🎌🗻 Day 12 🗻🎌

54 miles / 1,715 ft. / 4:15
We woke to a honobono (ほのぼの – heartwarming, gentle, glowing) view of Mount Fuji, its peak capped in clouds but still magnificent. The hostel, aptly named Honobono, set the tone. Nearby, children gathered in neat rows for their school sports day, parents buzzing with anticipation. The orderly rhythm of whistles and speeches carried across the field, contrasting with the stillness of moss-covered lava rock and dense black volcanic forest.

Breakfast was simple, but conversations gave it meaning. James, the Navajo traveler we met yesterday, was off to climb Fuji with his nation’s flag. A young man from China prepared nervously for his boating exam. Both were brimming with anticipation, and we wished them well. Masaya, the hostel owner, darted about, ferrying kids and gear. We laughed, “These kids get up early and get going — maybe we should learn from them.”

From Lake Kawaguchiko (河口湖 – Kawaguchi-ko) we rolled past Lake Saiko (西湖 – Sai-ko), then detoured to Lake Shojiko (精進湖 – Shōji-ko) for a beautiful view of Fuji across the water. A trail promised a shortcut, but became our most rugged challenge yet: stairs, mosquitoes, and pushing bicycles uphill. At least the mossy forest was close enough to touch, its damp hush reminding us why Fuji’s foothills feel so alive.

Later, smooth downhill roads carried us to the Fuji Highlands, where we stumbled upon Milkland (富士ミルクランド – Fuji Mirukurando), a dairy farm and visitor park. We joked that our good friend Doug, who loves milk would consider this place heaven. Families wandered between barns and shops, while a small crowd joined us trying help us figure out the ticket machine for ice cream. No English, plenty of buttons, and soon eight people were gathered, laughing, pointing, and helping us order, as we held up the line, but no one seemed annoyed. Then, when the clerk finally handed Lisa her cone, she accidentally stuck her finger in it. Mortified, she bowed and repeated “ごめんなさい” (gomennasai – I’m sorry). Lisa smiled back and reassured her with “大丈夫” (daijōbu – it’s OK). The woman insisted on making a new cone, a small mishap with a lot of laughter turned into a special memory.

A little further on we stopped at Shiraito Falls (白糸の滝 – Shiraito no Taki), where three cheerful obachans, a warm, affectionate word for older women, (おばあちゃん – grannies) sat on a bench, enjoying a local treat called dango (団子 – chewy rice or potato flour dumplings). These were golf-ball sized, roasted and glazed with a sweet, smoky brown sauce. The women urged us to try, and of course we couldn’t disappoint. They watched closely as we bit in — the sauce fiery and sweet — and in our most dramatic Japanese we exclaimed, “おいしーーーい!” (oishiiii – delicious!). Their faces lit up with delight, nodding and laughing as if we had passed a test. Another simple but unforgettable exchange.

Further down, we found ourselves at Taisekiji (大石寺 – Taisekiji), the head temple of Nichiren Shōshū Buddhism. Founded in 1290, it sprawls across 70 hectares with towering gates, a five-story pagoda (which I didn’t even even have us routed past, but we did stumble upon it), and the modern Hōandō Hall. The sōryo (僧侶 – monks) we met were kindness itself, guiding us through the immense grounds and showing us which path to take. One even offered to take our picture (写真 – shashin), smiling as he framed Fuji in the background. The grounds were hushed, solemn, but full of warmth too.

By late afternoon, traffic thickened, but everyone on the road was patient and respectful. We ducked into a hidden parking lot behind a business, unpacked 7-Eleven snacks, and enjoyed a quiet moment before the descent.

At last, we reached Fuji City (富士市 – Fuji-shi), an industrial port that looks out on Suruga Bay (駿河湾 – Suruga-wan), Japan’s deepest bay at over 8,200 feet (2,500 meters.) The salty humidity clung to us as we rolled into a bustling matsuri (祭り – festival). Food stalls lined the park along the bay: we chose yakitori (焼き鳥 – grilled chicken skewers), roasted sweet potatoes with sugar, a curious drink with jelly-like cubes topped with fizzy grape Fanta. The crowd was lively, and we were likely the only Americans there — every vendor trying to win our attention with smiles and gestures.

Kindness was constant. Whether it was strangers helping us order ice cream, locals happily taking our photo when we asked, or the warmth of three obachans at Shiraito Falls, generosity flowed through the day.

Later, at a grocery store, an older woman approached us as we packed our bags. Her English was excellent, and we chatted for ten minutes about our trip. She was 80 years old, she told us proudly, and still rides her bicycle every day. As we checked into our hostel we joked with the owner about being late because a sweet obachan had talked our ears off. When we showed him her photo, he laughed — she had once been his English teacher and now they are friends.

The day closed at our hostel near the bay. We picked up orange chicken, potato croquettes, 赤飯 (sekihan – red bean rice), a roll cake, and pudding from the grocery store, washing it down with a couple of beers. We shared the dessert with Simon, a German traveler now living in Switzerland. He’s spending a month in Japan before heading to China, exploring culture and history along the way. His studies in robotics led us into a fascinating conversation about experimental cafés in Tokyo, where robots are remotely controlled by people with disabilities, giving them meaningful work and social interaction. Technology, he reminded us, can be deeply human.

As the sun set over Suruga Bay, we felt the warmth of the day’s encounters more than the miles in our legs. At check-in, the hostel owner was waiting on the street, fist raised in triumph: “You made it!” It was a welcome as heartening as the morning’s view of Fuji.Baca lagi