Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

  Hence, on March 5, 1969, the four of us met at a coffee shop in the mall of the Tokyo subway station. The premise of the meeting was straightforward, delivered by Miyazaki: “Let’s go to the Nepali Himalaya as a women-only team. Women climbers from just one club won’t be enough to make an expedition party. So, let’s each talk with friends and climbers that we know and meet again with an update.” I was surprised at the quiet tone in which she spoke, given the excitement of the subject, but I would come to learn that Miyazaki always remained unruffled. Sekita amazed me with her familiarity with mountain names, as in how she easily suggested the unclimbed Lamjung Himal for our list of potential goals. I had never even heard of the peak let alone know where it was located. By the end of the night, we agreed that our trip would occur the next spring or fall, but the mountain of choice was yet to be determined. We would see each other again in two weeks, with more women climbers as part of the group. For me, the experience of meeting Miyazaki turned out to be one of destiny.

  That night, I could barely sleep. Prior to the meeting, I was somewhat familiar with Wakayama as we often ran into each other climbing at Tanigawa-dake, but Miyazaki and Sekita were completely unknown to me, as though from a different world altogether. I knew I had to join this trip to the Himalayas, that it was a rare opportunity and one that might not present itself again. A year had passed since Sasou had died, and it was time for me to push myself beyond the challenging routes of Japan. I had to see past my membership with the Ryoho club and reach farther than what it could offer me. Was I truly considering a visit to the mountains overseas, the very ones that I had thought of as not for me even though I wished they could be? Yes, and now they were within reach. During that sleepless night, I made up my mind – I would do whatever it took to pursue my dream; I would cooperate with whomever necessary to make this a reality. Otherwise, I might as well live the rest of my life like a frog in a well, as we say in Japan.

  As Miyazaki said, it was impossible to form a team of women from a single mountaineering club. While numerous clubs existed throughout Japan, they often only had two or three female members, not all of whom were winter climbers. Some of the clubs still maintained a “no women allowed” mentality, restricting the populace to draw from even more. We had to branch out, despite loyalty to our respective clubs. I felt a bit unsure about this until my husband encouraged me in the right direction. “It would be nice if you could gain such experience from within Ryoho, but you can’t. And for the future of the Ryoho club, it’s crucial to bear as many overseas-experienced climbers as possible. You don’t have to leave Ryoho while a group of you establish a ladies’ climbing club for the expedition,” he said. His open-mindedness made sense and allowed me to embrace my Himalayan opportunity without question.

  We gathered again, on March 19, this time at a different coffee shop in downtown Tokyo. Thirteen mountain women, threaded together by friendship and various club connections, were about to formulate the basis for the first Japanese all-women’s Himalayan climbing team. In her gentle fashion, discussion began with Miyazaki: “Personally, I’m not aiming for an 8000er this time, but I certainly will in the future. So, I’d like to pick a suitable mountain to test the water.”

  Sekita said, “Women’s plans often dissipate after just one talk. This time, I’d like to develop a plan even more escalated from the original idea. As I proposed in our first meeting, I have Lamjung Himal in mind.”

  Wakayama was less specific. “I don’t mind if the targeted mountains are small and rather low in height. I’d like to climb as many interesting and fun mountains as possible.”

  Then I spoke. “I’d like to climb Annapurna I,” I said, “and hopefully by the Herzog route.” Everyone responded with a surprised “wow.” Miyazaki, Wakayama, Sekita and Naoko Nakaseko suggested a 7000-metre peak, but most of the group seemed drawn to the idea of 8000 metres, if not now, at least in the future. Morie Yamazaki immediately agreed to do her best to support the team but said she would not be part of the summit assault. My heart broke because I knew the reason for this. She had been injured in the fall that led to my friend Sasou’s death. Big mountains were no longer achievable for her.

  The four of us from the initial meeting – Miyazaki, Sekita, Wakayama and I – formed a committee to sift through ideas, begin research and figure out the next steps. Our objective evolved to Annapurna III, with the intention to expose as many female mountaineers on our team as possible to high-altitude climbing for other future endeavours we had in mind. The mountain of choice was in our favour: travel days to the base were relatively short in distance, and at 7555 metres in elevation, Annapurna III was the ideal precursor to anything above 8000 metres.

  The conditions to which each team member would have to agree were strict but necessary: three months off work, a personal contribution to the expedition of 700,000 yen per person (a lot of money in those days), and attendance at meetings and mountaineering camps. No other specific requirements were in order at that time. Regular meetings would be held the last Thursday of every month at the Mita Public Library in downtown Tokyo. Specific groups were established to be in charge of food and equipment. Extensive research began on the Annapurna area, and we all tried to learn the Nepali language.

  Even though we had a basic structure to our team, we were merely a group of colleagues that would not meet the status of an organized association required for a Himalayan expedition. Back then, prior to the era of commercial expeditions, the Nepali government chose one climbing party per mountain per season. We had no idea what the selection process was based on, but we knew there were multiple applications already submitted and that to apply we had to establish our own proper organization. Hence, the Ladies Climbing Club came into existence, and the Japanese Women’s Annapurna Expedition (JWAE) was formed.

  JAPANESE WOMEN’S ANNAPURNA III EXPEDITION TEAM MEMBERS

  Miyazaki, Eiko, 36 Leader

  Tabei, Junko, 30 Assistant Leader

  Hirakawa, Hiroko, 30 Report/Records

  Manita, Michiko, 28 Food

  Sato, Reiko, 25 Equipment

  Yamazaki, Morie, 28 Equipment

  Hirano, Eiko, 37 Treasurer

  Urushibara, Chieko, 31 Photographer

  O-no, Dr. Kyoko, 31 Medical Doctor

  Team training began on April 29 on Mount Fuji in Japan. Although not technically difficult, the climb was perfect for familiarizing ourselves with one another. Sekita, Hirano, Wakayama, Sato, Nobue Yajima, Setsuko Watanabe and I travelled from Tokyo, and Kyoko Endo and Nakaseko came from Nagoya to meet us. Endo and Nakaseko would later become part of the first women’s team to summit Manaslu in 1974, on the descent of which a teammate fell to her death. But on that day on Mount Fuji, we were all pumped up and a bit arrogant, mountaineering together for the first time and reaching the summit in record time. Each of us was out to prove she was ready for the Himalayas.

  Then, Wakayama quit the team. She felt the large-scale style expedition was not to her taste. Two others followed for various reasons. The team was down to thirteen members. Lucky thirteen, perhaps.

  The process for the Ladies Climbing Club to be recognized by the Tokyo Prefectural Mountaineering Association took a frustrating three and half months. This was due to Japanese bureaucracy questioning countless elements of an all-female organization, including the small number in our party. Despite that delay, our application to climb Annapurna III was accepted by the Nepali government, and a permit was on its way within thirty-seven days of our team’s initial request. The express nature of our permit was likely due to the rarity of such applications but also to help end the dearth of women’s teams on Nepali soil. Our excitement soared; we knew we were the second-ever women-only expedition to be granted permission to climb in Nepal. The first expedition was led by Claude Kogan of France on Cho Oyu in 1959. Sadly, that trip ended in tragedy with four members (Kogan, a Belgian climber and two Sherpas) killed in an avalanche. Their goal of the summit remained unfulfilled. Our trip to Annapurna certain
ly brought thoughts of Kogan’s team to the surface.

  Even as plans unfolded, we still had one outstanding matter to address – we needed a group leader for our trip.

  Miyazaki was unanimously nominated for the position at a meeting on October 20, but she was hesitant to accept. Without this role secured, we were limited in the trip details we could provide to the media or have printed in the expedition plan. A leader was critical to the final organization of the trip, and in Japanese style, we were reluctant to publicly share trip information while specifics were incomplete. So, the search for a leader continued, extending far and wide, and including requests made to Teru Sato, Hatsuko Kuroda, Kimiko Imai and Sachiko Kawamori – all considered to be the pioneering women of mountaineering in Japan. Unfortunately for us, they declined our invitation. (Each of them would go on to live long lives; Sato, for example, retired from mountaineering decades later at age eighty.)

  Finally, Miyazaki conceded to the role, but she insisted that her expectations must be met. Fellow cooperation and open communication were fully required, and decisions were to be made on a team basis, not for personal gain. She acknowledged her simple nature and explained that she preferred no fuss. “It took me more than a week to make this decision,” she said. “I’ve imagined so many negative things that could go wrong that I didn’t want to be leader. But then I realized that it isn’t only me. I have eleven of you to make it work. I was afraid, but now I’m not.” By the end of her acceptance speech, she warmed up enough to say, “I hope we can make it together and feel satisfied at the end of the day.” With that, she nominated Sekita and me as assistant leaders, and Hirano as manager and treasurer, and everyone applauded. I had no idea why I was chosen as assistant but felt it must have been my presence on the start-up committee. I disregarded my lack of experience in climbing abroad and figured the job would be doable with the experienced Sekita by my side.

  Unfortunately, I felt an uneasiness about Miyazaki that became difficult to suppress. Curt interactions, such as meetings that were announced without checking teammate availability, and phone messages that were left in an abrupt and unemotional tone, highlighted her forewarned direct nature more than I liked. Nevertheless, I began to sense that she might be less domineering than I initially thought. In my first visit to her apartment, her kitchen showed no trace of activity; the rice-cooker was desert dry with traces of old grains stuck to it. She grinned, confessing, “Oh, I eat outside most of the time.” I felt like I had discovered her simple personality.

  Sekita was also different. She carried a daunting energy around her, and her sturdy body type and height strengthened her intimidating presence. My heart always beat faster when she made her thoughts known, like when she said, “A group of climbers isn’t reliable without knowing what everybody’s skills are. I can’t automatically trust someone on this team to belay me. We should have our skills tested.” Of course, she was right, but her delivery of the idea unsettled me. I had to remind myself of an earlier commitment I had made if it meant climbing overseas: cooperate with everyone and avoid any drama.

  My life snowballed into chaos as soon as the Ladies Climbing Club was established, an experience I learned was directly connected to being part of an expedition. Commitments to my other club, Ryoho, were still important to maintain, as were meetings and training for Annapurna III. Through it all, Masanobu stood by me without complaint, continuing his own climbing and caring for me with suppers ready for my arrival home (albeit, his menu was always the same). Sometimes I went a week without cooking my share of dinners, yet this seemed to work easily between us, even as I became more exhausted and consumed by trip logistics.

  In the early days of planning Annapurna, Masanobu and I would stay up late after a meeting to talk about every trip detail, but eventually the meetings became too complicated and their frequency too much to share. Instead, I would fall asleep while my husband never gave up figuring out how to squeeze money from our savings to pay for the expedition. The fact that we remained married despite a demanding lifestyle of mountain madness, and without as much as an apology from me during times when I was fixated on a climb, amazed me. I always knew that I was fortunate to have Masanobu as my partner and that his support was the true base to my continued success in the mountains.

  In early November, winter training began with a two-day traverse of Sennokura, part of the Tanigawa-dake range. The bushwhacking was horrible, and we lost our way multiple times on the descent, even with red markers in place to follow. Our group had been split in two, and it was with great pleasure for my team that the other party arrived at the base first – a curry dinner had been simmering for hours by the time we showed up. Once we were together and relaxed that night, conversation revolved around what to wear in the Himalayas. The most pressing question was whether or not to each bring a kimono.

  By that point in team development, we had reached the stage where we felt we knew one another, for better or for worse, and everyone’s characters and expectations had been fully disclosed. Despite the label that we were simply a collection of female climbers from several different mountaineering clubs, we were all very active members, which meant that each of us had unique ideas and strong personalities. For instance, when it came to equipment choice, there were arguments over brands and shapes of ice axes and pitons, and lengths and diameters of ropes, as if no one suggestion was good enough. Any chance of compromise seemed impossible. Hushed voices began to converse behind the backs of fellow teammates. Comments like “I think it’s an issue that she only rock climbs,” or “she’s never even touched real rock before,” were said with an attitude of one-upmanship, in order to appear to be the strongest player on the team. In the New Year, less than two months before we were to depart for Annapurna, an inevitable and irreversible battle began to brew, one not to be underestimated when female temperaments ultimately collided.

  Trouble

  We united on Sennokura again, this time for our New Year’s training camp. The weather was stellar and the trail breaking manageable, and we cheerfully shared a much-exaggerated handshake at the top, pretending it was the summit of Annapurna III.

  Our playful attitude came to a halt on the way home from Sennokura when the team’s doctor, Dr. O-no, informed Miyazaki of the seriousness of a medical condition Yajima had, to the extent that Yajima might have to forgo the expedition. Earlier, at the team’s first mandatory medical check-up in August, Yajima’s blood work showed red blood cells in her urine, enough of a concern to warrant follow-up. The test was repeated at the end of December and disclosed the same results. A serious discussion ensued. Miyazaki disagreed with bringing a sick climber to the Himalayas; Sekita strongly insisted we do so and that she would take responsibility for Yajima. “We’ve come this far together; let her try,” said Sekita, pleading her case. Sekita and Yajima were housemates and climbing partners; together, they had even established the Ryosetsu club for climbers. It would be unfair to leave her behind. Unsurprisingly, no decision was made that day, and we went home feeling somewhat deflated.

  Dr. O-no’s explanation and opinion would lend itself to the final verdict. Meanwhile, we were deep into packing boxes, using Sekita’s house as the base for pre-trip organization. Sato was also a housemate to Sekita and Yajima, and other team members lived there short-term prior to departure for Nepal. Friends and acquaintances joined in to help, causing neighbours to question our packing activities, which continued past midnight. Finally, we were asked to lower the noise level. Once, the mail delivery man inquired if we were in the dried-food business, such was the volume of food stacked a mile high in the rooms of Sekita’s home. Eventually, the entire house was overtaken by the expedition, with gear and boxes and bags covering every inch of bare floor, turning the place into one giant tripping hazard.

  There were days when I would go straight to Sekita’s house from work, run around the city to shop, pack (sometimes all night), and then return to work the next morning with only five minutes of sleep on the trai
n. That was our routine, and I accepted it as what it took to travel abroad, to climb the highest peaks, to be a successful women-only team. But the strain of Yajima’s position, possibly having to quit the team, added enormous stress for each of us. We looked like zombies, with dark circles under our eyes and unkempt hair, the result of our mixed emotions about losing Yajima.

  January 16

  The day came when we bid farewell to the countless boxes that quantified our trip. After feverishly packing for weeks, the boxes were suddenly gone, driven away in the back of a six-ton truck, to be met by stormy winds, pushing them ever forward to our destination. The disoriented look on the faces of my teammates, unsure of what to do next, stayed with me forever after.

  The team was torn and time was running out to decide about Yajima. The pressure of the situation was causing friendships to unravel and fingers to be pointed. Accusations of not caring enough for Yajima’s health to make her step down from the team were countered with caring too much about her desire to climb. From the start, I strongly opposed the idea of a sick team member joining us in the Himalayas, and I would not back down. Miyazaki was of a similar vein until she conceded to pressure from Sekita, but then she had to revert to her original stance on the subject. As a last resort, Dr. O-no made a final request at one of our meetings: “Let Yajima sign a waiver that clarifies it’s neither medically safe nor is her life guaranteed in expedition activities.” The evening was adjourned in total silence.

  With further discussion pointless, we held a vote on February 2. Four members opted for Yajima’s position on the team; seven opted against. Sekita announced her withdrawal from the expedition immediately after the vote, as did three others a few days later, all of whom claimed varied personal reasons for their resignation.