by Junko Tabei
It hit me how much my family supported my Everest dream when one time I watched my husband walk towards the house. He carried a shopping bag in his arm that overflowed with longs stalks of green onions, and our daughter on his back tucked in a nenneko, a traditional puffy winter jacket designed to hold a baby. At other times, he would wrap Noriko in a blanket and drive in circles on local roads until she fell asleep. He would do this to accommodate Everest meetings in our home while keeping our child peaceful.
Masanobu helped keep the chaos at bay, and I was lucky to have found a husband like him.
Frustration
Generally, the team met every other weekend from Saturday to Sunday. Members would travel far distances overnight by train on a Friday with sleeping bags at the ready. Finding locations for these weekend meetings was not easy, as we tried to incorporate some level of physical training into the agenda. We often invited climbers who had experience on 8000-metre peaks to share their stories. We would cook and sample foods that could work well as part of a high-altitude menu, and we woke at 4 a.m. on Sundays for a run, workout and basketball game. By 9 a.m. meetings would resume with presentations and discussions of trip details. Frustrations, however, quickly mounted amongst the younger new members of the Ladies Climbing Club. They shared a common feeling of doubt based on the disproportionate amount of time spent discussing equipment, supplemental oxygen and food supplies rather than with actual climbing.
Unfortunately, annoyances began to run deep. Some women were skilled at taking notes or organizing files of information while others were not, and this bothered people. We talked about these administrative tasks countless times to no avail, and conversations on the way home after these weekends escalated. I began to feel hollow inside and was asking myself why we were so disconnected as a team. I questioned if it was because Everest was not their dream after all. I suddenly felt irritated at that possible truth. I was also hurt by accusations that were directed right at Hisano and me, harsh words that were spoken without thought. Comments like, “Looking at past grand-scale expeditions, the leaders and assistant leaders usually worked with all their might for the team, almost abandoning all other responsibilities for the couple of years prior to the actual trip. The leaders in this team are too lazy, and that’s why we lack sponsorship.”
It made my heart sink.
I understood the importance of socializing with potential sponsors, of having a couple of drinks with them to share stories of our endeavour. An evening like that was critical to receiving funding for the expedition, and to decline an appearance could be detrimental to the team. Yet I was also stretched to my limit by attending the mandatory club meetings. When I excused myself from a sponsors meeting, having received an invitation at short notice, I was met with unsympathetic support. “In other climbing parties, progression of a trip was dependent on the assistant leader’s positive attitude. Perhaps we need an assistant leader who doesn’t have children.” This argument was presented to me several times, and it caused turmoil in my mind. When Noriko was born, I had decided not to use daycare because I wanted to raise her myself, at least until I left for Everest. I knew more effort was required for a married woman with a family to pursue an expedition of this grandeur. I worked relentlessly to establish a solid home life for my daughter while remaining 100 per cent committed to the team. I had to ask, would a single person devote every aspect of their life to this expedition? If yes, then I would not only give up my position as assistant leader, I would step down from the team.
When I shared my concerns with Hisano, she wasted no time in fixing the situation. She immediately travelled six hours from Nara to Tokyo and spent two days speaking with team members. In an unusually intense tone for Hisano, she clearly spelled out her wishes: “With few exceptions, everybody has family and a job, so it would be natural to say it isn’t feasible to concentrate all of one’s attention only on Everest. And the members who live farther away take more time and pay higher costs than the ones who live in Tokyo just to attend the meetings. If this is a big problem, the members who complain about these conditions are welcome to make a new climbing party, choose a new leader and go their own way.”
Hisano’s intervention kick-started me as well. I should not have been the one to complain about travel, living in relatively nearby Kawagoe. In addition, my family had made sacrifices to support me thus far; I was unwilling to waste their contributions to my goal. More so, what about my own passion for climbing Everest? I could not let that die. If other members failed to trust Hisano and me as leaders, then I would dismiss them – they were welcome to run their own expedition.
I remained strong-willed about Everest, but tears of doubt fell down my cheeks at night. In those moments, I would turn to my little girl and hold her sleepy warm hands and exclaim in my heart, “Mom will fight! Get going, Junko!”
In February 1974, one year before departure to the Himalayas, we held a winter training camp at Gaki-dake. On a snowy day, we broke trail in knee-deep powder the entire way from the train station to the mountain’s summit. There, I finally witnessed what the team had to offer: thirteen women setting a solid pace uphill with no complaints. A renewed strength bubbled up and filled my entire body, convincing me that, yes, we would achieve our goal on Everest. I often drew from the feeling of that day to get us to the summit.
However, no sooner would I feel confident in our team than another argument would develop. A repeated subject for discussion at our ongoing meetings was how to save money and resources. For instance, based on a person drinking 300 millilitres at a time, and to save fuel from heating more than the allotted amount, we aimed to use cups sized at that exact measurement. As minor as these details seemed, we had to scrutinize them from all angles because once on the mountain, every facet of planning would count. Still, these conversations remained triggers for dispute. “We wouldn’t have to talk like this if we had good sponsors,” was the common rebuttal. The constant conflict of deciding whether or not to seek sponsorship was a major cause of headache.
We were torn between the desire to remain financially independent as an expedition and having the advantage of monetary support to cover expenses. We neither preferred external pressure to perform successfully on the mountain, nor, as Miyazaki stated, someone else footing the bill for us to have fun in the mountains. Yet, the outlay was simply too high. Multiple times I recalculated how much it would cost for fifteen women to climb Mount Everest. The answer was always the same: 60,000,000 yen, which equated to 4,000,000 yen per person, a small fortune. Granted, this included everything from air tickets to Duralumin ladders for the icefalls to the 300-millilitre cups we needed, but in Japan, it was equivalent to the cost of having a house built. None of us could afford such a price. It was clear we needed financial assistance.
We approached major Japanese corporations for donations, but the country was in recession from the 1973 oil crisis, and available funds were limited. It was a period of rampant rumours about jumps in gasoline prices and toilet paper disappearing from store shelves; people lived in fear of running out of basic supplies. Women stood in endless lines at grocery stores to ensure that they could provide food for their families. Not many businesses were in favour of an all-female team on Everest. It was considered unrealistic, unproductive and most of all, detrimental to our families. “Raise your children and keep your family tight rather than do something like this,” potential sponsors said. I quickly realized that past success on Annapurna III was not enough to draw from in terms of being respected as an international mountaineer. I was disappointed in the disdain my teammates and I experienced as we reached out for support for our trip.
Finally, a phone call from a correspondent at the national newspaper The Yomiuri Shimbun finally suggested we were making headway. Having heard of our women’s Everest team, the paper’s journalists were interested in an interview. Shortly after, two reporters attended one of our weekend sessions at Okutama. They could not have appeared any more different from each ot
her. Yoshinobu Emoto easily looked the part of a mountaineer and had been a member of a mountaineering club in university. He was fit and agile. Setsuko Kitamura, a young woman fresh from university, appeared to have no previous relationship with the mountains whatsoever, and she looked like a big-city fashion model. We were quick to judge her as an unlikely candidate for a reporter on a mountaineering expedition such as ours, and we were adamant in thinking she was more suited as a soap opera star than a climber, at least until I received a call from her three days after we met.
“I’m Kitamura who visited your club the other day,” she said. “I know I’m asking abruptly, but please take me in as a member for Everest.” At our meeting, she was relieved to see that none of the team members looked like superwoman with bulging muscles but instead were ordinary ladies with normal jobs like office workers, housewives and school teachers. She was so impressed by how all of us were throwing our passion into this non-profitable idea of climbing Everest that she begged to be a part of it. She explained that with her past work experience in mountain rescue in the Northern Alps of Japan, she, in fact, loved the mountains as much as I did. “Please, take me in,” she said.
I, the seeker of strong will in people, could not deny Kitamura. I recalled her fashionable presence that seemed unsuited for the mountains but was intrigued by her determination. Unable to say no on the phone, I invited her to my home to discuss the possibility. After spending time with her, chatting in my living room while we played with my daughter at our side, my intuition buzzed: “This woman is a strong one. She would be useful to the team.”
Shortly afterwards, we received the significant break we needed. The Yomiuri Shimbun, in conjunction with its branch of Nippon Television Network Corporation, was willing to sponsor us. “We’re impressed by your indefatigable will, despite desperately scarce resources and funding, and that’s the very reason we’d like to support you.” Well, how about that?
The power of the media was not to be underestimated, a lesson that was evident with our Everest expedition. Immediately after the news of our sponsorship spread, the corporations that were reluctant to support us in the first place began to make donations. The Ministry of Heritage and Education offered use of its name as a sponsor, which provided a tone of authority to the expedition. A local transportation company organized space for us to store our expedition equipment and packaged supplies. We were shocked by how in place everything felt as support for the climb grew.
The number of women who had first joined the team dwindled due to a few people’s disappointment with the burden of the unexpected desk work. It was obvious they were only interested in the expedition for the Everest name and were unable to commit to all aspects of trip preparation. No problem, we let them go. In the end, we were a team of fourteen women plus a female doctor, who joined in 1974. With this consolidated party of women, any lingering doubts about our dream dissipated, and our meetings became highly active and realistic.
The list of the Japanese Women’s Everest Expedition official team members was announced in October 1974, four months before we departed for Nepal. Following that, the remaining task was to actually pull together the equipment and supplies we needed according to our previous two years of trip research. Simply put, the crazy days were on the rise.
Pack and Go
I knew The Japanese Mount Everest Expedition 1970 was in a different league than our trip in terms of scale (thirty-five team members versus our fifteen) and budget (their 100,000,000 yen to our original estimate of 60,000,000), but I soon realized that any big-mountain expedition cost a significant amount of money, regardless of party size. To offset our expenses in any way possible, we drew from numerous resources that were already part of our regular life. We saw no need for tables and chairs; we planned to use boxes from loads being carried up and down the mountain. We based most meals on the ingredients of miso and soy sauce, which we all had plenty of at home. One of our proudest innovations was transforming car covers, which are windproof, into the outer layer of gloves. Our creative thinking reduced trip expenses to 43,000,000 yen. Still, half of our load consisted of the six tons of food we brought from Japan. We made all efforts to reduce weight, one gram at a time; we stripped every item of its wrapping, we dried and powdered heavier condiments (the necessary miso and soya sauce), and we transferred items into light-weight plastic containers. Even the cardboard centres (at two grams each) of toilet paper rolls were discarded, and the paper alone was carried in plastic bags that also doubled as cushioning in our packs.
By October our supplies were ready for a final inventory. We camped for a week at the Yamato Transportation warehouse to sort everything into very precise 30-kilogram packages. When our job was complete, we celebrated with a soak in a nearby sento (public bath). We must have been a sight, a group of giddy women with months of preparation behind us and Everest in our future. From onlookers, it was assumed we were part of a prevailing youth program that supported movement from the countryside to Tokyo for employment. We laughed when asked if we were in the city for work. “Yes, something like that,” we replied, bursting into more laughter once we stepped away from the front desk. As I smiled at the scene around me, I was flooded with a feeling of anticipation – the next time I would open those boxes that we had so carefully organized would be in Nepal.
Supplies were shipped from Yokohama to Calcutta, India, where they would pass through customs and then be transported overland to Nepal. I volunteered to oversee this process, along with fellow climber Yumi Taneya. The two of us left Japan in December 1974, one month ahead of the rest of the team, in order to keep track of the countless and valuable boxes that were key to our expedition.
In Japan, families have a special celebration, called 753, for their child’s third, fifth and seventh years of life. Prior to my departure in December, my husband and I chose to commemorate Noriko’s first 753, on November 15, 1974. Noriko was not quite three at the time, but with the “just in case” mindset I had in leaving for Everest, I felt the need to honour my daughter’s age. For all I knew, it could have been my last chance to do so. This was how I began to compartmentalize thoughts when a big climb was on the forefront – what if…? Every day, I considered what would happen if I failed to return from Everest. As I walked by kindergartens and elementary schools, I wondered if I would be present for Noriko’s first-day ceremony for school. I began to record conversations between us, Noriko and me, and her favourite songs and stories that we shared at bedtime. I did all I could to show my daughter that I loved her.
I would be gone from home for at least five months. Masanobu and Noriko were to live with my sister Fuchi’s family while I was away. The act of moving Noriko’s belongings – clothes, dresser, tricycle, dolls – to her aunt’s house added to the hectic final weeks of preparation, and I caught myself a few times wondering how much simpler it would be for a single woman with no children to organize herself for a trip of this magnitude. Then Masanobu stepped in: “Don’t worry about us. Trust me to provide a good life here in Japan. Focus only on yourself and your team; complete your mission from your heart without regret.” His words allowed me to move forward.
Family support extended beyond my husband. Fuchi’s seventy-eight-year-old mother-in-law, who also lived with my sister, said, “We’ll look after Nori-chan. Go to Everest, don’t be worried.” Like the thaw of snow in springtime, her assurance warmed my heart. I needed this kind of encouragement to reassure me that everything would be all right. Fuchi was exceptionally helpful. Although we shared different interests and activities, and she was not a mountain person, she supported my endeavours and welcomed Masanobu and Noriko. It must have been difficult for her to see me leave my little girl behind, yet she did everything she could to make it the best for Noriko, even with three sons to care for. Funny enough, after Everest, I heard Noriko say, “Hey, Mom, is meshi ready yet?” Meshi (meal) is a word used only by men. Clearly, she had been well looked after by her older boy cousins in my absence.
“Don’t leave, Mom,” she pleaded, clinging to me. When I pulled away, I dared not look back as I walked to the gate, my daughter’s cry trailing behind. Her tiny voice filled my head for days after I left Japan.
CHAPTER 5
To the Top of the World
After long months of preparation, arrival in India felt abrupt. The country’s humid tropical air hit us with gusto and the mixed smell of rotten fish and human sweat drowned our nasal passages. Our T-shirts were soaked in minutes and dragged at our skin, discomfort setting in like a monsoon. Welcome to Calcutta.
Taneya and I were the first members of the expedition team to leave Japan. We had slightly more than a month to organize everything before the main party would meet us farther afield in Nepal. As two Japanese women alone at night in Calcutta, we were on full alert, not to be mistaken as vulnerable tourists. As we stepped from the airport with our valuables hung around our necks and hands clutched to the handles of our bags in thief-proof fashion, we were ready for the onslaught of locals. “Taxi, taxi,” the drivers solicited, and we prepared ourselves for any potential scams. Some taxi drivers liked to trick foreigners with excessive fares. I remembered this from my previous visit and understood that part of reaching Everest was surviving the city’s mayhem.