Should we ride the gondola round-trip or buy a one-way ticket up and hike back down? My son suggested the round-trip ride, but riding most of the way to the top struck me as “cheating” on the climb, so I persuaded him to ride one way and hike back down the mountain on the trail.
“It will be fun,” I promised. “An adventure.”
He glanced at the overcast sky but didn’t argue.
We started up a well-marked earthen trail punctuated by flights of steep stone stairs. Shifting mist obscured the path ahead. The smell of the surrounding pines, combined with the scents of earth and mist, made my spirit sing despite the way my thighs burned from the unaccustomed exercise.
Signs on the path informed us that the trip to the summit would take about 30 minutes, but I suspected we would need a little more. In fact, it took me 35 minutes just to reach the Eternal Fire Hall, which sits in a clearing on the mountain’s shoulder. Swirls of mist drifted through the clearing as I approached the wooden worship hall. I felt the mountain’s holiness—a peace and stillness in my spirit that, for once, had silenced all my fears.
The eternal flame burned on an altar at the back of the tiny hall. Around it, rows of candles flickered, kindled from the holy fire by worshippers who climbed Mount Misen’s slopes.
After viewing the sacred flame, we continued toward the summit. The roughhewn steps were slick with mist. The lack of handrails and the dizzying drop-off to my right made me cautious. My feet slipped more than once, sending bursts of adrenaline through my limbs.
Every couple of minutes, I was passed by one of the many Japanese octogenarians who moved up and down the mountain with confident speed. Under any other circumstances, I would have found the experience mortifying. As it was, I simply wanted to reach the top without plummeting to my death.
Twenty minutes later, we reached the summit.
Thick mist swirled past the boulders that ringed the peak. Three stone Buddhas peered benevolently down from their perch atop a rock that rose a meter higher than my head. Silver coins that visitors tossed up as offerings lay around the statues’ feet; Christopher pitched a coin at one of the Buddhas until it settled without rolling off.
I tried too, without success, so Christopher tossed my offering up as well.
Stomachs rumbling, we investigated the building at the center of the summit. It had no restaurant but did have toilets (an initially unexpected, but delightful, feature of most Japanese hiking trails: nothing improves an outdoor experience like an indoor loo).
At that time, I lived my life with an undercurrent of fear—a constant, background-level worry about failure, loss, or making a mistake—but as I stood taking pictures on Misen’s misty summit, I felt my fear withdraw.
In that moment, I felt only joy.
I didn’t understand how, or why, the mountain replaced my fear with a peace that radiated outward from my chest and filled me with energy like nothing I had felt before. I suspected this was a shadow of the euphoria mountaineers reported feeling on the summit of real peaks, like Everest. I’d read about that feeling many times but never thought I would experience it. I didn’t tell Christopher—after all, we hadn’t even really climbed the mountain—but I felt a true sense of accomplishment.
The slippery mist and lack of handrails made the stone steps even scarier on the descent. I turned sideways and moved at a pace that would have made an arthritic tortoise sneer. Even then, I barely avoided the ignominy of a seated scoot down the mist-soaked stairs.
My son soon disappeared from view, but I found him waiting at the Eternal Fire Hall.
“You’re sure you want to climb back down, instead of taking the cable car?” he asked.
I was sure. “It will be an adventure!”
Truer words were never spoken.
The 2.5-kilometer Momijidani (Maple Valley) Trail winds down the forested slopes of Mount Misen along the course of the Momiji River. Posted signs suggested the hike would take about 90 minutes.
“You’re sure about this?” Christopher looked doubtful.
I was still sure, so down we went.
For the first 20 minutes, the trail alternated between gently sloping earthen paths and old stone stairs. To my relief, the steeper sections all had handrails. My legs ached, but I didn’t want to ask for a break so soon, since I’d insisted on the hike.
We passed a marker saying we had 2.3 kilometers to go.
I converted the distance in my head. “That must be wrong. We’ve walked more than a tenth of a mile.”
“I doubt it’s wrong.” Christopher paused. “Want to go back and take the ropeway?”
I looked back the way we came. “I think down is easier.”
His expression suggested he thought otherwise.
“We’re through the steepest part,” I insisted (with no factual basis for my opinion—which later proved to be wildly wrong). “Let’s keep going.”
The mist remained, but the temperature slowly rose to a sweltering 29 degrees Celsius (85 Fahrenheit). Humidity and exertion made me sweat in places I didn’t even realize I had pores. We hadn’t brought anything to drink. My mouth grew pasty, and I felt a dehydration headache coming on. My feet ached and my thighs burned painfully with every step.
Then, as if on cue, it started raining.
Fortunately, we had brought umbrellas. As we opened them, Christopher said, “You know, I’m really glad we didn’t take the ropeway.”
(Have I mentioned that sarcasm runs in the family?)
“It’s an adventure,” I replied, though less enthusiastically than before.
Ten minutes later, while descending another set of uneven steps, my foot slipped out from under me. As I flailed my arms for balance, my other foot slipped, and I felt myself fall.
In that instant, I realized this could kill me.
After a lifetime of avoiding risk, I was about to die on a mountain so small it barely deserved the name.
The steps were carved from stone, and more than capable of breaking my limbs or neck. Three meters down, the stairs curved sharply left, and only a narrow bamboo rail separated me from a 15-meter fall to the rocks below. Even if I survived the fall, we were kilometers from help.
I bounced down three stone steps and into a thorn bush at the side of the trail, which arrested my fall and likely saved my life. It also left a dozen inch-deep, bleeding punctures in my butt and hands.
A massive jolt of adrenaline coursed through me.
“Mom!”
I heard Christopher’s terrified shout and wanted to reassure him.
I took a deep breath. “I’m okay.”
He hurried toward me. “Are you hurt?”
