I’m excited to continue a new series called “Buzz’s Travelogues.” These are short, fun, personal snapshots from a lifetime of world travels—unfiltered moments, hard-earned lessons, and the kind of memories that still make me smile years later. I’ve been fortunate to see more corners of the globe than I ever imagined, from bustling cities, to remote wilderness, to African deserts, to combat zones. This series is my way of sharing those unique adventures with you. These will be rolled into a book one day. Let’s dive into one of the most unforgettable: Mount Fuji.
We were on a C-141 layover at Yokota Air Base in Japan, with a precious few days of freedom between flights. We were on a six-week deployment, flying intratheater Asian missions, to places like Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Korea, and Hong Kong. It was a welcome assignment, and one that really solidified my squadron.
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The idea struck late one evening after a long day of flying. “Let’s hike Fuji, and catch the sunrise?” I suggested to the crew. A mix of pilots, engineers, and loadmasters looked at me with a blend of excitement and skepticism, but within minutes we were piling into a rented van, gear hastily thrown together. There may or may not have been a few beers involved in the planning phase—purely for morale, of course.
We hit the road. We’d pull through highway toll stations on the way and, in unison, shout to the Japanese attendant, “Arigato Gozaimasu!” [a formal way of saying "thank you."] They’d laugh hysterically.
The drive through the Japanese countryside under starlit skies felt like the perfect prelude. Dark silhouettes of forests and rice paddies rolled past as we wound our way toward Japan’s most iconic landmark.
At a little over 12,000 feet, Mount Fuji stands as a near-perfect monolith, a dormant volcano revered for centuries as a sacred site in the Shinto tradition. Pilgrims have climbed it for over a thousand years, seeking spiritual renewal. Tourists climb it to say they’ve done it. For a group of Air Force aviators, it was equal parts lark, bucket-list challenge and team-building shenanigans.
We arrived at the Fifth Station trailhead around midnight, the air already noticeably cooler and thinner. Headlamps clicked on, casting narrow beams across the volcanic gravel. Hundreds of other climbers moved in a slow, glowing procession up the mountain—like a line of fireflies ascending into the darkness. Even in the summer, there was a definite chill in the air. The official climbing season runs only from early July to early September, and we were right in the heart of it, surrounded by determined hikers from all over the world.
The trail wasted no time in testing us. From the trailhead, the path climbs relentlessly, gaining over 5,000 feet in elevation over the first miles or so. Switchbacks gave way to steeper rocky sections where every step required focus. Legs burned. Lungs worked overtime in the thinning air. Altitude can sneak up on you—mild headaches and heavy breathing reminded us we weren’t at sea level anymore.
Yet the shared experiences reinforced our brotherhood and strengthened the bonds that only American warriors in a foreign land could comprehend. We traded jokes, trash-talked, and exchanged one-liners born from shared experiences and challenges.
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Some of my favorite memories were just the quiet stretches between the banter. The crunch of gravel under boots, the distant murmur of other groups, and the occasional prayer bell or shrine marker along the way. Small stations offered rest, hot tea, and overpriced oxygen cans for those feeling the altitude. We pushed on without them, determined to earn every foot without stopping.
Hours blurred together in the dark. Around 4 AM, the sky began to hint at dawn. We reached the final ridge just as the sun exploded over the horizon. The moment was breathtaking. Japan’s sacred mountain transformed into hues of fiery orange, deep gold, and soft pink. Below us stretched a sea of clouds, with the peak rising like an island in the sky. The crater rim, vast and otherworldly, framed the view perfectly. Fuji isn’t merely a mountain—it’s a symbol of a nation. Endurance, beauty, and harmony with nature. Standing there, hearts pounding from the climb and the spectacle, we felt insignificant in the best possible way.
I’d seen it from the skies several times departing and arriving into Yokota, but this hit entirely differently. It’s easy to overlook the true significance of a place. I’ve been blessed to have had more than a couple.
The descent brought its own challenges—fatigue from days of flying all night long setting in. But the camaraderie of an American aircrew carried us. We swapped stories, took group photos against that incredible backdrop, and reflected on why experiences like this matter.
Fuji taught me once again that the hardest climbs deliver the greatest rewards. It’s not just the summit photo or the bragging rights; it’s the journey: the burning legs, the shared laughter in the dark, the humility of nature’s scale. The crew that started as casual associates became closer friends that night. We still talk about it 30 years later. "Grateful" doesn’t begin to cover it: for the legs that carried me, the friendships that strengthened me, and the reminder that discomfort is often the doorway to magic.
If you’ve climbed Mt. Fuji, you know exactly what I mean—the mix of exhaustion and elation that lingers long after. If you haven’t, put it on your list. Come prepared with good hiking boots, layers for changing weather, plenty of water, and snacks.
Respect the mountain: it demands preparation but gives back tenfold. Would I suffer through it again? Absolutely. 10/10. No hesitation.
I'll leave you with this. There’s a Japanese proverb: “A wise man climbs Fuji once; a fool climbs it twice.” I’m happily playing the fool. Some experiences are worth repeating, sunrise and all.
