Kusushi Shrine

After climbing for hours through the pitch-black night, guided only by the faint circle of our headlamps and the slow rhythm of our steps, we finally reached the summit of Mt. Fuji just before dawn. The air was razor-thin and freezing cold—every breath turned into a small puff of white mist—but the energy around us was alive. Hikers from every corner of the world were gathering at the crater rim, all bundled up, all waiting for the same magical moment: the first light of sunrise, known here in Japan as goraikō. At around 4:15 am, the horizon began its transformation. What was once a dark canvas of indigo slowly bled into soft streaks of orange, pink, and shimmering gold. Then, as the sun inched above the endless sea of clouds, a collective wave of awe rippled through the crowd. Some clapped, some cheered, others stood in hushed silence, but we all shared the same wide-eyed wonder. For a brief moment, standing at 3,776 meters, on the very roof of Japan, I felt both impossibly small and profoundly connected—to the mountain, to nature, and to every single person around me. Just a short walk from where we stood was the Kusushi Shrine. It looked modest compared to the grandeur of the sunrise, yet its presence was powerful. Dedicated to Konohanasakuya-hime, the goddess of Mt. Fuji, the shrine has greeted generations of pilgrims who once climbed this sacred peak entirely on foot, starting from the mountain’s base. For them, this shrine was the end of a spiritual journey; for me, reaching it after hours of physical and mental endurance felt like completing a pilgrimage of my own. I paused at the small torii gate, bowed my head, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks—for the strength to climb, for the safety of our group, and for the chance to witness something so extraordinary. Around me, others were doing the same. Some purchased little protective charms, others lined up to get a commemorative summit stamp burned into their hiking sticks, each ritual carrying its own meaning. The shrine added a sense of reverence to the climb, reminding me that Mt. Fuji is not only about the challenge—it is also about humility and respect for a place that has been sacred for centuries. As the sunlight grew stronger, spreading across the sky and washing the crater in warm light, the rugged volcanic ridges cast dramatic shadows that seemed to stretch forever. I felt a rush of relief, gratitude, and pride all at once. The climb had tested every bit of stamina and patience, but the reward was so much more than the view. It was the rare feeling of standing at the meeting point of earth, sky, and spirit. With the sun finally breaking through the icy wind and warming our faces, I understood why people call this a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It wasn’t just about standing on Japan’s highest peak—it was about feeling the mountain’s spirit, about being part of a tradition that stretches back centuries. For me, Kusushi Shrine and the rising sun came together in perfect harmony, giving the summit a sense of completion. This wasn’t simply a climb to the top; it was a memory I knew I would carry with me for the rest of my life.