by Junko Tabei
Routes took longer to climb with a female partner, but somehow, I felt more rewarded by the accomplishment. Being physically more equal to one another seemed fairer to me, and this made me happy to climb with a woman. Sasou played an additional role in my life too – she had become my closest friend. And when I moved to my sister Fuchi’s house in downtown Tokyo (at my mother’s insistence), Sasou enabled me to sneak away to the mountains and to date (against my mother’s wishes) the man who would ultimately become my husband. “Hello,” she would say on the phone. “This is Sasou. How are you? I wondered if Junko-san has left already. We planned to do some editing work on a mountaineering report together at my house, and she’s staying overnight with us.” Her voice was polished every time, unlike her usual course accent, and easily misled my family regarding my whereabouts. “I’m very convincing,” she bragged.
The downside to where we climbed in Tanigawa-dake was the countless number of climbing accidents that occurred in those days. It was a mixed blessing to get to know the rescue crew of that area. On occasion, we helped them carry bodies back into town after a serious fall. In turn, they were kind to us and welcomed us into their homes for a brief meal or hot bath before catching the train home. Repeatedly they said to us, “Please, please do not become number 365,” referring to the toll of climbing fatalities that had reached 364 at the time, a number too high to imagine.
Despite the tally of accidents, we climbed there almost every week.
Life Partner
Each time Masanobu informed my family of the news that I had reached the summit of a significant mountain, like Annapurna or Everest, my brother whole-heartedly thanked him. “It’s all because of you,” he would say. “She is so lucky to have you.” It almost made Masanobu cry with joy to hear my brother’s words. Thinking back, marrying Masanobu was the most important turning point of my life.
In 1964, around the same time that Sasou and I were introduced, I also met Masanobu Tabei. I recognized his name because he was well-known among climbers. People always gawked at him at train stations or at the crags, saying things like “There goes the Tabei party; they’re awesome,” or “They never fall,” and so on. I ignored the talk, but I had noticed that he always sat in the top car of the midnight train. This was a luxury reserved for high-end climbers that allowed them to exit the station ahead of everyone else in order to arrive first at the climbing area and have their choice of routes.
We met on a Sunday after the Golden Week holidays in May in Tanigawa-dake. Usually on Sundays, the routes were full and we had to wait our turn to climb. But on that particular day, the place was quiet. There were only two parties of two: Masanobu and his friend from the Honda Climbing Club, and Tatsuo Ishii and me from Ryoho. Of all the routes to climb that day, my partner and I picked the same one as Masanobu, the South Ridge of Ichinokura-sawa. I was surprised to make his acquaintance when I crested the snowy flat top of the route, but there was Masanobu eating an improvised dessert of sorbet made from snow and laden with sweet azuki (red beans). He had it ready to serve to us as we finished the climb. At first, I was amazed that Masanobu would carry something as heavy as a can of beans on a route. Yet, it was the sweetness of the wild sorbet and azuki that became etched in my heart’s memory as the meeting of my life partner.
Come mid-winter, Sasou and I were breaking trail through deep snow from the Doai Station to Deai for a female-only attempt on the Central Ridge of Ichinokura-sawa. Masanobu and Ishii were also there to climb Cup Rock on Ichinokura-sawa, which had seen only one previous winter ascent. The danger of both routes was understood, and we accepted that both parties were entering terrain that could end one’s life by way of avalanche or a simple slip. Hence, we wished each other well and hoped that with luck and in good time the two teams would meet again.
Sasou and I were bogged down with trail breaking to the base of the climb, which delayed our start up the route to noon. There was no way we would reach the top in a day, so we decided to bivouac on the wall. It began to snow that evening, and there was no space at the bivy for us to sit together. Instead we stood slightly apart on the narrow-terraced staircase of rock. I wondered how Masanobu and Ishii were succeeding on the more difficult Cup Rock route. Their demeanor was calm that morning when we said goodbye, unlike the nervousness I felt, and likely Sasou too, before a winter ascent.
For our night’s perch, Sasou and I placed two anchors each, one for a self-belay and the other to secure our equipment. A series of carabiners rattled with the slightest of our movements. Eventually I relaxed, and even smiled, once I was warmly wrapped in a space blanket and tiny flames came to life on the camp stove that balanced on my lap. Somehow, I found that to be peaceful.
Avalanches were not a worry at the height and steepness of where we bivied, but the remaining three legs of the route were still of concern. We had the rock section to complete, and a steep snow slope and knifepoint ridge to the summit. Difficult trail breaking lay ahead, and I had the fleeting thought that we might not finish the climb by the end of the next day. Nonetheless, we remained optimistic and cheerfully chatted throughout the night. Sasou showed me a boiled egg with a face drawn on it. “Someone gave this to me,” she said. Although she disclosed no more information, I knew exactly who had given it to her. Sasou had several admirers, but they all hesitated to confess their feelings to her. The egg was a good sign.
As we stood there, anchored to the wall, the hearty aroma of grilled meat filled the space around us as I cooked slices of salami over the flame of the stove. As I tried to cut one more piece, my hand slipped and knocked a chunk of the blue-flamed lard-like fuel, causing it to jump from the burner and fall into the darkness below. The persistent flame caught on a bush that clung to the side of the ridge and continued to burn as it swayed on the branch. Sasou giggled, “It’d be funny if we started a fire on the Central Ridge in the middle of winter.” Her giggles were a reliable gauge of her good mood.
The next morning came with no sleep. Carefully, we moved our stiff bodies after a long night and slowly put on our climbing gear. As we completed two more pitches, we heard Ishii’s voice echo from above: “Hello! Sasou-san, Jun-chan!” We returned his greeting, stunned to see the pair casually snapping photos of us on the final traverse. They had climbed the more challenging Cup Rock route faster than we had finished the Central Ridge.
It was a snowy dull day, an observation easily overlooked with the excitement of both teams on the summit of Ichinokura-sawa, having arrived there via two significant winter routes. Our success felt wondrous as we stood together with no one else around for miles.
Then the descent. We took turns breaking trail in the deep snow, still full of energy. The routine movement became automatic: raise the ice axe overhead, place it horizontal to the steep slope and push the snow away, clearing a path in front of us as we pressed forward with our knees. We were almost crawling rather than stepping forward, but even the tediousness of those tiring efforts could not dampen our spirits that day. I was particularly pleased with Sasou and me having been the first female pair to complete the Central Ridge route in winter.
After that exuberant experience on Ichinokura-sawa, I often ran into Masanobu in various places. Though these meetings were unplanned, I wondered if fate was at work. One time I bumped into him on the bus and took advantage of the moment by offering him a candy. It was wrapped in oblaat, a thin starchy edible paper also used to encase powdered medicine to ease swallowing. As he peeled the oblaat, Masanobu said, “I’ve eaten many kilograms of these.” I asked him what he meant and was shocked to learn that he had spent four of his middle-school years bedridden with tuberculosis. I was amazed at his climbing ability after having had such an illness. This was an eye-opener for me. Having listened to his story, I felt humbled by his calm nature and matter-of-fact approach. As I was becoming a more accomplished climber, I ran the risk of developing a bit of arrogance; I might have come to think less of those who climbed easier routes than me. But Masanobu’s pleasant w
ay, despite the hard routes he was capable of, kept me in check. I learned modesty that day on the bus.
Since we were members of different mountaineering clubs, Masanobu and I never had the chance to climb together. It was expected that trips were planned among members of the same club – Sasou even quit her club and joined Ryoho so we could climb together without issue. Even though I relied on this protocol to access the mountains, it meant that climbing with Masanobu was unlikely. Then one day he said to me, “Maku-iwa on the south face of Tanigawa-dake is great in fall colour.” Rules be darned, our first climbing date was arranged. On the rock, I observed how he moved at the same stable pace he walked on flat trail. As he climbed an overhang with ease and moved onto a grassy area, he said, “It’s more dangerous on grass.” I had learned this on Yunosawa in the past, but again took it to heart as coming from an expert. Even having said that, Masanobu moved without effort over the grass and continued on his way. After I heard the distant tap of him placing a piton, his voice reverberated down to me: “OK, climb up.”
The surrounding view was beautiful. Autumn leaves painted red blurred in the distance as we climbed higher onto the ridge that braced the blue sky above. The cool breeze offered relief to my sweating skin. As I climbed towards Masanobu, I enjoyed the comfortable feel of this partnership. It was the kind that would make anyone feel good.
Opposite to the enjoyment I had discovered with Masanobu, my mother relentlessly tried to persuade me to consider an arranged marriage. “You are already twenty-six and not married,” she said. Her deep disappointment was evident. Although not enforced, an arranged marriage was a common occurrence in Japan. Adding fuel to fire were the invitations I received from former schoolmates, informing me of their pending marriages. Solely committed to climbing, I turned down every invite to a wedding. But there remained a slight doubt in my mind. Was I all right with living like this forever, unmarried? The question popped up every time I saw a nice couple sharing an intimate conversation on the train.
I was conflicted. It certainly would have been easier to accept one of my mother’s many proposed arrangements. My sisters had done so and they seemed happy enough. But then I would ask myself again, “Do I really want that?” I tried to picture myself as a traditional Japanese wife who followed her husband. The idea never sat well with me, and I began to conclude that a healthy marriage was one that allowed people to do things they would otherwise not accomplish alone, hence enriching the lives of both partners.
As expected, my mother was deeply upset when I told her about Masanobu. She considered him an insignificant man without a university degree. I was tempted to argue but remained silent, hopeful that patience on my part would prevail. But she persisted: “It’s not good for you to live on your own in the city. Come back home to Miharu and learn to cook to become a good wife. That or move in with your sister.” I endured her lack of understanding of me, as she was a feisty woman of an earlier generation, and I wondered how different my father’s input might have been if he had still been alive.
To temporarily appease my mother, and for my own peace of mind, I moved in with Fuchi and her family. Still, I refused to give in to my mother’s objection to my choice of husband. Masanobu knew she was not in favour of our union and suggested that, with time, she would come around to our proposed marriage. He even arranged for his parents to travel to Miharu with us to speak to my mother. In the meantime, my mother demonstrated her non-forgiving ways whenever I spent time with her. She would refuse to drink the tea I brewed or to accept the rice I served, dumping it back in the pot to serve herself. Yes, it would have been easy to declare enough was enough and walk out on my mother, but she was my only surviving parent and I respected her. I again chose to remain patient in hopes that some day she would recognize my marriage choice as being right for me.
I remained in that limbo of hope for nearly two years as, slowly, my mother’s degree of objection began to ease. Although she never officially permitted our marriage, she appeared to finally admit, “I may have to give in as my daughter never changes her mind.” Overnight, she suddenly demanded a big traditional wedding so as not to be embarrassed by anything less. We had to laugh at my mother’s about-face, and in Masanobu’s words, we just did “whatever we could to make her happy.”
Since we had limited funds to spend on our wedding, we had to consider other options. At the time, TV weddings were popular – essentially, the event, if interesting enough, was filmed and broadcasted at the expense of the television company. That idea would not fly with me. Instead, with Sasou’s input, we decided upon a collect-fee style of wedding, where guests (except parents) would each pay 1,000 yen to attend. More than one hundred guests joined us in celebration, with my mother proudly dressed in her formal kurotome (black silk) kimono. Each guest was given a beautiful cut-glass salad bowl as a gift from Masanobu and me. I still use mine, and each time I do, I am pleasantly reminded of my mother and my friend Sasou. As simplistic as we tried to be with wedding arrangements, we spent almost our entire savings on this one-time event.
Our new home was a tiny single room in Shiinamachi, the first stop from downtown Tokyo on the Seibu train line. We outfitted the place with old furniture, a desk, futons and books. I had nothing fancy like what Fuchi had received for her wedding, but I indulged in one bridal item, a mirror stand, which allowed me to get rid of some of the cardboard boxes I had used as a table when I was single.
To us, our honeymoon was a big deal, the trip of a lifetime. We planned to hike Miyanoura-dake on Yakushima (shima meaning island), in the very south of Japan. As airline tickets were clearly unaffordable, we travelled by train and boat to get there. On Yakushima, we required permission from the forest service to take a tram to Kosugidani (dani meaning valley). The tram ride remained memorable to me for years afterwards: huge cedar branches sweeping down so close to the rails that they brushed my face as we passed by; monkeys jumping from one tree to another, all within our grasp. It was bliss.
Quite the opposite to the spacious outdoors of our honeymoon, our single-room home could barely hold our small kitchen. There was no bath in our unit, and we shared a common toilet room with other residents of the apartment. We used an outside wash basin for laundry and relied on a public bathhouse a five-minute walk away to get clean, except it closed at 11 p.m., often before we returned from a day of climbing. Our neighbours became used to us bathing in the apartment’s outside basin, or bent over our tiny kitchen sink.
We had no telephone; a phone was for emergencies only and could be used at the landlord’s house if needed (with a 10-yen fee each time). Despite being impossible to reach by phone, and regardless of the limited size of our place, we always had mountaineering friends there to visit, rarely leaving my husband and me to dine alone. A knock on the wall from our neighbour would remind us to quiet things down when our friends visited, followed by another knock a little while later as our voices began to escalate again. Basically, that pattern repeated itself many times on multiple occasions.
Four months into our marriage, a gift arrived from my mother. To our surprise, in item and in gesture, it was a refrigerator. After all her years of objection, we received this as a sign of acceptance. Even though we spent most of our weekends in the mountains, we made sure to visit my mother in Miharu at least once every three months to maintain progress with her. Oddly, once in our company, she would order Masanobu to complete chores for her, like chopping wood or moving items into storage. My sisters’ husbands would never have been asked to do such work, but Masanobu never complained and diligently fulfilled every demand made on him. Gradually, the relationship with my mother improved. She even joined us on a trip. Another time she chose to stay with us at our tiny residence in Shiinamachi. Masanobu and I could hardly believe it.
In September 1967, I was twenty-eight years old and happy. I had married the man of my choice and we shared a deeply satisfying mountain life together. Then, while I was on a trip home to Miharu to honour the seventh anniversar
y of my father’s death, Sasou, my dear friend and climbing partner, was killed in an accident on Tanigawa-dake.
Farewell Friend
A report by Morie Yamazaki, one of the two other climbers with Sasou on Ichinokura-sawa, and who would later climb Annapurna III with me, provided some understanding of what had happened to my friend.
Got up to the col of the Fifth Runse, 2 p.m. “It was fun!” “My first time to climb Runse, I’m freaking happy up here today.” So, we cheered and shook hands to celebrate the successful climb. Feeling a bit chilly with the autumn breeze, we left there quickly. Yoshimura asked about roping up, and I answered no. “Careful, it’s not over yet,” said Sasou.
Yoshimura went first, myself next, and then Sasou. I found it a bit sketchy when I got close to the bottom of the rocky ridge. All the spots for possible footholds were covered by thick red dirt and looked slippery. That was why the party ahead of us took their route to the left. We also went to a dry white rock on the left. It was good for the first five to six metres, but got worse, and I kept traversing to the left looking for a stable foot placement. Yoshimura, ahead of me, asked again about roping up. “No, I’m fine,” I declined for the second time. Sasou also caught up to me on my right and suggested getting the rope out, but I continued traversing to the left bit by bit as I couldn’t find a stable foothold. I started to feel like I might not be able to make it, but a need for the rope hadn’t really occurred to me.
Yamazaki had held onto the loose rock and lost her balance, falling as her foothold also gave way. Sasou stood to the right about a metre below and tried to stop Yamazaki by grabbing her but was instead pulled off the mountainside and fell as well. By a miracle, Yamazaki was stopped short after falling 80 metres when her backpack caught on a tree root. Sadly, Sasou fell out of sight.
Before that trip, I suggested to Sasou that she not go since I was unable to join her due to my father’s memorial in Miharu. Ever the climber, she went anyway, but she hardly knew Yamazaki and Yoshimura. The lure of the Fifth Runse on Ichinokura-sawa was too much for her to resist.