Mountain Fuji Part 2

The funny thing about climbing Mount Fuji is that, at first, it didn’t seem that serious.

I was walking with a group, observing people around me, and thinking about how we understand difficulty by comparison. If something looks manageable for others, we assume it will be manageable for us too.

That’s when I saw a family climbing toward the summit of Mount Fuji. Two small kids — maybe five or six years old — hiking up the same trail as the rest of us.

And I thought:

Well, if they’re taking their kids, it can’t be that hard.

What I didn’t consider was that maybe the family was simply built differently. Or maybe just a little bit crazy.

Because those kids? They were flying up the mountain. Infinite energy. Like little mountain goats. And there I was, a grown man, thinking: There is no way I’m losing to a five-year-old.

When the Real Climb Begins

I’ve served in the military. I’ve marched insane distances with heavy packs. I’ve been dehydrated, exhausted, pushed to limits most people never touch. Long walks? No problem.

But here’s the truth: every situation is different.

Climbing a mountain isn’t just walking. It’s repeated full-range leg extensions at awkward angles. It’s like doing single-leg squats with your entire body weight — not 10 reps, not 20 reps — but hundreds of times over rocks and uneven terrain.

At some point around 70–75% of the way up, my legs started cramping.

First one. Then the other.

And suddenly I couldn’t walk.

I was sitting there thinking:
I’m on Mount Fuji… and I literally cannot move.

Bruce Lee on a Volcano

What’s funny is that in that moment, my brain pulled something unexpected.

I remembered Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon.

There’s a scene where he’s trapped. Instead of panicking or wasting energy fighting the situation, he becomes calm. He understands that useless movement only drains strength. When the moment comes, he’ll need that energy.

Sitting there on the side of the mountain, legs locked, sunset painting the sky, I realized:

There’s no point fighting the cramps.

So I sat.
I breathed.
I looked at the view.

The sun was going down over Japan. The landscape below looked unreal. For 5–10 minutes, I simply existed.

And slowly, the cramps eased.

From that point on, it was a strategy: walk a little, rest a little. Walk, rest. Repeat.

Eventually, I made it to the station where our group planned to sleep before the final push to the summit for sunrise.

The Pink Soup Signal

Here’s where things get surreal.

As I was sitting on the ground earlier, recovering, I was watching people pass by. Boots, legs, hiking poles — just fragments of strangers.

Then I saw something that made my brain light up instantly.

Pink socks.

Bright pink, with a design that looked suspiciously like Lithuanian “pink soup” — šaltibarščiai. Anyone from Lithuania knows how iconic that is.

And I thought:
There’s no way. This guy has to be Lithuanian.

I only saw the socks. Nothing else. But something in me just knew.

Later at the station, I was talking with an American guy. We were debating random topics when he asked where I was from. I told him Lithuania. As usual, I gave the quick geopolitical explanation: yes, NATO; yes, EU; yes, small but strong.

And then, out of nowhere, someone spoke to me in Lithuanian.

It was him.

The pink soup socks guy.

Same dude.

I just stood there thinking:
What is this? Matrix-level coincidence?

Two Flags, One Sunrise

We talked. And then he said something that hit perfectly:

“I’m planning to raise the Lithuanian flag at sunrise on the summit.”

I smiled immediately.

I had brought a Lithuanian historical flag myself.

Two random Lithuanians, meeting on a Japanese volcano, both planning the same symbolic act without knowing the other existed.

That’s when you realize the world is huge — and somehow very small at the same time.

The Final Push

After some rest, I slept in the mountain hut. When I woke up, my legs felt better. Not perfect — but functional.

The final climb to the summit took about an hour.

It was dark. Cold. Silent. You could see headlamps moving like a glowing snake up the mountain.

And then we reached the top.

The sky slowly turned from black to deep blue, then orange, then gold.

Standing on the summit of Mount Fuji, watching the sunrise, holding Lithuanian flags in the wind — that moment erased every cramp, every doubt, every painful step.

It wasn’t just about climbing a mountain.

It was about:

• Not underestimating five-year-olds.
• Respecting the difference between gym strength and mountain strength.
• Knowing when to stop fighting and conserve energy.
• And realizing that no matter where you are in the world, you might randomly find someone who thinks exactly like you.

Two Lithuanians.
One volcano.
One sunrise.

And a memory that will stay forever.