A Rare Glimpse from the Shinkansen

A Rare Glimpse from the Shinkansen

Mt. Fuji is aptly known to many as “the shy mountain”. It is, for most of the year, covered in a thick blanket of clouds, appearing on a clear day if you’re lucky. Of course, it is also a photographer’s dream to capture, almost a rite of passage. It is possibly the most photographed geological feature on Earth. This makes it all the more frustrating, when, having taken a thirty-hour flight and three-hour train ride to see it, Mt. Fuji refused to come out from under the covers.

Our first opportunity to see Mt. Fuji was actually on a Tokyo skyscraper in Ginza, where we were told that on a clear day it was visible. Tourists flocked to the west end of the roof to catch a glimpse of the majestic volcano, to no avail. Once visible from everywhere in Tokyo, the skyline and the haze has since shrouded the view.

But we had a plan. We booked two nights in a charming ryokan next to Lake Ashi, in a little town called Moto-Hakone. It took an hour-long bus ride, precipitously meandering up and down a mountain to make it to this little village, passing through an enormous torii gate on the way. This is also the location of the famous “water gate”, a massive torii gate seated in the water of the lake. Here too, the clouds painted the sky a thick, dormant gray. We entertained ourselves with a light tea ceremony from the hostess of the ryokan and with a boat ride across the lake (inexplicably, in a recreation of a western pirate ship).

The next morning, having slept on the tatami floor in futons, we lazily rested through the morning. Just before lunch, we got a weather alert on our phones. There was a storm coming. Typhoon Jebi was now forecasted to make landfall on the eastern coast of central Honshu as a Category 4 storm. This is exactly where we were. After an hour of panic, we cancelled our Hakone reservation and extended our stay in Kyoto. We figured it would be safer to wait out the storm in the city. A panicked and miserably humid bus ride took us to the wrong place, where we then hopped on the first train we saw, desperate to make it to Odawara, the nearest station on the ancient Nakasendo Way. Once a road connecting to the two capitals of Japan, it was now serviced by a high-speed bullet train, the Tokaido Shinkansen. We didn’t stop until we reached Odawara, where we finally felt safe, away from the coast and made our way to Kyoto.

We cut short Hakone and waited out the storm, which, ironically, turned to directly hit Kyoto instead. We entirely cancelled a journey into the Japanese Alps to a small town called Takayama. Mudslides had cut all transportation. We bemoaned missing the lonely mountain and tried to put the disappointment out of our minds.

On the way back to Tokyo, we were finally at the end of our collective rope. Travel is exhausting, and we were finally on the tail end of our journey. Fully accustomed to the trains, we sat apart and tried to sleep through the ride. It was then, for ten short minutes, that out of nowhere, Mt. Fuji made itself known.

I cannot express how little justice this photo actually does to the mountain. The picturesque lightening gradient coming down reminded me of the art we saw in the Tokyo Museum, which always depicts the mountain with that unique faded bottom. But its sheer enormity is what shocked me. It took up a third of my vision, from hundreds of miles away. I rush to get out my camera, ignoring the custom of keeping quiet on the train. This is all at roughly two-hundred-and-forty miles per hour. I have no idea how long I have. I take almost a hundred photos, most of them obscured by concrete blocks, towns whizzing by, and the ubiquitous power cables. Many were ruined by these obstacles. Of ninety-seven photos, three will eventually come through cleanly.

I remember to take a minute and look at the volcano with my own eyes. Its gentle, symmetrical slopes are incredibly perfect – I cannot but help to notice the jagged terrain, that ruined profile of every mountain afterwards. It’s slope perfectly resembles the figure a traditional Japanese roof. It makes one serene, just staring at it.

Just as quickly, it leaves us as we barrel through a tunnel. An hour later, we are in the heart of the world’s largest city.