The Avalanche on Fuji
The wind screamed around Daisuke as he adjusted his crampons. The ascent had been grueling, but he and his climbing partner, Kenji, had trained for months to tackle Mount Fuji in winter. Most people only climbed in the summer, when the trails were clear, and the weather was forgiving. But they wanted something more—a challenge, a test of their limits.
Now, standing above the 8th Station, the sky had taken on a different mood. Thick clouds rolled in, swallowing the summit in a veil of gray. A storm was coming.
“We should stop here,” Kenji said, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. “Rest before the final push.”
Daisuke hesitated. They were so close. But Kenji was right—pushing forward in worsening weather was dangerous. He nodded, and they started securing their tent against the wind.
Then, it happened.
At first, it was just a vibration, a strange hum beneath their feet. The mountain was speaking.
Then came the rumble—deep, growing louder.
Daisuke’s stomach twisted in fear. He turned his head upward and saw it: a wave of snow and ice, breaking free from the higher slopes, crashing toward them like an unstoppable force.
“Avalanche!” Kenji’s scream barely registered before it hit.
The world vanished.
The impact knocked the air from Daisuke’s lungs, and suddenly, he was tumbling, weightless in the chaos. Snow churned around him, dragging him down the slope. He flailed, trying to find the surface, but which way was up? His mind screamed for oxygen, his muscles burned—
Then, silence.
Total, suffocating silence.
Daisuke was trapped. The snow pressed against his body, wrapping him in a frozen coffin. He couldn’t move his arms. Panic surged in his chest.
No. Breathe. Think.
He remembered his training: Spit.
Daisuke forced his lips apart and let a small bit of saliva fall from his mouth. It slid downward. That meant up was the other way.
With what little space he had, he began digging. His fingers clawed through the packed snow, slow, desperate movements. His body ached for air, but he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.
Then—light. A hand grabbed his wrist.
Kenji.
He gasped as fresh air filled his lungs, his eyes burning as he blinked at the swirling storm above them. Kenji was covered in ice, his face pale, but he was alive.
“You okay?” Kenji panted.
Daisuke nodded, still trembling. They had survived.
Looking back at the slope, the avalanche had carved a brutal path down the mountain. If they had been just a few meters higher, they would have been buried too deep to escape.
Kenji exhaled. “We’re going down. No summit is worth that.”
Daisuke didn’t argue. He looked up one last time at Mount Fuji, now eerily silent beneath the darkening sky. They had come seeking adventure, but the mountain had nearly taken them instead.
Some things were worth the risk. Others? Not so much.
With slow, careful steps, they turned back, leaving the summit behind.
They would live to climb another day.
