Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

Hirakawa injected Miyazaki with anti-nausea medication. We tried to melt snow for water to sooth her distressed complaint of thirst, but given the elevation, the butane-fuelled stoves were diminished in their power output and the melting process took forever. Thankfully the medication kicked in and Miyazaki fell asleep. On the contrary, Hirakawa and I were starving, as usual, and had to satiate our bellies to some degree before we could attempt sleep. Admittedly, we ate Miyazaki’s portion of dinner, too, and called it a night.

  May 19

  Weak rays of morning sun gently shone on Camp 5. I prayed for the weather to remain like that all day. The wind still blew, and to avoid its chill I stood on the leeside of the tent to tie on my crampons. Since the summit route was unknown to us, we added bivouac gear to the absolute necessities already packed. I mused that my load felt no heavier with the extra weight; perhaps I was just ready to get the job done.

  To begin our final ascent, Girmi was in the lead position, myself second, then Hirakawa and Pasang. I left the camp with two concerns on my mind: Miyazaki’s condition (which was improved from the night before, but not perfect), and that of Ang Mingma, the Sherpa who was meant to have descended from the col in the wee hours of morning to climb back up with Sato. He was also feeling symptoms of altitude sickness and was yet to leave Camp 5. Nonetheless, I had to let go of worries that I could no longer control and focus only on the summit ahead.

  The route started on a broad, relatively low-angled slope without many crevasses. The creaking of crampons on snow somehow amused me. It distracted my mind from the constant, bitter wind that whirled around us and threatened to rip off anything exposed, my nose included.

  From the ridge of the mountaintop, huge cornices hung to the south side and vertical buttresses of polished black rock stood jagged to the north, in the direction of the village of Manangbhot. A wide snowfield offered a reasonable spot for a break where Hirakawa and I put on down jackets, the first time we wore them other than at camp. Knee-deep snow met the ridgeline on the side of the ominous cornices, and the world around us seemed to grow foggy in eerie support of the dangerous landscape. I glanced back for a view of Gangapurna, and I could only recognize its vertical south face; the north side was fully hidden by a whiteout.

  Our technique became even more precise as the ridge we climbed narrowed to knifepoint. There was no room for error – a step slightly too far right or left would mean a fast track to death for all of us. It would be impossible to arrest a person’s fall in that situation. Particular attention was paid to each crampon placement. There has been no shortage of climbing accidents that resulted from a stumble on the two front points of the GRIVEL twelve-point design. I recalled easily the words that were drilled into me by the owner of a mountain equipment store in downtown Tokyo: “Be careful with your crampons when you see the head of the second person beneath you and when the slope starts to ease off.”

  “I’ve got a headache,” said Pasang, an instant alert for us. The altimeter read just above 7000 metres. We sat on rugged rocks for a break, hoping this would be enough to ease Pasang’s pain. A much-anticipated can of peaches was opened for a snack – but it was frozen solid, a cylindrical block of concrete. Our chance for replenishment was lost.

  Pasang’s headache progressed to severe. Unsure of the route and time commitment to reach the summit, we felt it unsafe to leave Pasang alone. We administered a single tablet of pain medication (not three, which he had taken before), and Girmi had a brief discussion with him. We had no idea what they spoke about, but soon afterwards we continued a slow ascent of the mountain, without incident.

  It was past 1 p.m. and still we climbed. “Please let us get there,” I wished to myself. “We’ll be there if only we continue to put our feet forward, step by step.” Then, through a brief opening in the fog, I saw two mounds in the distance, the left of which was the summit. “Continue on the snow-covered ridge, climb the rocky knoll and that will be it,” I quickly surmised. We were so close.

  Layers of fist-sized rocks were strewn right below the summit, as if tossed from the heavens above. With each weighted step, they collapsed with a startling rattle. But above the scree section was a stretch of solid snow, and at the end of that, the top of Annapurna III.

  The snow on the summit was rock hard, deflecting my ice axe when I tried to dig in with its pick. Every movement was slowly executed. I placed my pack down and peeled off my over-mitts. The wind jabbed at my hands like needles. Carefully slipping flags from a plastic bag, we tied them off on our axe handles, the Nepali one by Girmi, the Japanese one by me and the team flag by Hirakawa. It was a clumsy task with bulky hands wrapped in gloves and a relentless wind pulling at the flags. I stamped my crampons on the small spot of summit snow that I could see through my sunglasses. “We’re finally here. It’s done.” The temperature was recorded at –16°C, and the time was 2:45 p.m.

  Visibility barely stretched 10 metres in front of us. Machapuchare and Annapurna II and IV were completely hidden. The only evident features were the sheer north side that dropped away from the summit of Annapurna III, and the summit itself. That was enough for us to maintain our bearings.

  It never occurred to us to leave something on the mountain’s peak to mark our ascent; instead we took numerous photographs. Standing beside Girmi, I watched Hirakawa switch from climber to photographer as she worked in the bright light. Her roll of film broke twice due to the cold temperature, and while she changed her camera over, I squatted for a moment and picked up a few stones. I collected these as souvenirs to take back from this place of greatness. I thought about how far we had come. As Hirakawa transformed our climb into pictures for others to see, I reflected on how we transformed the notion of wanting to climb in the Himalayas, any mountain in the Himalayas, into “Let’s climb Annapurna III.” And we had succeeded.

  Tabei untied from the rope. It’s the summit, no more climbing. Awkwardly, I looked down the north face. Unfortunately, I could only see the top of the icy cliffs below as it was too foggy. Relieved that my responsibility was finally over, I didn’t feel happy yet; I wanted to go down sooner rather than later. Girmi the sirdar and Pasang were excited, bellowing “Success, success!” It must have been a different feeling for Girmi, who early on had strived so hard in making the route to then get injured and be frustrated until now. By the way, what about Pasang’s headache? Better? Having finished our photo taking, we had nothing else to do, and quickly started going down within twenty-five minutes of reaching the summit. My lingering concern was for the descent. Looking forward to seeing our leader at Camp 5 kept me going. Oh, the summit is done.

  – Hirakawa’s diary

  The sunny sky in the early morning became cloudy after all, and the four attackers disappeared into it by 10 a.m. When Ang Mingma, who had been ill with a headache, went down to Camp 4 with Sherpa Sange, Kitar and I were left alone at Camp 5. So, I enjoyed chatting with him as I felt better today. Then I came back to my tent, laid myself down and stared at the ceiling. How long had passed I don’t remember, but upon hearing people’s voices, I shot out from my tent. Surprisingly, they were already near.

  “Leader, we’ve been to the summit!” Tabei shouted. The three of us, closing the gap step by step, hugged each other when we had zero distance left in between.

  “Great job! It’s good, it’s good!” Tabei, Hirakawa and I shared the joy, still entangled in each other’s arms, stumbling on the snow, and Girmi held his arms wide spread around us. No tears were shed for this success; however, countless thoughts and memories of the last year and a half ran around inside my mind, supported by the feeling of “It’s good, it’s good.”

  After eating a repeated dish of instant stir-fried rice, Tabei and Hirakawa quickly fell asleep. Tired, of course. Have a good rest, you girls. I had no idea how the way up was to the summit. I could only imagine it from their sleeping faces.

  – Leader Miyazaki’s diary

  It was past 6 p.m. by the time we returned to Camp 5. Miyazaki’s condition was m
uch improved from the previous day, and she wholeheartedly enjoyed our success on Annapurna III, especially the fact that it was accident-free. We learned of disappointing news for Sato. Her designated Sherpa, Ang Mingma, who was to accompany her from Advanced Camp 4 to Camp 5, was delayed in getting to her. His headache made him unable to descend from Camp 5 early in the morning as originally planned. By the time he arrived to meet her, it was too late for them to ascend the ice wall.

  Miyazaki then had to rethink her summit strategy and decided that there would be a summit assault the next day with only Kitar. To make matters worse, the radio had been broken since we arrived back at Camp 5 after the summit bid, and no message had been sent down to Camp 4 with Ang Mingma and Sange to inform the rest of the team of the latest plan. I felt sick imagining how everyone was coping lower down on the mountain, not knowing of our success and managing Sato’s expectation of climbing.

  May 20

  Miyazaki’s health had deteriorated again. Despite much better weather than the day before, and the fact that Kitar was ready to climb, our leader made another announcement. “I’m not in good shape,” she said, “and Sato, who is supposed to go up with me, is still at Camp 4. Our radio communication between camps has been non-existent for three days. Considering how Sato must feel right now, I prefer not to climb without her. I would have gone if the first assault had failed. The priority is that everyone returns home intact. Since the monsoon is just around the corner, we can expect unpredictable weather changes. There is no need for me to push today since we’ve already succeeded as a team. Call it a day. Period.” Any chance for a second summit attempt was over. The time had come to head home.

  Again, Miyazaki had made the right choice, and observing her swollen face as she spoke, I completely agreed that taking her down the mountain was top priority. So, we left Camp 5 behind, securing Miyazaki to the rope in between Hirakawa and me, with the two of us carrying as much of the gear as possible. Twice Miyazaki vomited on the descent, and it upset us to watch her suffer – in her condition, it must have been brutal to descend the ice wall. But we continued in the urgency to retreat to a lower elevation.

  In the distance below, I began to focus on black dots milling around, and I soon realized they were my fellow team members. At that point, no one knew we had reached the summit, or that the second assault had been called off. Their agitation must have reached full intensity by that point, and I was nervous to confront them. What would I say? Radio transmissions had been impossible for three days. We had been isolated in our success, and in our defeat for a second summit. Now we expected the rest of the team to accept, without question, what we had known for days. The only buffer I could offer in hopes that they would understand was news that our leader was sick. Some teammates congratulated us with genuine enthusiasm; others, like Sato, strongly pushed for the original goal, but to no avail. There would be no reconsideration.

  May 20th, Sunny. Left Camp 4 at 7:00, skipping breakfast, to go up to Camp 5. I realized the climbing was over in the second I saw the figures of the other climbers coming down from the col nearby Advanced Camp 4. My wish to continue was rejected by Miyazaki, of course, and I was assigned to go with the Sherpas to clear Camp 5 the next day. There I spent the night hungry and cold, with no food or enough clothes. I bet it was the worst night of my whole life.

  – Sato’s diary

  From the next day onwards the weather turned nasty, and we had reached the bottom of our food barrels, which in retrospect, showed that the success of one group on the summit had pushed the limit of our supplies. The gloom that settled on the team was a result of more than just the change in weather. Shifts in allegiance among members ran rampant, and the success of the summit was no longer straightforward. A celebration was unlikely to take place.

  I had mixed emotions, feeling guilty that I had reached the summit and confident that I could climb higher in the future without supplemental oxygen. I was worried about the well-being of my team members while imagining myself pushing harder next time. In other words, I had to remind myself that to each her own. I knew I would be back to the Himalayas, and for me, that was most important. Thus, our Annapurna was over.

  Yamazaki, Hirakawa and I had plans to continue our travels to the European mountains via Pakistan and Iran, returning to Japan in November. Our sightseeing was shortened by two months due to the pending conflict between India and Pakistan. I still managed an adventurous trip when enough money and tickets, from my husband, arrived via a coworker who had stopped in Kathmandu on her own travels. She timed her short visit with me to coincide with the end of the Annapurna expedition. This gift allowed me to travel to Europe and then return to Japan on the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow and across the Soviet Union. My husband’s words of encouragement scrawled in a note handed to me by my friend were enough to further enhance my mountain dreams: “Have our house, have the debt. Moving in there in August. Aim for 8000er next.”

  I married the right man for me.

  Aftermath

  Part of our team’s commitment to climbing Annapurna III was to publish a book under the aegis of the Ladies Climbing Club. When the book came to print, entitled Annapurna: Women’s Battle, it caused trouble in climbers’ circles. Complaints were made that the story was written in too direct of a manner, that the realities of the trip were too stark for the reader. At that time, mountaineering reports were transcribed in a poetic fashion, with flowery phrases like, “success from the unimpaired teamwork of all,” or “caring for each other, to the point of success,” “equivalent effort from all of us got us there.” There was never any mention of the unkinder side of human behaviour. Our book stood out because it shared the feelings of team members when things failed to go in the direction they had envisioned. Much to the dismay of readers, we put our honest experiences on paper; we wrote about what people said and how they felt.

  Over the years, I had heard many male-only expeditions tolerate unfriendly incidents, like someone having his teeth broken because he was hit by a teammate, a climber stamping his crampon-clad foot on another climber in rage, or loud verbal arguments between leader and team members dispatched over the radio. Yet, when the trip summaries were published, not a word of such stories was written. I find there is a vanity to that kind of presentation. It saddened me because a lot of male Japanese climbers, like Naomi Uemura, endured cultural doubt about their mountain endeavours and departed on expeditions as lone wolves. I felt that their stories were never fairly represented.

  When I finally returned home from Annapurna III and reflected on the expedition, there were times I wanted to ignore the dynamics that unfolded amongst team members, to the point of not wanting to see certain people. Time was the healer, as it often is, and I chose to move forwards. I recognized that the variety of experiences I had on that expedition, positive and negative, were a treasure to behold and that without them, my later Himalayan climbing – Mount Everest, in particular – would never have transpired.

  A dozen stories would be told if a dozen people were to experience the exact same event, just because each individual’s interpretation of the experience would be different. In the case of Annapurna III, mine was simply one story of nine, which might or might not correlate with my teammates’, but it was right to me.

  As assistant leader on the Annapurna III team, I wanted to be seen as a good person, one who pleased both leader and team members, a trait that likely originated from my childhood. A social teaching that was deeply rooted in me when I was young was to be a good girl and do no wrong, so no one could accuse me of poor behaviour. This, in addition to the Japanese tendency to not be different from other people, made it difficult to stand by tough choices that were required on the mountain. It was unusual enough to be a female climber in that era of yesteryear, let alone to make a stand in front of your friends that would possibly upset them. Today, young people are encouraged to be unique, but in my day, we were strictly advised that being different was abnormal. Whether one belief is
more correct than the other, I cannot comment, but what I do know (and it was the most crucial thing I learned from Annapurna) is that the old way failed me. Behaving as a social butterfly does not work in mountaineering – one must be clear with others; there is no time for mixed messages. Essentially, a person must be able to voice her opinion without worrying about criticism. To realize that for the first time at age thirty was eye-opening for me, and it changed my life thereafter. Once more, the mountains were my teacher.

  At the time of our Annapurna climb, it was customary in Japanese mountaineering society for the successful liaison officers of an expedition to be invited to visit Japan afterwards. So it was with Mr. Gopal. Since he had lived short-term in Japan in the past, Mr. Gopal asked if his son could step in for him. We agreed, of course. The result was young Basanta, twelve years old, being admitted to Higashi-Nakano Secondary School in the district of Tokyo where Miyazaki lived before she was married. Basanta boarded with her, and she offered to finance the boy’s entire stay. Miyazaki was also made guarantor of Basanta, a role that I also helped fulfill when a substitute was needed. Mr. Gopal’s son practically became Japanese. He was a bright boy and such a hard worker that he was offered a scholarship from the Japanese Ministry of Education. In his post-secondary years, he returned to Nepal to study medicine at Kathmandu University, and then he revisited Japan to continue his studies at Hiroshima University. The young boy we took under our wing became a prominent brain surgeon in Nepal, a truly unforeseen additional success of the Japanese women’s Annapurna climb.

  Before Miyazaki passed away in April 2015, Basanta arrived on short notice to say goodbye, but he arrived too late. Miyazaki-mama, his honoured name for her, had died.

  That fall, he also attended a fortieth-anniversary event for the Japanese Women’s Everest Expedition in Kathmandu. His arrival there, straight from the airport on his return from a medical conference in Italy, kindly demonstrated his ongoing appreciation for the Japanese women’s climbing effort.