What if the defining moment of my life came in Japan on that overcast day near Mount Fuji in 1985?
Remember that day? Kevin and I jostling about in an absurdly windowed bus as the bus swayed across rumpled terrain near Mount Fuji. My camera sat on my lap. If the clouds parted, I would catch the great mountain swathed in low clouds. What more spectacular than Fuji?
We boarded a ferryboat on a lake settled into the green foothills near the summit. We slipped quietly across dark water. Even as heavy clouds pushed down firmly and touched against the calm surface, a local guide assured us the boat would provide an unrivalled view. The clouds would part.
I held my camera in hand.
Our guide told us we would soon come to a place where the foothills fall back to a notch that reveals “the most beautiful view of Fuji in all the country.” In all probabilities, I would have this opportunity only once in my life. The boat sliced over the calm, reflective surface. The hills fell away. And I looked up into the sky to see nothing but the slug-colored underbellies of the thick clouds smothering entirely the high mount.
I have a photo of Kevin grimacing.