Climbing Mount Fuji: an increasingly regulated adventure

The ascent to Mount Fuji does not begin at the summit, nor even at the trail that climbs up the mountain. It begins much earlier, when it is still pitch black at the fifth station and the air retains that dry, biting cold that surprises those who have just left behind the mugginess of midsummer in Tokyo. At that hour, groups form almost in silence. Headlamps are adjusted, backpacks are checked, and the final preparations are made before starting the climb.

The first stretches advance at a slow pace, often single file, with the constant sound of boots on the volcanic soil as the only reference. There is not yet any landscape or horizon; only darkness, the reflection of the backpack in front, and a line of white lights snaking uphill until it disappears into the night.

From time to time, the trail opens up enough to reveal other columns of hikers advancing in parallel on different sections of the mountain. At some points, the path forces you to stop and wait. Not so much because of the technical difficulty of the terrain (still relatively accessible at this altitude) but because of the collective rhythm of hundreds of people trying to reach the summit during the same time frame.

The era of improvised adventure

But it hadn't always been like this: until relatively few years ago, climbing Fuji retained a dimension of improvisation that is hard to imagine today. It wasn't necessary to book weeks in advance, register on digital platforms, or undergo mandatory equipment checks. It was enough to arrive in Kawaguchiko, get on the bus that goes to the fifth station, and start walking.

That freedom generated very different scenes along the same trail. Alongside hikers perfectly equipped with high-mountain gear, it was also common to see students in sneakers, tourists in light clothing, or groups tackling the climb with minimal preparation for the cold and altitude.

The pace depended mainly on each person's physical endurance and the changing conditions of the mountain. The shelters distributed along the route served as improvised rest stops, where many walkers took a break before facing the final stretch towards the crater and the dawn over the clouds. Over time, however, this image of spontaneous ascent has disappeared.

The first filter

However, the reality of 2026 is very different. As hikers advance from the fifth station towards the start of the trail, the atmosphere ceases to resemble that of free access to the mountain and increasingly resembles that of a border. Even before starting the ascent, a first filter must be overcome, which is no longer physical but administrative: registering entry and paying the mandatory access fee implemented by local authorities.

The decision responds to a dual objective. On the one hand, to limit the growing overcrowding that Fuji has experienced for years; on the other, to reduce the risks associated with bullet climbing, ascents without resting or stopping to sleep to reach the summit at dawn. The authorities of Yamanashi and Shizuoka prefectures consider that this type of ascent had ended up generating an increase in cases of exhaustion, hypothermia, and altitude sickness, in addition to increasingly pressuring rescue services.

At the checkpoints set up at the start of the main routes, orderly queues form that advance slowly. Guards and volunteers check the basic equipment of hikers, check their footwear, ask about warm clothing, and verify if each person is carrying sufficient protection against the cold and rain.

In some cases, the review results in a simple recommendation. In others, especially when insufficient preparation is detected, the conversation forces a rethink of the ascent before even starting it. The landscape remains the same once this first checkpoint is passed, but the experience has already changed. From here on, the ascent no longer depends solely on physical resistance or meteorological conditions. The mountain continues to impose its rhythm, but now it does so within a system of rules, limitations, and controls that accompany the entire route.

The control of the myth

The new reality of Fuji is neither occasional nor seasonal, but a consolidated regulation system in the post-pandemic stage. The objective: to order access to one of Japan's great symbols and reduce pressure on an ecosystem declared a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Access is subject to a daily numerus clausus that requires advance booking and eliminates any improvisation. Once the limit is reached, the trail closes without exceptions. Restrictions have also altered the nocturnal ascent, and only hikers with confirmed reservations in the high-altitude refuges can continue. Continuous and spontaneous ascent has given way to an experience conditioned by planning.

Behind this system is the desire to preserve the mountain: to reduce waste, erosion, and saturation. But the regulation has also changed its symbolic nature, replacing spontaneity with an increasingly controlled experience.

Effort and darkness

Once past the control points, the path begins to lose the relative comfort of the early stretches. As night advances and civilization is reduced to a strip of distant lights on the plain, the line of hikers lengthens, rhythms become uncoordinated, and silence replaces initial conversations. Only the heavy, shared breathing of a group of strangers united by the same effort remains.

The terrain transforms rapidly. Volcanic ash gives way to blocks of dark rock and steep slopes that force you to lean your body, plant your poles, and advance with your hands for support. Under the narrow beam of headlamps, the mountain is reduced to intermittent circles of visibility; beyond, there is only emptiness and darkness.

The refuges, scattered like points of light on the rock, appear as unique landmarks. Some hikers rest there for a few hours on shared futons before continuing; others only stop for the time necessary to resume their march. In this section, time loses structure and the summit ceases to be a clear milestone, becoming an almost uninterrupted succession of slopes, where the mountain imposes its own rhythm.

The reward of light

The final stretch towards the crater's edge becomes apparent before being seen. The path widens, vegetation completely disappears, the wind gains strength, and the cold drops abruptly. Steps slow down to a near halt, but the human column continues to advance, pushed by a silent inertia.

Upon crossing the stone torii that marks the entrance to the summit, movement ceases. The hikers, exhausted, seek shelter behind rocks and wait in silence looking towards the east. The darkness slowly dilutes until the sun emerges above a sea of clouds.

The dawn light transforms the landscape in a few moments, tinting the rock with red and golden hues. Some raise their phones almost automatically; others prefer to remain still, absorbing the scene without mediation.

During these minutes, the mountain seems to suspend all its rules: controls, reservations, and restrictions are left far behind, on the plain. At almost 3,776 meters, only the changing light, the void, and the shared silence of having reached the summit remain.

The descent along the sandy path quickly returns the traveler to the prosaic logic of the route. The same path that at night was effort and overcoming becomes now a monotonous descent under the sun, with a different rhythm.

Fuji remains the same volcano, but the experience of ascending it is no longer so. In a few years, access, rhythm, and even the idea of adventure have been absorbed by an increasingly normative system, where the mountain must be inhabited within a predefined framework of permits, fees, and controls. One no longer has the sensation of adventure but the certainty of having crossed a space that remains natural in form, but increasingly less free in the way it is experienced.