I saw Mt. Fuji only once from the small, plastic window that allowed me to view our ascension. In only the briefest second I could capture its steep, sloping sides, rising to form a great, chasm-like mouth that stretched above the highest clouds to take a gulp of the clean air rising above the populated cities of Japan. Its monstrous proportions coupled with the yawning grace of solitude reminded me of the mythological time when primitive deities gathered en masse around the hollow chambers of Mt. Olympus—when the awesome power of natured collided with a rustic faith in God and lent itself to our undying stories of man versus nature. And when you look down upon the faithful clouds, sheltering their earthen kin, you being to understand why we pay homage to such a powerful figure, rising omniscient above even our greatest faith. Ready, if displeased with the careless acts of man, to erupt into a fiery rage, spewing from its cavernous loins a passion we could never know except to lay prone and helpless, crucified in its wake, shuddering in the aftermath. And that we, in all of our egotistical, self-appointed power, are really not much of anything. Only insignificantly sipping orange juice I swear tastes like grapefruit.