Mountain Fuji Part 1

I never imagined that my first real mountain would be Mount Fuji.

I come from Lithuania—a country of forests, lakes, and flat horizons. We don’t have mountains. I had never climbed one before. I had never even felt the need to. Mountains simply weren’t part of my world.

Everything started with a conversation about extreme sports. A friend once told me that there is a kind of “trinity” in extreme experiences: skydiving, mountain climbing, and scuba diving. I had already completed the first one during my military service, when I went through airborne training and did skydiving. That left two: scuba diving and climbing a mountain.

Climbing the highest or most extreme mountain in the world was never my goal. I simply wanted to climb a legitimate mountain—one that you can point at and say, “I climbed that.”

When I planned my trip to Japan, I realized I had an opportunity to combine two goals in one journey: climb Mount Fuji and try scuba diving. It felt like the perfect chance to move closer to completing that “extreme sports trinity.”

But then the idea became something more.

I started thinking about timing. What would be the perfect day? The perfect symbolism? July 6th stood out immediately. In Lithuania, July 6th is Statehood Day—the day we celebrate the coronation of King Mindaugas, the first and only King of Lithuania. It’s a deeply symbolic national holiday.

Then a powerful image formed in my mind.

What if, at sunrise, in the Land of the Rising Sun, I stood on top of Mount Fuji with the Lithuanian flag? What if I watched the sun rise in Japan—knowing that in a few hours, that same sun would reach Lithuania? I imagined myself as the first Lithuanian that day to greet the sunrise before it traveled west to my homeland.

It felt symbolic on many levels.

As a Lithuanian.
As a traveler.
As a person climbing his first mountain.

Standing at the summit, holding the Lithuanian flag at sunrise—it wasn’t just about the climb anymore. It was about meaning.

There was only one small problem.

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I had never climbed a mountain. I didn’t research properly. I didn’t train specifically for it. I brought the hiking boots I normally wear casually and packed regular clothes—nothing professional, nothing technical.

When I arrived at the starting point of the climb, I looked around and saw something completely different from myself. Everyone else was wearing serious hiking gear: technical jackets, trekking poles, specialized boots, headlamps, layered clothing systems.

And there I was.

For a moment, I wondered: Is there something wrong with me? Or are they all just overprepared?

In my mind, I thought, “It’s just a mountain. It can’t be that hard.”

I was wrong.

Before the climb even began, I made another major mistake. The night before climbing Mount Fuji, I went to a techno club in Tokyo called VENT. It’s considered one of the best techno clubs in the city, and the event I wanted to attend was only on Friday night. My climb was on Saturday. It was the only opportunity.

So I went.

At the time, it felt like a great idea—one more intense experience before the mountain.

Later, I realized how serious that mistake was.

Alcohol dehydrates you. It drains electrolytes. It disrupts your mineral balance. When you climb a mountain, especially at altitude, your body needs everything to be in optimal condition. I had unknowingly sabotaged myself before even taking the first step.

At the beginning of the climb, everything felt manageable. The incline was steep, but it was mostly cardio. My legs were strong. My breathing was controlled.

Then the terrain changed.

It became more technical—rocky sections, awkward angles, uneven steps. My muscles were working in different positions, under different tensions. That’s when it started.

Cramps.

One step. Cramp.
Three steps. Cramp.
Another section. Cramp again.

That was the moment I realized: this is serious.

The higher I climbed, the thinner the air felt. I had never experienced altitude like that before. I could feel the oxygen decreasing. Fatigue hit harder. I was sweating more, losing even more electrolytes.

At every station along the trail, I bought electrolyte drinks, trying to repair the damage. But you can’t fully restore balance while actively climbing. Real recovery requires rest. Time. Stability.

And I had neither.

That was the beginning of my first mountain—and I was already fighting my own body.

To be continued.