The bus took us up above the tree line to an altitude of 7500 feet. This was the last stop for people who wanted to climb Mount Fuji. Looking up at the snowcapped peak almost a mile above my head, I felt a cold chill of fear. “What am I getting into?” I asked myself. It was the last day of July 1957 and I was about to climb Fuji with Akira, a Japanese friend from college.

“I’m worried about my legs,” I said to Akira. “They feel strong but it’s a long way to the top.” I was in Japan on a travel fellowship to participate in a summer work-study program near Tokyo.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll go slow and easy, all the way up.” Akira knew about long climbs. As a child growing up in Tokyo during the war, he survived on a starvation diet and witnessed firebombing that destroyed houses in his neighborhood. At college, many mistook his Japanese reserve for indolence but Akira was probably the smartest student in our class and eventually won the top prizes in history and mathematics senior year. Before starting graduate school, he had returned to Japan to visit his family for the first time in four years.
“I don’t think I slept very well,” I told him. “I guess I’m pretty excited.” I may have been excited, but the truth was I was scared. When I woke up that morning, my legs were aching and my forehead was hot. Was I getting sick again? Three years earlier on August 1, 1954, while hitchhiking in Europe, I contracted polio in Madrid. It took six months before I could walk without braces. Although the doctors said I made a good recovery, how did they know how strong I was? I had never faced a challenge like climbing Fuji.
Akira and I were roommates for two years at Haverford, a small, liberal arts Quaker college outside of Philadelphia. Over the years, we spent a lot of time talking about life in Japan and possibly going there together after graduation.
“I’d like to show you all my favorite places,” he said one day during sophomore year. We were looking at one of his family albums full of grainy black and white photographs. “My parents would love to have you stay with us. You would bring great honor on our house.” It was an invitation that blended traditional Japanese humility and respect in equal measure. I, of course, wanted to take him up on his offer. Traveling to foreign lands seemed to be in my DNA.
“Something I always wanted to do was climb Mount Fuji,” Akira said as he pointed to a picture of the mountain he had taken from the roof of his parents’ home near Tokyo. It was majestic, even serene, and looked impossibly high. “If you think you’re strong enough, we can climb it together.”
At 12,388 feet, Mount Fuji is the tallest mountain and most sacred place in Japan. Many Japanese try to climb it at least once in their lifetime. For those who have never climbed Fuji, it is not as difficult as one might imagine. True, it is over 12,000 feet tall and is snow-capped most of the year, but there are no sheer cliffs or need to rappel. Instead, there is a well-worn, winding footpath that takes you back and forth toward the top. Although experienced climbers easily make it to the top in 6 to 8 hours, novices are told to take frequent breaks and allow at least 12 hours.
So here we were, two novices beginning our slow ascent. By starting at four in the afternoon, our goal was to reach the summit in time for sunrise just after 4:30 a.m.
As we climbed past the 8000 foot marker, I became aware that climbing Mount Fuji was a kind of religious experience. For many Japanese, this was their equivalent of Mecca and at the summit there was a temple to one of the Shinto gods. Looking around me, I could see hundreds, maybe thousands, of individuals who formed a flowing column of humanity that moved slowly, implacably upward towards the heavens. The vast majority were elderly Japanese, many bent over with age or some infirmity, who were making the pilgrimage of a lifetime: perhaps for spiritual cleansing, perhaps for physical healing. I tried to feel their energy and let myself be carried along by their strength.
Somewhere near 9000 feet, my breathing became more labored and I realized my body was struggling to get more oxygen. During polio in 1954, my respiratory muscles gave out and an artificial ventilator eventually saved my life.
“What. If. Can’t. Breathe?” I gasped. My head was spinning. “Akira. What. To. Do?” There was no answer. He wasn’t next to me anymore. Then I saw his red plaid shirt up ahead in a small group of people looking at something on the ground. A short time later, two men came hurrying down the narrow mountain path carrying a stretcher. On it was a Japanese man, not much older than I, who was pale and lying very still. Someone standing near me whispered, “Heart attack. Happens all the time.” Was this some kind of omen? I bent over, clutching my own chest, gasping for air. The tips of my fingers were tingling.

An elderly Japanese woman saw my distress and said with a gentle smile across empty gums, “No breathe fast.”

It was a simple gesture but reminded me of my stay as an honored guest in Akira’s home a few weeks earlier. Although his parents had been educated in Europe, they observed time honored cultural roles in their personal lives. His mother cooked while kneeling on the floor of a tiny kitchen and only ate after the men were finished. There was a small wooden tub used for baths which was filled once each night. As the honored guest, I was allowed to use it first when the water was still boiling hot. Then it was Akira’s turn followed by his father, his mother, and finally his elderly grandmother.

At 10,000 feet, the path became suddenly steeper and there was a sharp drop in the temperature. Fuji is an inactive volcano but small chunks of brown volcanic rock were everywhere along the path. There were rumors about people slipping on this rock and disappearing over the edge. Akira and I slowed our pace and took rest breaks every 30 or 40 feet. With every step, my legs felt heavier.

“This is tougher than I thought,” I said to Akira. We were in the middle of a thick band of clouds which blocked our vision and sprayed us with a fine mist. I was getting discouraged and my knees hurt.

“You go ahead and I’ll wait for you here.”

“Not a chance. We’re going to make it together.”

He was showing a resiliency that was usually hidden. Until now I hadn’t thought much about his struggles as a foreigner and his rise to the top of our college class. Meanwhile, none of the elderly Japanese around us seemed to notice the steeper climb. Or the colder temperature and the thinning air. Their perseverance gave both of us the courage to push on.

Earlier in the summer, I had learned a lot about Japanese perseverance. “Where’s all the destruction from the war?” I asked Akira as we rode in a taxi around Tokyo on my first day in Japan. ”It’s completely different than I expected. The streets are crowded with cars, people are well-dressed and there are construction cranes everywhere.”

It was true. The country was in the middle of the Japanese miracle. There were scars from the war, to be sure, but they were not readily visible to an outsider’s eye. Japan was making an extraordinary and largely unexpected recovery from the greatest catastrophe in its thousand year history. “Phoenix rising from the ashes,” was the way one newspaper headline put it.

When we reached 10,500 feet, I began to hear a low pitch sound. Was it the wind? No, it was some kind of music. Humming perhaps.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Akira who was close by. I was panting and wasn’t sure he heard me. As I listened more carefully, it sounded like a religious chant.

“They’re Shintoists,” he said. “They’re trying to communicate with their ancestors. They’re also praying for strength to make it safely to the top.” The chanting and relentless determination of the hundreds of pilgrims around us stirred my soul. Truly, this mountain was inhabited by powerful and ancient gods. I took a deep breath.  My legs felt lighter and the cold air refreshed my face.

When we reached 11,000 feet, we had been climbing in the dark for several hours. It was nearly 1 AM and we were finally above the clouds. 1000 feet and three more hours to go if we were to make it to the top by sunrise. In the dark, people were carrying lanterns or flashlights. Looking back down the mountain, I could see this long, winding string of blinking lights, zig zagging back and forth that disappeared into the clouds below. Now we were taking rest breaks every 10 or 15 feet. I looked at Akira who was panting worse than I was.

At 11,500 feet I entered a state of oblivion. Maybe it was the muscle pain or lack of sleep. People told me later I was probably suffering from altitude sickness. All I know is I don’t have any clear memory of what happened. Akira said we just kept at it, one heavy step in front of the other, over and over.

Then, there we were. I was standing on the summit next to the Shinto shrine trying to make a snowball. To the east a faint light was moving up the valley that stretched out far below. Tokyo was at the edge of the horizon. It was hard to believe that this peaceful scene was the site of so much destruction only 12 years before.

“We made it! We made it!” I shouted in a low whisper, exhausted and dazed. “I could never have done it without you.”

We hugged as much for each other’s warmth as for joy.

“What day is it today?” I was having trouble thinking clearly.

“August 1,” he said.

“August 1, 1957,” I said, trying to calculate. Then it hit me. “Today is exactly three years to the day since I got sick with polio.”

With tears of joy, I lifted my eyes to the heavens.

It had been a long journey from Madrid to the top of Mount Fuji.

As I stood there watching the sunrise…

I tried to imagine what other mountains might lie ahead.

About the Author 

Lauro Halstead, MD, MPH is a physician with over 40 years of experience in rehabilitation medicine. He has a background in internal medicine, international medicine, spinal cord injury, sexuality, disability and the late effects of polio. His practice currently focuses on working with older individuals with physical limitations or disabilities.

Dr. Halstead has a medical degree from the University of Rochester, Rochester, New York and a master of public health degree (MPH) from Harvard University. He was on the full time faculties at the University of Rochester School of Medicine and at Baylor College of Medicine, Houston, Texas for 20 years. For the past 26 years, Dr. Halstead practiced at the MedStar National Rehabilitation Hospital in Washington, DC. Currently, he is a Professor in the Department of Rehabilitation Medicine at the MedStar Georgetown University Medical Center.

Dr. Halstead’s research and publications have contributed to a number of areas including the philosophy of medicine, sexuality, medical education, spinal cord injury and for the last three decades, the late effects of polio and living with polio. He is recognized as an international authority about post-polio syndrome.

Dr. Halstead contracted polio at age 18 and currently uses a motorized scooter for long distances. Before medical school he lived in Rome for a year where he studied Italian literature. Since then he has had a life-long passion for Italian art, culture and language.

Click here to Learn more about Dr. Halstead at his website

 Thank you Dr. Halstead for your many years of

passionate commitment to the post-polio population. 

And …

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