Climb. Susan Spann

real world, a padlocked gate denied me the final yards.

      I could see the marker, but I couldn’t get there.

      Slowly, I turned away from the gate and followed the path around the summit plateau to the visitor center where I could catch the bus. The rain, which had faded to a drizzle, once again became a downpour—one last kick to a fighter already down.

      Inside the visitor center, the staff sat around a table, warm and dry, enjoying cups of tea. They sprang to their feet in shock as I crossed the parking lot, and by the time I walked through sliding doors the tea had disappeared and the staff stood waiting at their stations.

      One of them approached me, wearing a look of confused concern.

      “Hello,” he said in English. “Where did you come from?”

      I answered in Japanese. “Amerikajin desu.” (I’m an American.)

      “No, yes, okay. But . . . did you climb?” His voice rose dramatically on the final word, implying that, despite appearances, this could not be true.

      I nodded and switched to English. “From the trailhead.”

      “In the rain?”

      I switched to Japanese again. “What time is the bus to Sekigahara?”

      An older man behind the counter answered. “Bus?” He shook his head. “There is no bus today.”

      I desperately hoped I had misunderstood. “No bus?” I repeated in Japanese.

      He gestured to the window. “It is raining.”

       THAT’S PRECISELY WHY I NEED THE BUS.

      Unable to comprehend the brilliant stroke of planning that cancels buses when it rains (in retrospect, it’s true few people visit mountains on a rainy day), I grasped at my last remaining straw. “Takushii desu ka?”

      In my desperation, it didn’t occur to me (and wouldn’t, until much later) that I hadn’t asked “Is there a taxi?” but, instead, inquired “Are you a taxi?”

      To his credit, the elderly gentleman didn’t bat an eye. “It is expensive.”

      “ That’s okay .”

      My inner voice was screaming, Whatever it costs! Just get me off this mountain!

      He exchanged a glance with the younger man, who spoke to me in English.

      “He worries because the taxi is expensive.” The young man wrote a number on a piece of paper: ¥10,000. The equivalent of a hundred US dollars.

      I had worried it would cost much more.

      “That’s fine,” I said in Japanese. “Please call a taxi.”

      With a nod, the older man picked up a phone and dialed. When the call connected, he spoke for a moment, listened as the other party answered, and then slowly turned his face away before he whispered, “Gaikokujin.”