Sketching Mt. Fuji

Yet another post long overdue...


Foreigners and natives alike (and not alike) have always viewed Mt. Fuji as being somehow deeply symbolic of Japan.

Think about Hokusai’s woodblock prints (36 Views of Mount Fuji).

These images are iconic. It’s been my wish to do a modern set of these using the same perspectives as a meditation on time/change. Recently there have been some stories here about Chinese investors buying property around Fuji because of the views are so symbolic of Japan. One hotel developer was quoting as saying, “Fuji is Japan. You can’t say you’ve seen Japan without seeing Fuji.”

That seems to embody the foreign perspective. Those on the outside don’t exactly understand why, but they know that Fuji is deeply important to Japan.

Admittedly, the meaning of the referent differs depending on the group. Throughout the world, mountains are viewed as majestic (they are “crowned” with peaks), timeless (their existence overshadows and predates that of an civilization), immovable (Try pushing one, then think about all of those stories and idioms about “moving mountains”), and even sacred. Naturally, Fuji has all of that going for it/him/her…not to mention that it's a volcano and its cratered peak represents the highest point in Japan (an island chain birthed that rose from the sea). Fuji san is where one goes to meet the rising sun.

The origin of the name Fuji and its characters is disputed, but all of the purported meanings are fascinating.  The possibilities deal with relationship between man and mountain--that which is noble in humanity and that in nature which we perceive to be infinite, immutable, and the abundant.  I suppose perceiving infinity is an odd idea.  It is more a suspicion or intuition, the product of meditations on nature carried through generations of human life.

Perhaps the most important symbols are important because no consensus can be reached.

Japan, is changing—and so is Fuji-san. The change is man-made, initiated by the will and effort of a people. I think that Fuji reflects the values and changing face of Japan more accurately than any competing symbol.  On the slopes of Fuji and the roads that lead to the mountain, we see the effects of commercialization, the throngs of visitors/pilgrims that arrive every year, the ever-improving accessibility to the point of spiritual impoverishment (you can hear Edward Abbey lamenting from the peak of the mountain).

I remember climbing the mountain in the middle of the night. I could smell the exhaust of the mountain hut generators humming like Jurassic, postmodern cicada. Above me, though, shined the light of innumerable stars. The stars seen from Fuji burn with a light too dazzling. They seem close, drawn to the eyes by some strange gravity, as if you could reach up and seize the other end of the universe (高天原). The age of light seems unknowable; it precedes life. Below me shone the lights of cities distant and near. Fuji is somewhere in between these two worlds.  It is the only appropriate altar for the Three Sacred Treasures of Japan--sword (stars), mirror (sun), and jewel (moon).

The improvements stem from the idea of sharing the experience (bearing open the heart), an admirable (though perhaps impossible) aim convoluted by the commercialization of the sacred. This isn’t a modern ritual sacrifice or even one unique to Japan. Born of fire, Mt. Fuji is a memorial--not erected by man's hands, but by his mind.


Robert M. Pirsig once said, "The only Zen you find on the top of a mountain, is the Zen you bring there."

Japan and “the Orient” have traditionally been viewed by the West as shrouded in mystique. Western writers write about the culture as if they were peeking beneath a veil. Even modern Japanese culture is puzzling to the West. On the one hand, this puzzled speculation confirms the Japanese exclusionary term for foreigner, gaijin (外人 ) as accurate. The term literally translates as “outsider.” It is not a geographical divide (as many so-called gaijin reside within Japan), but rather a real or imagined (in the case of culture, what is real and what is imagined?) cultural chasm that separates these groups. Even so, we can seek to cross this divide with an interpretation that is simultaneously cogent to the Japanese and the West. Such a bridge must be constructed from both sides and meet in the middle. There is a one critical flaw in the approach of cultural interpretation: the target group is inevitably defined by its interpreter. While the tone may be scientific, the result is spying from a distance, actually shallow, incomplete, and overly subjective. Any real depth of understanding will only arise from the exchange of ideas and opinions. Of course, subjectivity is inextricable from interpretation. There is also the context (the environment of the interpretation) to consider.

Japan is a land of Zen aesthetic, koan, wabisabi, and gundams. Fuji’s soft, cratered peak rises above the clouds; it is Japan’s highest mountain. Since it is clear to most everyone that the Japanese revere Fuji, then it could be viewed as a massive obstacle that must be overcome in order to hope to ever understand the East.

Nishizawa Gorge

Another belated post…

It’s Fall at last (or at least it was…briefly). This year, the transitions from season to season have seemed ironically unnatural. During the peak of the autumn colors a kind friend invited me for a daytrip to the mountain country of Yamanashi prefecture.

The ride was beautiful, the air was crisp, and the cascading pools of Nishizawa Keikoku were spectacular. We hiked a three-hour circuit up and down the water line of Nishizawa in the Okuchichibu mountains. I was so awestruck by the scenery that I managed to fill an entire memory card before finishing the hike. I was shocked at the number of visitors along the trail, but considering the staggering beauty and the parking lot that makes the trailhead tour bus accessible, I guess what’s more surprising is that there weren’t even more.

People often ask me if I’ve ever experienced culture shock during my time in Japan. I always wind up mentioning mundane things like Katsu-katsu fever and not having soap in many station bathrooms. Probably something more unique and puzzling, though, are the mixed feelings that come with having to sometimes wait in line to advance along most of the trails I’ve hiked in Japan. It’s a double-edged sword, really. On the one hand, there’s something comforting about so many people enjoying the “natural world.” Not only are they reverent of the scenery, they’re extremely cautious to not leave any trash behind. In the US, litter is all too common.

Yes, there are crowds, but public land is for everyone to enjoy, after all. On the other hand, the trails through the natural world are often too developed to feel romantic. You can’t “go into nature” on paved paths clogged by throngs of people bedecked in the most fashionable hiking gear available (or at least I can’t). Where’s the sabi in my wabisabi? I’m reminded of Edward Abbey’s take on improving national parks, making them too accessible. Sure, leisurely strolls with friends are nice, but occasionally I just want to go somewhere nearly inaccessible, where progress is strenuous. There are times when I want to sweat and toil alone, finally where effort is rewarded with solitary vistas. There should be (there must be) places that are difficult to reach, with trails that are more than leisurely strolls.

Where’s this leading? Into a discussion about the evolution of Mt. Fuji symbology, of course.

What?

Yes, that’s next, but first some pictures...

Mitake

A missed post…

One of my friends who studied at UA during my senior year works in Tokyo. He is a climber and occasionally we have a chance to climb together. About a month after I arrived in Japan, my friend invited me (on several occasions) to accompany him and some friends on a bouldering excursion in the city of Mitake. Finally, on a Saturday in September, I was able to make the 3+ hr train ride to the edge of Tokyo.

For those who are unfamiliar with the term, bouldering refers to a type of climbing characterized by its intensity, brevity, and lack of verticality. The idea central to climbing is ascension (raising the center?); the central idea of bouldering is perhaps nonlinearity. For one, boulders are not high; five meters is perhaps the upper limit of what can be thought of as a boulder. There are boulders and then there are mountains. In bouldering, ropes and harnesses are not used. Protective gear amounts to at most a piece of foam placed below the climber (I know, I said climber…but boulder-er just doesn’t work), and hopefully a partner or two to help guide your fall. While some might risk their life free-climbing cliffs, the rest of us must be content with the relative security of clinging to boulders without the assurances of ropes to stop us from slamming into the mat or rocks below in the event of a fall.

The paths used in climbing mountains, cliffs, and walls, are known as routes or lines. They are set by others and left for the rest of us to follow. When climbing boulders, the paths are not paths; they are problems. There is a starting point and a goal, but in real bouldering the path is unwritten. Problems are solved or sent, routes are…ascended or simply climbed

That was the bouldering part of this entry. I tackled the problem of explaining bouldering. Now I’ll return to the linear path, the narrative.

The bouldering in Mitake is located along a mountain stream. Japan is renowned worldwide in climbing circles for its rich water/river bouldering locales. Well, last month, I was finally able to go. I left early in the morning to embark on a three-hour train ride to the mountains. When I finally arrived there, I was blown back to memories of the mountains I’ve visited back home in the US.

I continue to be impressed with the beauty of the Japanese countryside. Years ago, before I ever visited Japan, I was convinced that this was a country that was one sprawling techno-polis. This is one of those prevailing myths that manage to somehow survive in spite of the internet. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth. It seems to me that the vast majority of Japan is still countryside.

Believe it or not, Mitake is considered to be within the Tokyo metropolitan area (albeit on the outskirts). It may seem a little odd, but then remember who governs the area. The zoning decision must mean that at least some of the people residing in Mitake sojourn to the city (and back?) everyday. While a six-hour daily commute sounds exhausting, going home to the mountains must be refreshing enough to warrant the sacrifice. I’ve noticed that at uncertain times in certain parts of Tokyo, it is physically less draining and demanding to simply hold your breath, rather than breathe the air. Taking even a shallow breath in Mitake seems the oxygen-delivering equivalent of 3 lungfuls of Tokyo exhaust. I guess one way to train for a Fuji climb would be to become a-pack-a-day smoking, bicycle courier in Tokyo. Of course, a healthier way might just be to take up jogging.