The Snail's Ascent: A Slow Climb to Mount Fuji's Summit

The first time I saw the snail, it was inching along the damp moss at the base of Mount Fuji. The mountain loomed, its peak obscured by mist, a silent challenge. The snail, oblivious to the scale of its endeavor, moved with a quiet determination. I watched, fascinated, as it left a glistening trail behind, a mark of its passage. There was no rush, no urgency—just the steady, unyielding progress of a creature built for endurance.

I decided to follow. Not because I expected to witness a grand spectacle, but because there was something profound in the snail’s method. Each movement was deliberate, calculated. The snail didn’t waste energy on hesitation or doubt. It simply moved forward, one infinitesimal step at a time. As the hours passed, I found myself drawn into the rhythm of its climb. The world around us faded—the noise of tourists, the distant hum of traffic—until all that remained was the snail and the mountain.

By the third day, the snail had reached a rocky outcrop, a minor milestone in its journey. I sat beside it, wondering what drove such a small creature to attempt such a vast ascent. Was it instinct? A search for food? Or something more? The philosopher Alan Watts once said, "The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance." But this snail wasn’t dancing. It was climbing, slowly, steadily, without fanfare.

The snail’s progress was a lesson in patience. In a world obsessed with speed, where everything is instant and immediate, the snail’s climb was a rebellion. It didn’t care for deadlines or expectations. It moved at its own pace, and that was enough. I thought about my own life, the times I’d rushed through moments, eager to reach the next milestone. The snail didn’t have milestones. It had the climb, and that was all.

On the fifth day, the snail reached a patch of wildflowers. It paused, as if savoring the moment, before continuing. I realized then that the climb wasn’t just about the destination. It was about the moments in between—the pauses, the rests, the small victories. The snail wasn’t just climbing Mount Fuji. It was experiencing it, one slow inch at a time.

By the seventh day, the snail had reached a height where the air grew thin and the wind bit sharp. I watched as it navigated the terrain, its body adapting to the challenges. There was no struggle, no drama—just a quiet, unshakable resolve. I thought about the words of the poet Mary Oliver: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" The snail, it seemed, had already answered that question. It was living, fully and completely, in the act of climbing.

On the tenth day, the snail reached the summit. Not with a triumphant flourish, but with the same quiet determination it had begun with. I stood beside it, looking out over the vast expanse below. The climb had been slow, but it had been real. The snail had done what it set out to do, not because it was fast or strong, but because it was persistent. And in that persistence, there was a kind of beauty—a reminder that some things are worth taking slowly.