“Well… we could try walking around the lakes and see if it clears up?” I suggested. Keith nodded in agreement, and we zipped up our rain coats and headed out into the fog. Maybe we would keep climbing if we felt like it.
At Full Moon Pond, we spotted a patch of blue sky, and by the time we got to Husband and Wife lakes, a startlingly clear view of the side of the mountain. We could almost see the peak, which reflected back out of the dark water. Just past Mountain-View Lake, a blue streak appeared between layers of clouds.
We decided to climb. I had this weird confidence it was going to be clear when we got to the top. This was going to be amazing.
My confidence grew as the fog kept lifting, always just a little bit ahead of us, as we climbed. We saw a hiker with red backpack disappearing into the fog above us, then reappearing, then disappearing again. At the sixth station, a bit of sun lit up the side of the mountain, and in the valley below, the mountain shrubs’ autumn foliage flamed red.
Then, between the seventh and eighth stations, the fog stopped lifting. The strong wind came up over the ridge, pelting us with rain. “If this keeps up, we’re going to have to turn back,” warned Keith. Just before the ninth station, we passed a young woman in a rain slicker on her way down. “How was it? Did you make it to the top?” we asked. “Yeah… it was cold. I couldn’t see anything!”
But we kept going, holding out hope for a clear view from the top. Only 100 meters left to climb. We’ll make it, I thought. We can’t give up now!
We turned a corner and found snow on the ground, probably from last night. How much longer? Who knew? We stumbled on through total whiteout, with rain falling sideways. We guessed that the temperature was close to freezing.
We came over one last ridge, and the trail flattened out. Was this the top? It didn’t clear up. In fact, it started raining harder. We found the top-of-mountain signpost, took our selfies and then immediately turned around and clomped as fast as we could down the mountain. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I was sure that my knees would pay for this rough descent once they thawed.
We emerged from the fog below the sixth station, and shortly after that met a guy attempting the climb in tennis shoes and a jeans jacket. “You’ll never make it dressed like that,” we warned him. He smiled and thanked us, then kept going.
Heavy rain turned to downpour the last few hundred meters. We arrived back at the top of the ropeway, dripping wet, miserable, and chilled. What was this all about? Where had all that confidence gotten me?
I can certainly say that after all that, lunch (steaming hot curry-rice with local vegetables) tasted amazing. During the course of lunch, my legs thawed, and I discovered, as we took the stairs to exit the restaurant, that indeed, my knees had not appreciated our style of descent. We headed straight for the onsen to cure our weary muscles and joints.
By late afternoon, we were back in our hotel room, and I was already wearing pajamas. My clothes were hanging to dry in front of the heater. Keith looked out the window. “It’s sunny!” he exclaimed. “I’m going back out!” I whimpered something about wet clothes and stairs, but after seeing sunlight on the yellow maples and red Japanese rowan trees outside, I threw my clothes back on and limped down the stairs and out into the parking lot.
There was Asahidake, flaming red and glorious in the evening light, and not a single cloud.
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