How the first woman defied a ban to climb Mount Fuji—and then was forgotten

They set out before dawn, when the air was brittle and biting. They wore straw sandals, their feet wrapped in layers of cotton tabi, socks designed for wear with the sandals. Each pilgrim carried little more than what could be tied at the waist: rice balls wrapped in cloth; ofuda, paper talismans stamped with the seal of their Fuji-kō congregation to ward off misfortune; and a strip of flint for fire.

By the fifth station, Chūgū, they stopped for the night. Once morning came, the world turned white: Snow had gathered overnight.

A Fuji-kō chronicle reproduced in Takayama Tatsuko kankei shiryō records say the group “traversed through thick snow,” the path forward sliding away beneath them, only to reappear, then vanish again. The wind tore at their clothes and gnawed at their faces.

Hours later, the summit gate, Torii, emerged through the mist. In Shinto practice, Torii marks the threshold between worlds, signaling the start of sacred ground.

There was no fanfare at the end of the ascent, only a young woman in men’s robes, head lowered at 12,000 feet. The Fuji-kō record marks it simply: “A woman born in the Year of the Dragon climbed the mountain in the Year of the Dragon.”