lingqi's Journal: July 26th, 2004

July 26th, 2004 (5:12pm)

-- and continuing, once more --

Eventually, from a dash of orange glow to the fringe outline of bright, round disk, the sun, orange and golden, peeked out from behind some far away clouds, and greeted all of the tired travellers. The sound of Shutters clicking immediately began to blanket the mountaintop, though somewhat muted in the wind. Another sound began to eminate from the huts that was above the wind's roar: The mountain huts, through some public speakers, started to play "sun rise on Mt Fuji" or something along that lines (I am not quite sure of the title). The sound was, of course, emmitted by speakers that are trying to shrill at a volume way above their distortion threshold and was very much weathered in the cold mountain top - adding to that fact that the tape cassette is also time-worn and battered by the same harsh environments, the music, mixed with the wind, sounded flat and was full of static. However, just like the twinkle of sunshine casted on our eyes, the song itself was apparently perfect for the moment as well - many sung along, and if it weren't so cold, I am certain that it would have been a surpurb and heartmoving performance.

A little after the sun has completely risen from behind those distant, rosy-coloured clouds, people began to disperse and finally complied with the recommendations of the huts and went inside for the well deserved and well desired rest. We followed suit, as the weather wasn't getting any warmer, and a hot cup of *anything* would just be worth 100 dollars at the moment.

The time it took for us to get into a hut and plot our exhausted behinds down on the hard wooden bench was how fast it took the weather to turn from a sunny morning to an absolutely miserable one. Some cloud that must have camped off to the side of Mt Fuji that had some moral obligation to grant all of us a view of the sunrise was not going to wait all day to engulf the mountaintop. After mere minutes, the sun was all gone and the mountaintop was almost dark and gloomy - the visibility dropped to about 10 meters and the windspeed tripled and the temperature dropped, sharply. While the said few minutes ago it was still possible to stand outside, inasmuch as the extremeties slowly loses feelings, the environment outside turned into a howling winter, and stepping outside for just a moment - nay, merely standing near the exit of the hut was suffient - would convince you that your three layers of jackets and pants were to be no match for the icy spears that the wind was going to be; it found every weakness in the defense against cold - every crack, every zipper, even the very pores of the fabric itself - and shoehorned itself inside, gleefully piercing against the skin. The clothes, as helpless as tissue paper in a rainstorm, flutters as if in complaint or cries of help - "save us!" they seemed to say, "we are cold too!"

Luckily, the time spent outside did not have to be long and albeit cold, we found a relatively comfortable spot right to the exit of the kitchen where that ever little amount of radiant heat or breeze of slightly above-ambient temperature air would reach us. About an hour later we made contact with the three others who were behind us, and we all sat, most in some modification of the fetal position, in a bundle and rested.

Several cups of hot milk / hot chocolate were ordered and they were not as much drunk as held in trembling hands - trembling mostly in part because of the cold but notably also in a emotional gratitude to the small cups of liquid we held, and how much comfort it was bringing. Interestingly, the hut sold both hot-milk and hot-gyunyu (which, incidentally, translates to milk) - the difference in those is that one is sweetened and one is not. While the sweetened version was extremely watery, the unsweetened was thick and tasted raw - almost like it was fresh from the teat of some unfortunate cow strapped to the back of the hut. Of course, this was not the case, but possibly an important distinction. Either way they were 400 yen: whilst in my current logical state of mind they seemed incredibly expensive (and indeed they were), at those times, each and every one of us would have gladly forked over three times as much.

Speaking of food, Not all roads to the top of Fuji involves a pair of tired legs and an unthinkable amount of energy - most of the huts are apparently operated by tractors that takes another route up the mountain - bringing valuable supplies and water and, in fact, the hut attendants themselves.

Three hours we spent in that hut, huddled together and half sleeping, half cold. several bathroom run were made and eventually we decided that it was best that we be on our way, seeing that a 12 o'clock bus awaits at the bottom of the mountain (there were only two buses for that day) and the other two members are obviously not going to come. We had had lost contact with them since sixth station, and despite the fact that the cellphones worked surprisingly well in the mountain, we have received no emails and no phone calls from them. The attempts to communicate obviously had went unanswered as well. In retrospect, in such a situation it was extremely obvious that there is a probability that something dire had occured, but we were in such a state of mind that we, to be brutally honest, did not quite care anymore: The most thought we had given to it was that we would check for accident information after we get down the mountain, because to be honest, some primal sense underneath felt that our lives were all in danger if we had continued waiting.

In the same retrospect, it is worth noting that when the sense of self preservation becomes the dominant driving force in one's actions, such unheroic thought is quite... understandable. However, in the same line of thought, it only amplifies the heroic actions of other people under more dire circumstances: the sense of self preservation is so strong that it wasn't even a clear _thought_ that I could have logically fought against, but rather it was a _directive_ from something hidden in the court of the brain behind the curtains - as if my consciousness was just some fly that was being taken on a ride in an airplane - while the fly thinks it had full freedom of judgement as to where it was going, in fact he knew nothing of it.

The most pertinent example I could think of is Arland Williams in the Flight 90 accident in 1982. In the icy river nearly frozen solid by a blizzard, he passed the rescue cord from the helicopter to another passenger *every* time it was given to him, and eventually when it was his turn he was there no more. I used to have no doubt that I was capable of the same heroic deeds when the circumstances requires it, but the trip to Mt. Fuji had made me doubt this certainty; and it made me comprehend somewhat on the tremedous difficulty on abiding by one's principles when in plight, and why heroic deeds are that much more worth celebrating.

-- haha, won't belive it, I continue again to make it to piano on time. --