and his jacket. Through repeated insistence in the name of safety, I too, look the part. A green rain jacket, pants, gaiters, walking poles and of course, a headlamp later, I’m ready to climb.

My windbreaker sits proudly under the rain jacket.

Arriving as strangers, our group leaves connected by a desire to do something bold, perhaps a little dangerous. Despite the weather forecast, we will conquer this mountain.

Anyone who has climbed Mount Fuji before will know that you don’t actually start at the base of the mountain. You start after a convenient bus ride up to the fifth station at just over 2300m elevation. This is also known as “Sky Palace” and is where most tourists end their ascent.

Mount Fuji’s ‘Sky Palace” at 2305m elevation. Photo by Liam Malvern

By the time the bus arrives, it’s mid-morning. The anxiety grows as we experience a traditional purification ritual. I’m instructed to clap and bow, however I struggle to keep in time as my mind is preoccupied. At least the ceremony ends with a shot of sake.

It’s go time

The weather is alluringly calm for now. Despite the forecast, I think I see some blue sky. Visibility is good. I take this as a sign the climb will be okay.

We speed up to the seventh station, ascending over 700 meters in about ninety minutes. We’re halfway. It hasn’t rained much. I take my phone out and share a selfie home. This is easy!

Before long, I start to feel dizzy. I’d heard about altitude sickness but decided not to let my mind get carried away. I convince myself it’s the shot of sake from five hours earlier.

I’m constantly being told by the apprentice that I’m holding the group back. We’ve only climbed another 350 meters in the last two hours. During this time, the rain has intensified from a steady drizzle to a relentless torrent. I’ve always said, once you’re wet you can’t get wetter, but this experience is changing my opinion.

I find comfort in the rainbow of jackets that illuminate the path forward. If they can do it, surely I can! I assume, as we proceed into the clouds there will be fewer trees.

A snake of rain jackets zig and zag their way up the mountain. Property of Liam Malvern

The next few hours are difficult — battling dizziness, a slight headache and unrelenting rain.

An ultimatum

At 3100m above sea level, we’ve reached the eighth station. Typically, the tour would stay here for the night and attempt to summit in time for sunrise in the morning. Our guide does not have confidence this will be possible given the conditions.

“Do you want to continue?”

“You mean, climb all this way, soaking wet, just to throw in the towel? Nah. We’re going tonight.”

A quick pause in the rain allows for a photo of the terrain. Empty. No jackets, no trees. From this point on, it’s just us and the mountain.

The beginning of each zag during this stage of the climb. Photo by Daiki Nishikawa

Each corner seems to reveal the same path as the previous one. It’s difficult to establish a sense of progress. The sky grows increasingly darker, painting the clouds an ominous charcoal. The wind is now strong enough that it affects the balance of each stride.

Soon enough, we reach the ninth station. This is the last one before the summit at about 3500m. We’re drenched. We’ve trudged, swam and scrapped through. Our guide says he’s seen worse. Motivating.

Our guide thinks we have about an hour remaining. The ninth station features a small hut about five meters in width. It was perfectly positioned to protect us from what was waiting on the other side.

A physical and mental war with Mother Nature

In the dark of night, our group enters the steepest section of trail leading to the summit. An arduous mile-long climb over rocky, slippery terrain peppered with foot-sized divots.

Mother Nature insists we turn back. With irregular, powerful gusts she renders our walking poles useless. Exposed and off balance, one of our group stumbles a few times.

Bracing more than proceeding we’ve become penguins migrating through a blizzard in desolate wilderness. If you remember the headlamp the owner of the rental store insisted I needed— well, that’s become about as useful as a glass hammer. Each trudge is guided not by the path below, but by the glimmering light of our guide ahead.

For the first time, I’m now afraid of my surroundings. My mind begins to catastrophise.

Are there any sharp drop-offs along the trail?
What about dangerous animals?
What if we get stuck up here?

I remember the last thing my parents said to me before I left for Japan:

“Be safe”

I’m fighting to resist every urge to quit. If it wasn’t for the strength of ambition, or stupidity among this group I’d have surrendered to Mother Nature’s will long ago.

It isn’t about reaching the summit anymore. It is about proving to ourselves, and the mountain, that we are in control. Our persistence will win this war. We didn’t come all this way for nothing.

I have no idea how long we’ve been walking through the rain, all I know is that continuing to walk is the only way out.

Jingle bells

Equally, I have no idea how long we have remaining. The wind continues to howl, but soon enough its abrupt tempo is disturbed by a sound unheard to this point. A jingle of bells.

Before I left home, I had read about a string of bells left by hikers along a rope at the summit. It’s a tradition that symbolises the sacredness of the mountain to the Japanese people and serves as a reminder of those who have climbed before.

I was thrilled to join this list. To hear the sound of overcoming a mighty test from Mother Nature. A symphony of success that signalled the completion of a hike that many have completed before, but not in this way.

Our little group of strangers from all corners of the globe won the war. We’d been blown around, drenched, pushed to our limits. But we did it. No one can take that away from us.

Back down at sea level. Photo by Liam Malvern

My motivation to pursue Japan’s highest peak was a selfish one. I was chasing the ecstasy of being above the clouds, watching the lights of civilisation gradually surrender to the golden haze of dawn.

The reality of this experience was so far removed from expectation, that as I write this three months on I still can’t shake the feeling that it didn’t happen.

In a moment of triumph, our small group experienced the joy that comes only with accomplishing a feat that not many would dare to attempt. But I still didn’t get my moment of solitude. And truthfully, I’m still craving it.

“A wise man climbs Fuji once, a fool climbs twice.” — Anonymous

Call me a fool. I’ll be back.