(In part two, the author is about to climb Japan's Mt. Fuji looking for spiritual insight in 1995. He also finds a connection to that year's commuter train poisonings.)Most tourists visit Mt. Fuji in summer or early fall, so my late October arrival assures a less hectic experience. Ms. Ishikawa and I begin our hike in the parking lot where already the clean, crisp air is evident and the view breathtaking of the distant "Japanese Alps" and verdant Japanese landscape.My friend gestures toward our destination, the 2,500-meter point on the mountain, the highest site available to climbers during hiking's low season. There are some heavy clouds moving in, but the mountain above us is relatively clear. A "lens cloud" (in the shape of a lens) floats just above the summit of 3,776 meters. The number of lenses determines for area residents the next day’s weather. One lens today: rain!Up we go, Ms. Ishikawa playing the polite hostess and getting her daily exercise and me attentive to all my senses, hoping that at any moment a spiritual awakening will occur. I hear Spanish spoken — with a Japanese accent. I'll stop a dozen times to catch my breath, both literally and figuratively as I realize I am living my dream. It is colder and colder as we ascend and the footing is tricky on the ash and lava. We are 30 minutes into our hike when I casually remark that I am looking forward to some fluid when we return to base. The altitude and energy spent will dry me out. To my complete surprise, Ms. Ishikawa says she will "run" back down and get some drinks. "No, no. Too far. I can wait," I tell her. But I couldn’t stop her. Off she went (running!), and I found myself alone with my thoughts for the next 45 minutes. Almost everything happens for a reason, and I decided that these unexpected, solitary moments were a God-send, a gift of time for my own thoughts, a gift of calm during my spiritual climb to understanding.My reverie was soon interrupted by Ms. Ishikawa's return with several cans of fruit drink. "You didn't have to do that," I told her. "No," she said. "My job. I am healthy." The politeness of the Japanese never ceased to amaze me. We eventually made it to the food and rest shelter at 2,500 meters. So we ate and we rested and we absorbed the beauty surrounding us little specks on the mountain. The descent was more difficult on the loose lava and step angle. I fell twice. Nothing new, I told my companion. Back in her car, Ms. Ishikawa unwraps a special pad for me to rest my feet. She feeds me white rice and soup and giggles when I combine the two. "Only Japanese children do that," she says. Down the road, I am asked if I want to see some buildings on the horizon. I don't understand what they are from Ms. Ishikawa’s broken English. But I’m game for an adventure. Soon we are stopped at a roadblock. While my driver is speaking with one of the military policemen, another guard is circling our vehicle and scrutinizing it thoroughly. He is taking notes. Ms. Ishikawa shows them her ID. I surreptitiously slip my camera under my coat. We are finally given permission to advance and find a compound of about 10 buildings guarded by another dozen soldiers. I still don't know what I am seeing. Then somewhere in Ms. Ishikawa’s Japanese, I detect the word "sarin" and realize we are driving though the property of the cult that murdered a dozen Tokyo commuters earlier that year and brought great shame and embarrassment to the polite and peace-loving Japanese. "Bad people. Japan, very sad."And I consider that it's all a part of the whole as my search continues from mountaintops to the bottom of my soul.
