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Vending Machines And Escalators: Shortbread's Light Bite

Published 8 months ago

Have you ever wondered if there's vending machines or escalators on Mount Fuji? If so wonder no longer as Mark Patrick answers this age old question. 

Vending Machines And Escalators by Mark Patrick

I had a theory.

You create many theories living in Tokyo. It is the only way to answer the unanswerable questions that pop into your mind as you walk the streets and ride the trains of this amazing city. How can a thousand commuters fit into one subway train car? I believe that people are thin here not for health or beauty reasons, but to be able to squeeze into a spot that does not exist in an overcrowded train car. How can vending machines make money when there are more vending machines than people in Tokyo? I think the vending machine owners are the culprits behind the severe lack of drinking fountains around the city. What powers the millions of escalators that make hills in Tokyo something to laugh at? Even I have not thought of a theory to answer that.

I had a theory staring out the giant windows of the Izumi Garden Tower in Tokyo where I work. It was an exceptionally clear, spring day, and in the distance, I could see the snow-capped cone of the tallest mountain in Japan – Mt. Fuji. Could there possibly be an escalator up the volcano, or a vending machine waiting to reward thirsty climbers who successfully completed the journey to the summit? I needed to know.

The official climbing season of Mt. Fuji is for only two months, July and August. It is not a technically difficult mountain to climb, but severe weather changes and freezing temperatures at the summit, rock slides, and possible altitude sickness can make this 12,388ft rock harder than it seems.

In mid-July, I convinced two of my fellow co-workers to join me on my adventure to Mt Fuji. I had my concerns however, since they were both from tropical Singapore and complained relentlessly when I turned the thermostat in the office below 80 degrees. I would take my chances with these two women and hope that maybe the escalator part of my theory was correct.

We planned to leave on a Saturday afternoon when the weather forecast was good for the weekend, so we might have an opportunity to see a beautiful sunrise from the summit. We had our chance on July 26 and set off on the two-hour bus ride to Kawaguchiko at the base of the volcano. Like the majority of Mt Fuji climbers, we took the 45 minute bus ride up the mountain to Station 5 at 7,200ft (the summit is Station 10), where we would begin our hike.

It was 9pm and the sky was clear with the stars shining above. You sometimes forget what stars look like after living in the blinding glow of Tokyo. The path was steep, but manageable, and we followed the lead of the lights from our headlamps as we slowly progressed up the mountain. After a few hours of minimal breaks, we passed by the small rest stops of Station 6 & 7. My co-workers were getting tired. I assured them the escalators were just around the corner.

At the fifth hour of our climb, we passed Station 9 around 10,500ft. The temperature was dropping, the oxygen level low, and the rain and wind that was not supposed to come, came. At 3am, we were only an hour and a half hike to the summit. The path narrowed and hundreds of climbers jammed the trail as they tried to reach the summit for sunrise at 4:30am.

I am suddenly transported home. In my car, stuck on I35 in downtown Minneapolis in a snowstorm at 8am. Drive five feet, stop, drive five feet, stop. I glance over at the other drivers and they all appear as miserable as I do.

On the mountain, the rain hit us from every direction. With only bare rock surrounding us, there was no protection from the elements. The tremendous wind whipped in circles, burying us in the clouds. One of the women broke down. I could not blame her. The freezing rain and wind continued to pound us and the trail of people did not move. We comforted her. Asked her to rest. She demanded that we continue up and allow her to find her way down alone. I considered carrying her up the rest of the mountain, but just then, as if my mind was lost in the clouds, I remembered I was a skinny kid with no muscles. Clicking on a mouse and typing on a keyboard all day does not strengthen you to carry another person up a mountain. Plan B: take a rest, wait, refuse to leave and allow the brute strength of unspoken peer pressure to carry her up the mountain.

Plan B was a success.

The rain continued to pour down with no end in sight. The crowd began to creep along, but it took three hours to hike the remaining trail to the top. Our sunrise on the summit hid behind clouds, but we made it. Then I turned and it was the most stunning sight I had ever seen. A vending machine on top of Mt Fuji!

I approached it carefully, as if it were an illusion that would vanish in an instant. I was thirsty, very thirsty. I reached out to confirm it was real. It was. My theory was correct! The possibilities were endless. My theories about Tokyo could all be true. I deserved a reward. A cool drink would do the trick. At that moment I realized my mistake, as most theorists realize at a climactic point in their lives, that the reward is not only from proving your theory correct, but being able to enjoy what it meant to have your theory a reality. In this case, a cool drink at the summit of Mt Fuji.

I kicked myself. How could I forget my coins?!

Epilogue

I returned alone to Mt Fuji the following weekend. I intended to hike the Yoshidaguchi Trail, from the true bottom of the mountain, 13 miles from the summit. This time I was going to earn my Mt. Fuji sunrise.

The Yoshidaguchi trail was the path that religious pilgrims followed for almost a thousand years. A Shinto Shrine marks the beginning of the trail where pilgrims can pray for a safe journey up the volcano. At noon, I started my five-hour hike up from Station 1 to 5, passing only a handful of hikers climbing down. Ancient Buddhist and Shinto relics marked the trail, as the path winded through pristine forest. I realized that the true Mt Fuji experience was not in stepping foot on top, but lay in this quiet stretch of trail.

I reached Station 5, where I started a week before, and was not surprised to see hundreds of climbers making their way along the trail ahead of me. I continued for another four hours to Station 9, where the cold and wind never ceased. It was 8pm and luckily, the rest house allowed me to stay the night even though I did not have a reservation. They showed me to the attic where 50 Japanese climbers slept, shoulder to shoulder, snoring in unison. My shoulders did not touch the floor, so I rested them on the shoulders of the strangers beside me. I could not sleep.

At 1:30am, the workers woke all of us up to make the final push to the summit. Remembering the mass of people blocking the end of the trail the previous weekend, I turned over and went back to sleep. I hoped to catch a breathtaking sunrise a few hours later at Station 9.

The worker woke me up at 4:15am and I went outside to clear skies above the constant cloud cover that blankets the valley all summer. The sky slowly lightened, but the sun would not rise. Suddenly at 5am, the sun peeked out of the clouds as if to look at Mt Fuji pointing to the heavens. An eruption of “Banzai” cheers exploded from the volcano, as every Japanese climber celebrated.

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