by Junko Tabei
The city was traced with our time together, my father supporting me as I found my way in the world. I always felt safe with him. How I would transfer that sense of protection to the heights I was yet to climb was hardly imaginable. Yet, my father’s teachings seeped into my mountaineering years and offered a lifetime of great guidance. “Prepare yourself for whatever you do,” he always said.
White Mountains
The relentlessness of the winter mountain environment surprised me – the gusts of wind that almost lifted my body from the ground, the freezing temperatures that numbed my fingers and toes and face, the challenge of the polished, icy surfaces we climbed – and I enjoyed every bit of it. I was like a child discovering cool, running water for the first time. It was exhilarating to know what cold and scared really felt like.
As graduation from university neared, my life expanded in front of me. I had yet to confirm a job, but I felt hopeful with opportunity. When I saw an ad for the position of editor with the Physical Society of Japan, in the science faculty at the University of Tokyo, I hastily applied for one of three available spots. Of the two hundred applicants, I was chosen for the job and started immediately. I continued to live in the house I had called home for the past several years, under the guidance of the host mother, and was pleased that I could stay in Tokyo.
The University of Tokyo is a beautiful location with open space and lots of greenery. It is one of the highest-level government-funded universities in Japan. My job, although not too exciting, was to edit English papers for a 250-page monthly magazine called Journal, without being familiar with much of its content. I shared the small office with another woman, and I worked hard in appreciation of the rare benefits of equal (and decent) pay among female and male employees, half-day Saturdays and twenty paid days of leave a year. I was happy there.
As I settled into my role, I began to think of winter climbing. The lofty peaks were pulling at me. Since I no longer qualified to be a member in the student mountaineering club, I sought out other options and finally found a club that would accept women. It was called Hakurei-kai (club), and most of the members were rock climbers. They spoke in terms unfamiliar to me: piton, carabiner, belay. I learned that there were a variety of climbing and mountaineering styles, not just the one I had envisioned, which was to climb a singular route to the summit and descend the same way or traverse to a different descent. It was news to me that, generally, there were multiple routes up a mountain, and that climbers constantly challenged the more difficult lines.
After attending my first club meeting, I felt the adrenalin from the night’s discussion rush through me on the way home. I was unused to climbing with men, having mainly joined female groups of friends in the mountains during my university years, and I was certain in thinking that I was part of this new club to climb, not to meet a man. My dedication to mountaineering was clear to me.
My inaugural trip with the club was to Harutake-sawa (creek) in the Tanzawa area, southwest of Tokyo. That was the first time I used a climbing rope, and I was energized when I placed my hands and feet on the rock and climbed the face. The experience solidified my passion for the mountains. “Next Sunday, we’ll hike up the creek to the south face of Tanigawa-dake, and after that, snow training on Mount Fuji,” the club announced.
Mount Fuji was cold and conditions were tough, and that introduction to on-snow training resulted in numerous scars on my face from being hit by brittle ice. But it fuelled me, and afterwards, I sought out my first winter mountaineering trip, a traverse from Toumi Ridge on Goryudake. As the novice of that excursion, I followed the more experienced climbers by way of food and gear preparation.
I was excited that my dream to climb in what I called the white mountains (snow-covered peaks) had come true, but I lost a bit of my shine when I donned my backpack at the trailhead. I had never carried such a weight – 27 kilograms strapped to my small frame. It was already a struggle to walk the short distance from Kamishiro Station to the trailhead. Then I reached the snow, an altogether new battle with the load on my back. This trip was a debut of sorts as I was one of four new members to the Hakurei club, and I was determined to prove my worth despite the stress and nervousness I felt. I was steadfast about not giving up.
I must admit, although I was in the mountains I had dreamt about for years, I hardly remembered anything about them. Head down, I was completely absorbed by chasing the footsteps of the others in front of me. I felt relief when one of the new members gave up from exhaustion; I was not the only one who found the climb to be an enormous struggle. Then, as the snow-covered summit of Kashimayari came into view to the south, I was awash with renewed excitement. I was proud of myself, that I had made it to the white mountains and that I was in the throes of winter mountaineering.
Invitations to various outings continued, and I wanted to be a part of every one of them. But I needed proper equipment to continue winter climbing on snow and ice. My paycheck, reasonable at 15,000 yen per month, was only enough to cover rent and food, with a bit left over for train travel. I had to save money week by week to slowly acquire what I needed for mountaineering. When a friend gave me a second-hand pair of overboots to use, I cherished them. Just saying the word “overboots” made me feel like a true mountaineer.
Even my insufficient equipment, and the political atmosphere of Japan at the time, could not stop me from going to the mountains. Demonstrations took place on the streets and people were active in voicing their objections about national alliances with the United States, yet I spent most of my weekends climbing. I felt peace in the mountains and could sense my father watching over me. As time passed, I became more comfortable among men and could easily climb with either male or female partners. Eventually, I even felt at ease sharing a tent with men – it seemed like the natural thing to do in the mountains, but the rumours that resulted bothered me to no end. I had no time for assumptions that so and so were dating because they had climbed together. Still, I had come far in my dreams of the white mountains, and I could endure such gossip if it meant continuing to climb.
Mountain Mentor
We were an odd pair, me so very small in size, and Yoko-o-san, a tall, advanced climber, but we shared the rope many times. Yoko-o had become my mentor. He would always encourage me to lead a pitch somewhere along the route, constantly pushing my skills. His repeated words of simple advice made me a better climber – lean out; don’t climb with your arms; use your feet – and he took me everywhere, even though a woman climber was a rare sight in Tanigawa. I ignored the rumours that began to spread about us. After three years of climbing together, I was capable of mastering quite difficult routes. One day he turned to me and said, “Go to 8000 metres. You’re ready to lead with female partners. Try that from now on.”
As I progressed in climbing, my days at Hakurei became numbered. I was bothered by the club’s strict rules and the constant gossip. I had heard that a fellow member, reputably a superb mountaineer, was starting a new club with a focus on cutting-edge climbing. So I left Hakurei and joined Ryoho-Toko-kai (Ryoho Climbing Club, Ryoho for short). There were seven members in total, and it was in that group that I met my soon-to-be mentor, Koichi Yoko-o. We all have encounters in life that either brighten our future or dampen a dream. For me, meeting Yoko-o was entirely about positive steps forward.
Yoko-o, the youngest member of Ryoho, opened the doors for me to the 8000-metre peaks of the world. I knew of his name when I first joined Hakurei, for his climbing ability but also because of a fall he and a climbing partner had taken on the first attempt of Direct-Cante, on the wall to the right of Tsuitate-iwa (rock). They were a teenage pair attempting the route a year after Tsuitate-iwa was first climbed in 1959. Not that anyone wished to be remembered for this, but their story became legend. They had slipped near the pinnacle of Direct-Cante and plummeted to the rock slabs of Tsuitate-iwa. Yoko-o somehow leapt into the bush alongside the slab, saving his life, but his friend later succumbed to injuries sustained from hitting the r
ock below.
Stories about Yoko-o were ample, about his hermit lifestyle, and his vitality and will power during his recovery from the accident, and his continued strong sense of balance in climbing. I tried to picture him from those stories and looked forward to meeting him, having joined Ryoho partly for that honour. At my first club event, there he stood at the café exit, very tall, with long tousled hair and a somewhat cynical expression on his face. I mistook him for a hard person to get to know.
I was surprised to be so easily accepted as a fellow climber by the Ryoho club. At that first meeting, I made plans with Yajima, another club member, to climb Yunosawa in Tanigawa-dake the following week. The trip was an experience of firsts for me: new mountain, new partner, the use of etriers, and lead climbing on a difficult route. We made a route-finding mistake near the top and had to ascend a grassy section, which taught me that it can be more dangerous to climb wet grass than rock, a lesson I would tuck in my back pocket for future scenarios.
Upon returning from Yunosawa, I received a call from Yoko-o. “Let’s go to the Back Wall at Ichinokura-sawa next week,” he said.
“The Back Wall? No way,” I said, not feeling ready for such a climb. “That’s my ultimate goal.”
“The Back Wall is your final target? Come on! Don’t be silly. Just bring your personal gear. We’ll take the 10:12 night train as usual. Got it?” He was persistent and I was unsure. I was also committed to play the koto in a concert that next Saturday. My mind was conflicted with two different thoughts. Mountains or music?
I went back and forth between “No, I’m not joining him on that climb,” and “It’s a great chance. Why not?” I was unable to choose. In the end, my desire to climb was immense and I could not withstand missing the opportunity. So, Yoko-o’s persistence paid off and that next Saturday night, after the concert, I changed from kimono to climbing attire and headed for Ueno Station.
At the station, I realized Yajima would be joining the trip. Neither he nor I knew that the other had been invited by Yoko-o. Our surprise was difficult to hide. “Oh, you’re coming, too?” asked Yajima with doubt in his voice. “Yoko-o, is she OK to climb The Flanke?” I had no idea our intended route was the steep rock face that its name denoted. The South Ridge Flanke was the back wall of the Back Wall and had never seen a first ascent. Yet, standing there at the train station, I trusted Yoko-o and Yajima, even though we had spent little time together. It felt strange, this new trust, but I believed we would succeed as a team, even on The Flanke.
Climbing with Yoko-o was like watching a person dance on rock. He was an amazing climber, and his elegant movement from one hold to another showed no signs of the terrible accident he had endured years ago. From the base of the route, he climbed directly up Tsuitate Slab with perfect balance, ignoring the ridge as a possible option. We climbed as a threesome with me roped in between the two men. In a mist-like rain that heightened the darkness of the wet Back Wall, we started up, the rope smoothly uncoiling between Yoko-o and me as he stepped forth. I followed, thinking nothing of fear, and instead giving my best. Being in sync with Yoko-o’s moves increased my confidence and made me feel like I could easily climb this route, until Yajima spoke up. “You’d be killed just following him like that,” he said, even though he was copying the same movements from lower on the rock.
Unfortunately, the misty rain gave way to a downpour. It became impossible to climb above the chimney section, and we decided to back off with barely the second pitch complete. I had practiced rappelling before in Tanzawa at the small cliffs of Momiso-iwa, but this was, again, a first for me – rappelling off a multi-pitch route where a mistake would be costly. The hemp rope tied to us became rough as it soaked up the heavy rain, and my spirits felt heavy, too, as we switched from going up the route to going down.
Although we failed in our attempt on The Flanke, it was the test that Yoko-o used to measure me as a climber, and I had passed. From then on, he made me his climbing partner no matter who else joined the trip. I was never sure if it was a matter of course for the most experienced climber to partner up with a novice, but I greatly benefitted from the arrangement as we climbed together nearly every weekend. Although Yoko-o never gave me detailed instructions, I gained specific skills and knowledge from him over time, like tying ropes, placing anchors and setting routes. I absorbed everything climbing-related from this person, and as nice as it was to climb a new route, I came to realize the importance of a climbing partner and how great an impact that partner has on the route itself. Most important of all, what I learned from Yoko-o was to embrace the entirety of climbing and the resulting joy that it evokes.
My small stature made it difficult for me follow Yoko-o on approaches and climbs. His height and strength, along with his mantra “I don’t climb with anyone weak,” forced me to conserve my energy levels whenever possible, for instance sleeping on the train, so that I could keep up to him. Still, he offered help when I needed it and shared the lead on pitches, fuelling my elation of accomplishment. His confidence, decision-making skills and sense of balance in the mountains, and his care and compassion for his climbing partner, added together to make me feel like I could climb anywhere with him. Maybe he was frustrated with not having a partner equal to his ability, hence his efforts in training me to that level, but if that was the case, I was unaware of it. He seemed happy enough to focus solely on climbing with me.
I thought this was the relationship I craved. I revelled in the simplicity of experiencing the mountains with a male partner, yet with no other expectations. On hikes to and from the base of a route or along ridgetops, or during breaks at a belay, Yoko-o spoke of his childhood, his journey back from China after the war, his marriage, and the novel he was writing at the time. The fact that we were connected by a deep trust, not by romance, in a dangerous environment where a mistake could cost a life, pleased me. Despite my assurance of our relationship and my hard-earned competency in the mountains, I sometimes felt other male climbers gave me the once over at the crags while saying, “This is no place for women.” It was an era of few female climbers, but none of that mattered to me. My commitment was to climb, and I loathed the idea of having to spend a Sunday sitting idle rather than being on a mountain.
Up to that point in my adult life, the only other event that I thoroughly looked forward to was a visit from my mother and brother, who would travel from Miharu to see me. I could hardly wait for their arrival – until I became obsessed with climbing. After that, I would silently pray that they would choose any other day than a Sunday to visit. Often, while on a small ledge partway up a climb, I would imagine my mother’s reaction, her blood pressure jumping sky high if she saw where I stood.
Her daughter scaling a rock wall was not the picture she had of me. By remaining silent about my climbing pursuits, I left her content to believe that I had stayed in Tokyo after university to continue practice of the koto and to gain work experience in the city. My family was adamant in stating, “Easy hiking is OK, but no winter mountaineering or rock climbing.”
Little did they know, the very activities my family had wished for me to ignore had become everything to me. In my mind, the only choice I had was to pursue my love for the mountains.
Female Climber
“I’ve met my match,” I thought to myself, “and she’s different, beyond ordinary.” I knew this as soon as I was told that Sasou travelled to the crags after work on weekdays to climb a few routes, and then took the train back to Tokyo first thing the morning to not be late for her job. All this because she was impatient for the weekend to climb.
One day, out of the blue, I received a phone call at work. “My name is Rumie Sasou. I’d love to climb with you. Could you meet me sometime?” I was immediately drawn in, partially because Yoko-o had already suggested it was time for me to climb with female partners. We decided to meet at Shibuya Station, near the entrance to the Inokashira train line. I was slightly nervous to make her acquaintance, wondering what she would be like. Then so
meone in the crowd called out to me, “Jun-chan!” Only fellow club members and a few others identified me with that name. “Sorry for catching you off guard. I’m Sasou. I’ve seen you around in the trains on my way to the mountains, and at Tanigawa, too. All of your buddies call you ‘Jun-chan,’ so I just said it with no thought.” She was very friendly, and I relaxed with her welcoming manner.
Sasou stood an inch taller than my five feet. She was stockier and fit, with short hair and a sun tan. We immediately hit it off and made plans to climb Inago-dake in the Yatsugatake area the next week. Despite her spoken old-Tokyo accent, which had a rougher enunciation compared to modern Japanese, I found her to be quite precise. Attention to detail was foremost in her actions, highlighted by her well-organized backpack that looked more like the perfect picture in a climbing magazine. Even the handle of her umbrella was removed to reduce the weight in her pack, so exact was she. As a graduate, then employee of the Tokyo Woman’s Christian University, Sasou enjoyed long summer vacations that enabled her to spend a month climbing at Tsurugi-dake. She also climbed at the crags as often as possible. I had finally met someone who shared my same desire for the mountains. Behold, my new female climbing partner!
I visited the home where Sasou lived with her mother and brother on a big lot in Hamada-yama of greater downtown Tokyo. The family also owned an apartment that was rented by a fellow climbing club member. During my stay there, we were completely dedicated to the mountains – all we did was climb and discuss the next route for summer training. “My mom tells me this and that,” Sasou explained, “but I just have to tell her that climbing is an absolute priority for me.” And so, our climbing together increased. We were fully satisfied when we had completed the Central Ridge of Ichinokura-sawa, a success that made us determined to climb the ice wall on that same mountain in winter.