Mountains always greet me with fresh wonder.

Where I grew up, surrounded by Mount Akagi, Mount Haruna, and Mount Koshigoe, mountains were a constant presence, visible in every direction. As a child, I would gaze idly at the mountains from my window to relax. On holidays, we'd often go for drives to nearby mountains with a packed lunch, or go camping during summer vacation. Mountains were familiar, and the scenery they provided was a part of my everyday life.

After graduating from university and moving to Tokyo, my days were a blur of work. Surrounded by a flood of information, buffeted and stimulated, I became exhausted and gradually lost the capacity to look around me.



Last summer, I climbed Mount Fuji for the first time with a friend. I heard that the popular trails are crowded during the summer, so we decided to take the Subashiri route, which is the least popular. We set off in the evening, climbing while being mindful of altitude sickness. I didn't feel much fatigue until around the 8th station, but after that point, the wind became so strong it felt like it could blow me away. I gradually felt my body temperature and spirit being drained.



As expected of Japan's tallest mountain, there was nothing to block the wind, and it blew relentlessly. I was surprised at how much wind could sap one's strength. The relief I felt upon finally reaching the summit and taking a sip of a warm drink. My cold, stiff body slowly began to relax. The descent via the sand run was enjoyable, and I remember running down, covered in sand. Afterwards, my knees were shaky, and I just remember how tough it was.



Photographer Naoki Ishikawa's photo collection "Mt. Fuji." It captures not only summer scenes but also winter landscapes covered in snow, and the atmosphere of a peculiar festival in Fujiyoshida City. The aerial shots of the summit in the middle section gave me goosebumps with their sheer power. This book doesn't present the image of a beautiful Fuji seen from afar, but rather a multifaceted view of the mountain, including its rugged rocks, raw earth, strong winds, and fog. It conveys how Ishikawa has continuously observed, engaged with, felt, and touched Mount Fuji.

The book states, "This mountain shows a new face every time I climb it."

On the way down, I thought I never wanted to climb it again, yet as I look through this photo collection, I find myself thinking, "I want to climb it again." That feeling is a little frightening, but also enjoyable.