The climbing season opens every July 1st and slams shut September 10th, which sounds arbitrary until you realize that outside those dates Fuji transforms into what mountaineers politely call “a death trap.” We’re talking winds that’ll peel your skin off, temperatures plunging to minus 20 Celsius, and ice slicks that turn the summit trail into a vertical skating rink nobody asked for.
Here’s the thing about Japan’s most iconic mountain: 300,000 people climb it annually, and roughly half of them start their ascent around midnight because—wait for it—they want to catch sunrise from the summit at 3,776 meters. Goraiko, they call it. “Arrival of light.” Sounds poetic until you’re shuffling upward in a conga line of headlamps at 2 AM, breathing recycled tourist exhalations.
Turns out you don’t just show up and start climbing.
The Four Routes That Pretend They’re Different But Kinda Aren’t
Yoshida Trail swallows about 60% of climbers, which creates a traffic jam situation that would make Los Angeles commuters weep with recognition. The trail starts at the Fifth Station—because apparently the Japanese decided numbering should begin partway up the mountain, at 2,300 meters, which is the kind of logical flexibility that keeps things interesting. Subashiri and Gotemba routes are less crowded, sure, but Gotemba also adds an extra 600 meters of vertical gain because masochism comes in different flavors. Fujinomiya is steepest and shortest, a “get it over with” approach that appeals to a certain personality type.
Mountain huts dot each route like expensive, cramped way stations where you pay 8,000 yen (about $55 USD as of 2023) to lie sardine-style on wooden platforms with strangers who snore in multiple languages. You don’t sleep, really. You exist horizontally for a few hours.
Altitude sickness doesn’t care about your fitness level or your inspirational Instagram captions. At 3,776 meters, oxygen drops to roughly 65% of sea-level concentrations, which means your body starts throwing a biochemical tantrum—headaches, nausea, dizziness, the whole degrading package. The Japanese have this concept called “eki-climbing”—walking slowly, deliberately, almost meditatively. Western hikers often ignore this advise and then wonder why their skull feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice.
What Nobody Mentions Until You’re Already Committed and Suffering
The volcanic rock is sharp. Like, “slice through your hiking boots” sharp. Proper footwear isn’t a suggestion—it’s the difference between summiting and limping back down with shredded ankles. And the weather? Fuji creates its own microclimate, which is meteorologist-speak for “we have no idea what’ll happen up there.” Sunshine at the Fifth Station means absolutely nothing for conditions at 3,400 meters, where clouds materialize out of spite and temperatures drop 15 degrees in the time it takes to zip your jacket.
Bring layers. Bring more layers than seem reasonable. Then bring one more.
Toilet situation deserves mention because pretending otherwise would be dishonest: squat toilets at mountain huts, 200 yen per use, and at peak season they achieve a bouquet of smells that could strip paint. Some huts ran out of toilet paper entirely during the 2019 season. Plan accordingly.
The descent wrecks knees worse than the ascent wrecks lungs—hours of downward grinding through volcanic scree that feels designed by someone who genuinely hated human joints. Many climbers use walking poles, which help until you realize you’re still going to feel every single step for the next week.
One popular saying goes: “A wise person climbs Fuji once. A fool climbs it twice.” Yet people keep coming back, chasing that weird mix of suffering and transcendence that mountains seem uniquely designed to provide. Maybe that’s the actual summit—not the crater at the top, but the moment you realize you chose this particular form of discomfort voluntarily, and somehow that makes it worthwhile.
