Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

  As predicted when we first labelled the boxes with the Chinese symbol for money, payday was chaotic. As before, we had the porters make thumbprints by their names in the record book, indicating receipt of their dues. The red muddy paint from the ink pad splashed all around as though to emphasis the day’s excitement. Those Sherpas who were able to count money kindly helped those who could not. With cash stuffed in their shirt pockets, some porters scurried home while others went directly to the bars in Tengboche.

  Unexpected incidents had more impact the farther away we were from home. We had travelled a long distance by the time we reached Tengboche, and acclimatization was well under way. The trip was unfolding as planned. So it was a great surprise when a scene presented itself on an overnight training session to the Ama Dablam Base Camp. Six of us and Ang Tsering were slowly making our ascent. We were busy chatting with Sherpas along the way and enjoying the landscape while enduring the difficult approach. Ang Tsering spoke of his climbing experiences on Dhaulagiri IV with a party from Japan’s Gunma Prefecture and a French team on Everest. As elevation increased and we tired, we could barely nod in support of his stories. The weather was beautiful and one of us dared to say, “Looks like we can summit Ama Dablam tomorrow.”

  Then a Sherpa yelled, “Somebody is running up here!” None of us could see anyone at all, but Sherpas have keen eyes and I knew better than to doubt him. He could already discern who it was before we could even place the figure on the trail. “It’s Karma; he’s running. Something must have happened.”

  When Karma arrived to where we stood, he handed me a letter from the journalists, the tone of it curt and unforgiving. “Leader Hisano has gone back to Japan today. We hope this is not some kind of joke. What do you take us for? We are here to work as journalists, not to play around. Needs to be explained as soon as possible.”

  I felt sick, like the wind had been knocked out of me. Without hesitation, I left the group, leaving someone else in charge, and returned to Tengboche. On the way, the breathtaking scenery failed to come into view as I ran downhill then up the final slope to the village, barely keeping pace with Karma.

  The seven journalists were sitting, having tea at the round table in a nice, sunny spot at our camp. Iwashita, the chief director of Nippon Television, wasted no time in thrusting the letter at me that Hisano had left behind. I immediately recognized her handwriting. I stormed to my tent to read it, not even taking my boots off.

  Dear Tabei-san, and all the members and journalists, I have decided to go back to Japan. Though it’s for a short visit, I feel awful. All I can do now is ask for you to be OK with it. I plan to come back to Tengboche so that I can leave for Base Camp together with you. Please take care. Hisano, March 1 at Kathmandu.

  When I reappeared from my tent, the journalists threw their questions at me.

  “Didn’t you know this beforehand?”

  “Explain the reason.”

  “What will you do if the leader doesn’t come back?”

  “How can I report this mess to my office in Japan?”

  “Will you welcome her back and treat her as leader if she returns?”

  I had no answers. I was utterly shell-shocked by Hisano’s behaviour. I could not believe it. The longer I stood there, speechless, the more irritated everyone became with me, and slowly, every ounce of my energy drained away until I felt entirely empty.

  At the time, I had no idea why Hisano had left, though hints from members whispering back and forth about her conduct reminded me of a phone call she had made in Kathmandu. That call must have been the turning point for her; words must have been spoken that made her abruptly depart. Nonetheless, Hisano’s actions were out of my hands, and something suddenly tweaked in me when I reached my limit of assault from the journalists. Recharged, I stood up to the team and declared that Hisano would return during our stay in Tengboche, and if by chance she did not, then I would take over. End of discussion.

  As confident as I was in front of everyone, once alone, I was flooded by tears of frustration and misery.

  I sympathized with Hisano, as it must have been difficult for her to have written that letter, but I was convinced that no matter what the situation, I would never have walked out on our team. To me, without total commitment, especially from a leader, Everest could not be climbed. There was no turning back, risks and all. My thoughts began to churn; I knew sleep would not come easily that night as concern shifted from whether or not the team would accept Hisano when she returned to the question of would she return. The answer was revealed ten days later.

  The sound of a Cessna aircraft filled the sky above Tengboche. “She’s back! Our leader is back!” was the cry that promptly dissolved the lump in my chest. Was it fear that had been lodged there for the past week? Anger? Either way, relief made its way in, and I could breathe again.

  The members of the team, along with Iwashita and Emoto (representing the journalists), sat down with Hisano to hear her story. Mostly what we received was a heartfelt apology as she chose not to disclose why she had left. She knew we were annoyed and simply asked for forgiveness. Everyone was willing to move forward with the promise that such a thing would never happen again. The issue blew over, and discussion turned to more imminent issues related to the climb. Another hurdle was behind us.

  To Base Camp

  At the end of our two weeks in Tengboche, we split the team into two parties. The second party would stay an extra night at each stop along the way from Pheriche to Base Camp while the first party stayed only one night. This approach would allow for a more gradual and continued acclimatization but was considered a variation from previous men’s expeditions. Our team’s main concern was to arrive at Base Camp healthy and fully adapted to the higher altitudes. We knew the value of morale and how quickly one’s spirits could decline when unwell, and with only fourteen climbers, we could ill afford to have anyone suffer from altitude sickness. Still, as hard as we tried to avoid symptoms, a few of the members complained of headaches at 3900 metres, and only Nasu, Watanabe, Kitamura and I could move around with no difficulty when we arrived at Base Camp on March 16. We appreciated that everyone would acclimatize in time, but it took some longer than others.

  At 5000 metres in elevation, the mountain terrain of the Himalayas is dominated by moraines, which are loose rocky remnants of moving glaciers. On our approach, Base Camp was soon upon us when the landscape changed from moraine to blue-white ice. Then, Nuptse’s knifesharp ridge stood above us, and frozen icefalls, like huge building blocks piled atop one another, filled the view. Once again, in the distance, Everest showed itself, the black, rocky West Ridge marking the horizon. The summit remained hidden behind the up-close angle of the blocky icefalls, giving Pumori the chance to loom above in all its beauty. Had we been any higher in elevation, we would have seen Cho Oyu stand even taller. At Base Camp, we were pinpoints, tiny dots, on the world’s greatest real-life topographical map. There we stood, amongst giants, humans in these vast waves of glacial ice. The essence of the scene took my breath away.

  Essentially, we moved into Base Camp, making the place inhabitable for our group of seventy. We were a mix of women climbers, Sherpas and journalists calling the location home. We established camp on the glacier far above where past parties had pitched their tents, deterred by the amount of scattered garbage that had been left behind, a sight that surprised us. We knew then that we would strive to leave less of an impact on the mountain. For our team, toilets for men and women were set up. Then the ground ice was levelled and covered with flat rocks to create platforms for the many tents our horde required. Boxes of food and equipment were piled up in disarray, ultimately needing to be placed in order, depending on which of the higher camps they were destined for, and stored in our warehouse of sorts, which was walled in by stacks of rocks. Deemed straightforward tasks at sea level, these jobs demanded a great deal of time and effort at Base Camp. I could barely carry a 30-kilogram box more than a few steps before needing rest, my throat in
stantly parched. We were already paying our dues in the thin mountain air.

  When it came time to bid the porters farewell, our sentimental side kicked in. We had trekked many days with this group and felt part of a cohesive team. “Come back to help us when we return,” we said. “Thanks for carrying our loads. Go straight home; don’t lose your money.” We could barely sum up what they meant to us as we shook their hands, and in jumbled Nepali, English and Japanese, said goodbye. Once on their way, they hurried down the path, leaving the rest of Everest for us to navigate. The yaks and yak handlers departed as well, and the snow began to fall.

  I stood there for a moment, watching the porters disappear from view, reflecting on what it had taken so far to reach Base Camp. The events that would occur from then on were anyone’s guess. The number of days on the mountain, success on the summit, people’s ability to rise to the occasion – it was all a mystery at that point, but I was ready for the story to progress. Then, sure as I was that the demands of the climb would be incessant, shouts began to pour in from behind me: “Tabei-san, where should we store all these boxes?” “Tabei-san, someone says the camera box is missing.” “Tabei-san, how many tents for the team?” I turned towards the camp, finally face to face with our Everest.

  By nightfall of the first day at Base Camp, we were exhausted. After a simple supper, we collapsed into various tents, me with five teammates – Manita, Watanabe, Nasu, Naganuma and Kitamura. One after the other, we squeezed in like sardines, slipping into our sleeping bags, alternating head and feet so we could all fit across the tent floor. Once settled, I lay wide awake. My mind whizzed with general excitement at my whereabouts, plus the logistics and plans that ran through my head for the coming days. Then Kitamura began to cough, and as though a dam had been released, so did the others, one by one. Sleep hovered around most of us that first night, but maybe we needed to get the worry of a wakeful night out of our system.

  We were unaccustomed to mornings at Base Camp. Instead of the sound of chirping birds, as in the various villages on our approach, silence in the wee hours was encroached upon by the roar of distant avalanches and rockfall. A sea of orange-coloured tents brightened as hints of sunshine gently reached us at 6 a.m. By 8:00, complete daylight poured over the camp and the surrounding ice seracs twinkled in its illumination. Ribbons of smoke rose from the site of the Sherpas’ routine prayer rituals. So, began our days in the wilderness of Everest.

  By the time the entire team was at Base Camp, the second party having arrived on March 18, our home felt properly established. On the Khumbu Glacier, Nepali and Japanese flags swayed from logs that were used as poles and secured by a base of stacked rocks. We gathered around the flags for an official prayer to grant us safe climbing. Several of the Sherpas had trained as lamas, or teachers, and were able to lead us in the proper chants for the occasion. The ritual was quite beautiful. A prayer book was placed on a rock, and beside the book was a plate filled with mounds of tsampa (like buckwheat flour), butter and rice. Pleasant scents from a variety of smoked tree barks wafted in the air around the flags. A string of tarcho (prayer flags) were hung from the logs of the two national flags and tied out to the sides of the main poles. It reminded me how we hung flags at school athletic meets in Japan, and I smiled at the memory.

  In front of the makeshift altar stood the Sherpas, then the kitchen staff and high-elevation porters. Next were the climbers, and behind us, the journalists. Everyone listened with quiet minds, humbled by the experience. The mantra “Om mani padme hum” was chanted into the thin air. My fellow Japanese team members and I joined in, and we threw the tsampa powder over one another’s shoulders after the prayer was complete. We added a toss of rice in the direction of the summit of Everest, wishing for a safe ascent. I also threw the rice grains towards the Khumbu Icefall, adding my own silent prayer: “Please let us maintain the same number of people on the way up and on the way down. And may success on the summit also be granted.”

  After a few more days of acclimatization, Hirashima, Arayama, Fujiwara and Naka descended to Pheriche, unable to shake the signs of altitude sickness. As soon as they descended to a lower elevation, their symptoms would subside. But, by way of past example, we were not a team to put one problem to rest without another coming to light. One of the Sherpas who had accompanied the four sick team members to Pheriche had a fight with a Sherpa from another party and sustained an injury. A message had been sent to Base Camp requesting our team doctor go to Pheriche and check on him. The general reaction was one of frustration: “It’s not a good time to fight. We need to establish Camp 1.”

  On it went with daily dramas. I not only had to complete necessary administrative tasks, like writing to the Ladies Climbing Club headquarters and each of the sponsors in Japan to announce our safe arrival at Base Camp, and share in the demands of climbing, I also often acted as team mediator. There was no shortage of problems to solve. Demands poured in like a waterfall: “Tabei-san, the pair of crampons we gave to the Sherpas was the wrong size.” “Tabei-san, the journalists need to know who will go to the icefall tomorrow.” “Tabei-san, a French trekker asked to stay in one of the team tents overnight.” “Tabei-san, is gyoza all right for supper this evening?” The repetitiveness was tiresome, almost funny, but necessary. Solving each dilemma at Base Camp, as was done in Japan and Kathmandu and Tengboche, contributed to headway on the mountain.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Route

  The scale of expedition dilemmas varied from minor to serious, and one day, right after Taneya and a few Sherpas had scouted the Khumbu Icefall for the first time, Nasu raised a concern that needed attention. “Isn’t it a bit off our goal to do the scouting with Sherpas? Shouldn’t we do it all by ourselves since we are a women’s party?”

  Until then, I had given little, if any, thought to this point. We had planned to use Sherpas from the get-go. A women-only ascent, without Sherpa assistance, was never discussed in our four years of trip preparation, and suddenly, the idea was being raised for the first time at Base Camp. I tried to swallow my surprise. Hisano, who must have been equally caught off guard, replied, “I hadn’t thought about this before; does anyone have an opinion to share?”

  Nasu continued, “We should make our own route, because we’re a women’s party, and if we can’t reach the summit and have to turn back halfway up, then so be it.” A few people offered a slight nod in agreement, but mainly we were silent.

  I asked Taneya what she thought since she was the first to scout the icefall earlier that day. In a barely audible voice, she replied, “I think it’s hard to fix the route all by ourselves.”

  Had we judged Nasu’s input and stated that her idea was wrong and that a women-only approach without the help of Sherpas was not an option, she would have lost face amongst her team. It would have been unfair to disregard her input. “All right then, let’s go out by ourselves, alone, tomorrow and see how it goes,” I said, and the meeting was adjourned.

  I spoke with Ang Tsering afterwards, summarizing the discussion, and he nodded in support. With respectful understanding, he said, “We don’t want to waste even a day, so we’ll take up the things needed for going through the icefall, like ladders and ropes, by ourselves, the Sherpas, and try not to disturb the ladies’ activities.”

  The next day’s events yielded a different result than what Nasu had hoped. Even with lesser weight to carry, the women team members were stressed to keep up to the Sherpas burdened with heavy loads. For one, our smaller muscular stature limited our performance in comparison to theirs. As well, the Sherpas’ capabilities at high altitude provided them with an advantage we could not compete with; we needed their assistance. Gradually, the goal of tackling the route setting unassisted was forgotten and became that of an innocent dream.

  The Khumbu Icefall is a notorious feature on Everest. It continues from the elevation of Base Camp (5350 metres) to Camp 1 (6050 metres), blocking the summit from view. Safe passage through the icefall was considered the key
to success on the mountain, and here, input from the Sherpas was invaluable. Drawing from previous experience with other expeditions, they could quickly surmise conditions and offer advice. “This part was good last year, but it’s not good this time. Let’s explore more to the right side,” they said, their opinion worth its weight in gold.

  We had hired ten high-elevation porters, and they transported ladders and logs to bridge the crevasses in the icefall. They hiked behind all of us, carrying the heavy equipment on their backs. It was a dangerous maze. Countless deep crevasses existed in unpredictable locations throughout the rugged icefall and, at any time, posed the threat of possible collapse. The gaping cracks were pitch black to the very bottom, making the measure of their depths impossible. If a person were to fall into one, they would likely perish. We found ourselves chanting “Om mani padme hum” along with the Sherpas as we crossed the monstrous chasms.

  In a feat that was more construction than mountaineering, we positioned the logs across the “crevasses of no return,” as we came to call them. This was a job much easier said than done. It was physically difficult but also technically challenging – a little to the left, a little to the right, a shallower angle, more upright – as these wooden structures were hard to steer.

  The ladders were easier, and thankfully we had two of them. They were custom-made out of Duralumin and cost 150,000 yen each, an expense we were happy not to have scrimped on. A ladder stretched 15 metres, which allowed us to cross the largest of open crevasses, even the ones we considered impossible at first glance. Crossing the ladders with crampons on was a challenge; it required guts. When tied into the rope for safety, the weight of it gave a backward tug, and I felt like I was being pulled into the gaping space below. With every step, the ladder flexed with no warning, and my gloves, smeared with snow, slipped on the metal as I longed for a secure grip. Fixed ropes that were relied on in the morning dangled powerlessly into the abyss by evening due to the collapse of ice at the crevasses’ edges. The process of trusting our set-up was unbearably tense, yet we repeated it over and over and over, one crevasse at a time, up and down and up and down the Khumbu Icefall. It was a treacherous gateway to Everest that had to be surpassed.