by Junko Tabei
The snow continued to fall into the night and the potential for an avalanche hung over the camp. There, perched on the middle of the Lhotse Face, we had no control over our surroundings. We had only luck to rely on to make it through the night. I had Watanabe’s omamori and knew I could call myself alive if I woke up in the morning. I burrowed deeper into my sleeping bag, feeling the lonesomeness of my tent with no female teammates around.
CHAPTER 8
South Col
May 14
After two days of continuous storm, a vast blue sky finally spread over the mountainous world of white. Across the valley, Pumori and Lingtren were heavy with new snow and shone in the distance. Shortly after the Sherpas and cameramen Nakamura and Ajisaka left Camp 4 for the South Col, Ang Tsering and I packed up to follow behind. As I tied off the strings to the doorway of the tent, before I really stepped into the unknown of Everest, I prayed that I would safely return to this spot. Roped together, we began to climb.
The weight of my pack with an oxygen bottle and personal equipment felt so heavy that it drew all the energy from my body. The allotted two litres per hour of oxygen supply was not enough for me and again I struggled with every step of the climb, not to mention the knee-deep snow. When we hit the steep ice slope, my breath became even more laboured and the speed of my beating heart increased, as did the height of our view.
Eventually, we reached the Yellow Band, its exposed layer of rock from several thousand million years ago depicting the fact that Everest was once covered by ocean. Next was the Geneva Spur, the rock buttress that leads to the South Col. Ajisaka turned around then, and as he passed me on his descent, he offered the cheer: “Have a good fight!”
We had hardly crossed over the Geneva Spur and my legs felt like stiff sticks. Ang Tsering had followed me the entire way with almost no space between us, showing no sign of difficulty. Considering that he had only one litre per hour of oxygen at his disposal, his constant strength irked me.
My mood continued to worsen. The morning’s bright clear sky had turned grey without us even noticing, and it began to flurry. Even the tiniest of snowflakes falling around my face frustrated me to no end. Into the lacklustre weather, I began the traverse in slow motion – hike, rest, resume, over and over again.
A while after we had passed the Geneva Spur, the angle of the slope eased off and boulders came into view with a still-distant but wide space in front of us. Two tents that the Sherpas had pitched also became visible and my spirits lifted. “Tabei-san, South Col,” said Ang Tsering. We had arrived at Camp 5.
I knew of the South Col being referred to as the place that smells of death. I thought this to be a rather unusual reference as all I could picture when I arrived was how its spaciousness could accommodate a baseball field, a volleyball court and a tennis court all together. I wondered if that reference simply meant that at 8000 metres elevation, the threat of death was enough to keep most humans away.
More than sixty oxygen bottles and various tent poles were strewn around the camp, left from previous expeditions. In the monochrome of rock and snow, the yellow of the abandoned bottles was the only vivid colour. It broke up our moonscape-like existence and, somehow, I felt relief more than anything that other climbers had been there beforehand. It was encouraging. Where one might see garbage, in this case, I saw hopefulness.
“Tabei-san, the other side is Tibet. We can see Makalu very well,” said Nakamura. He had already finished shooting some footage of the area, and so he walked with me, his heavy camera equipment slung on his shoulder. His balaclava was outlined with frost and icicles hung from its mouthpiece. From where we stood, facing east, the South Col stretched up to Everest north–northwest and south to Lhotse, the fourth highest mountain in the world. Beyond the col stood Makalu.
The South Col was like a giant wind tunnel. Pitching a tent was almost impossible and required a group effort for fear of equipment being blown away. When Ang Tsering and I were still roped together, any slack in the line between us was lifted upwards in an arc that hung in the air by the constant force of the wind. Six Sherpas and I managed to help set up two tents, one of which I would share with Nakamura and Ang Tsering.
An attempted radio transmission to Hisano at Camp 2 failed with nothing but static over the airwaves. As a result, I left the refuge of the tent and walked in earnest to find a spot with better reception. The work it took to establish our camp had exhausted me – carrying rocks to secure the tents to the ground was one thing; doing so with no supplemental oxygen was quite another. Life on the mountain usually entailed collapsing in the tent and not moving from there once prone, but in this case, the importance of the radio call was critical. It was our only thread to the others below at Advanced Base Camp. Finally, after walking around for some time, I made contact. “Given good weather tomorrow, we’ll leave the South Col for setting up Camp 6 at about 8500 metres, and will attempt to get to the summit next day. Everybody here at Camp 5 is fine,” I said.
After a brief discussion with Hisano, reporter Emoto jumped in. “Tabei-san, Tabei-san,” he said. “It’s not in our favour to have our news scooped by any other climbing team nearby since the South Col sits in a good location for radio waves going through. I ask you not to mention your own name but to call everybody with a code number, yourself as Number One, Ang Tsering as Number Two and Nakamura as Number Three. OK?” Even though I agreed to his suggestion, I had no idea why we needed such covert action in our summit bid.
By the time I finished the radio call, I felt the last of my body heat drain out of me. My nose, ears and hands were almost numb, and I rushed into the tent to warm up. Then I was hit with thirst, a hellish thirst that burned my throat and made me throw back several cups of black tea as though I were on autopilot. The sweetness of the hot drink seeped into the dried-up tissues throughout my body. I felt somewhat revived. That night, I would share with Nakamura an oxygen bottle tuned to an added half litre of oxygen per hour for a better sleep.
May 15
At 3 a.m. I woke with a start when the oxygen flow suddenly stopped. Once awake, it was nearly impossible to fall asleep again, as the cold invaded my body as soon as I was alert. I must have dosed off enough to pass the time until 6 a.m., when I could no longer defer morning. For a moment’s reprieve from the bulky oxygen mask, I took it off and was surprised by the layer of slimy frost that lined the inside. Hence, the lack of flow that woke me up in the first place.
The wind gusts that had beaten against the tent all night had finally subsided. My face met sunlight as I popped my head out the door, and in looking around I realized that we were camped at a higher elevation than the summit of Pumori to the west–northwest from us. The day to reach Camp 6, the final camp before the summit, had arrived. I begged the weather to stay steady for two more days.
We were a group of eleven broken into three teams: eight Sherpas, one cameraman (Nakamura), and Ang Tsering and me. Each team checked and re-checked all the life-line equipment we would need to ascend: a tent package for Camp 6, cooking equipment, fuel, food, rope and enough oxygen bottles for Ang Tsering and me to make the return trip to and from the summit. It occurred to me that we would also have to account for necessary supplies for Nakamura, who would return to the South Col after filming our arrival at Camp 6. I processed this thought but was unable to tend to it with any speed – my actions were slowed by the high elevation. At 7906 metres, even tying a boot lace took forever due to lack of mental clarity and the additional clumsiness of thick over-mitts.
“Can we leave the ham? It’s too heavy,” Ang Tsering said as he put aside the tinned meal Hirashima had specifically prepared for us for the last camp. Resigned to losing the ham, I insisted that we should not leave any drink powder behind. With diligence and sacrifice, we were able to reduce the food weight by half.
Above the South Col, even the Sherpas used supplemental oxygen. Their gaits were strong, and I heard their crampons scratch into the ice and rock more solidly than usual. I watched as fo
ur of them in a row carried all the Camp 6 necessities across the terrain, with Nakamura and his Sherpas following behind. Meanwhile, I placed boulders around the tent to secure it from the powerful gusts that threatened to flatten Camp 5. It was my best effort at ensuring a place to return to when the job higher up was complete. Again, tying off the entranceway to the tent, I made a wish to come back to this spot with no accident. “When I am to be here next,” I thought, “the result of Everest will be with us, too, success or not.” I had two big days ahead of me.
At 8:30 a.m. I left for Camp 6 roped to Ang Tsering, just like the day before. We were the third of our three parties starting out minutes apart.
Prior to climbing Everest, photographs I had seen of the South Col showed it to be fairly barren with prominent black boulders exposed to forceful winds. But the day I walked away from there, summit bound, the scene was one of pure white, a blanket of fresh snow. Only slivers of ground around our tents showed the colour of the earth. It displayed a stark beauty all its own.
We climbed the slope that directly connected to the summit, and at 8020 metres, the angle steepened and we were on more of a ridge, bare rock to one side, windblown snow on the other. The angle was so steep that when I looked up to see where Camp 6 would be situated, I almost fell over backwards. Otherwise, I was in good shape. My gait felt light and I was not burdened by the weight of my pack, probably due to the 3 litres per hour of supplemental oxygen (compared the one litre per hour I was restricted to the day before, which I did not appreciate very much).
My pace was solid, and thanks to the oxygen and my strong partner, Ang Tsering and I passed Nakamura, and even caught up to the lead Sherpas. This was a good sign. At 8300 metres the slope angle eased a bit and the wind lessened, suggesting a break. Our tents at the South Col were far below, and we were high enough in elevation that soon we would surpass the summit of Lhotse.
Slowly smoking his tobacco, Ang Tsering pointed out the surrounding area. “Those are Cho Oyu and Gyachung Kang; Tengboche is somewhere there, and Gaurishankar is that one,” he said. He looked as relaxed as if resting at a tea house on a moderate pass somewhere other than Everest. His gentle demeanour showed no sign of anxiousness, which in turn helped me to relax.
I began my first radio call in code, as requested yesterday. “This is Number One. Camp 2, can you hear us?”
I laughed at the response from Emoto: “This is Camp 2, where are you Tabei-san?” Did he not instruct us to avoid surnames on the radio for fear of giving away our status on the route? I still had no idea why that was important, which made me laugh even more at his use of my name. So much for incognito.
We continued on our way, up a gully flanked by rocky outcrops. Each step was tentative in order not to bang our oxygen bottles against the sidewalls. Another snowy steep slope led to a flat area the size of a tatami mat where the lead Sherpas had already dropped their packs, signifying Camp 6 – the final stop before the summit.
It was shortly after noon hour and snow flurries had begun again. The peak of Everest was hidden, but its presence was forthright. Our location at 8500 metres was almost equal to that of Lhotse’s summit to the south.
The Sherpas had chopped out enough space for a two- to three-person tent. Sixty-centimetre bars were hammered into the snow through the corner loops to secure our home for the night. For added peace of mind against the wind, we crisscrossed 8-millimetre rope over the top of the tent and secured it to the frozen ground. I was familiar with the potential danger since one of the Sherpas had shared with me the story of a tent being blown away in similar conditions.
An almost fully buried blue tent left by a Spanish team was still visible. The team failed to reach the summit due to high winds despite their success at making Camp 6. Also left behind, although possibly by another team, were eleven bottles of still-usable oxygen, jam and soup mix. The regulators for the oxygen were incompatible with ours, so we also would have abandoned them if it were not for the work of our Sherpas. They carried the bottles down from the mountain since such equipment is considered precious, thus lucrative, to them.
I shook hands with the Sherpas, so grateful that they had climbed this far. My appreciation of their day’s contribution was immeasurable. They had relentlessly ferried loads, set up camp and collected snow to melt for water before it was eventually time for them to return to Camp 5, all in the effort to get Ang Tsering and me to the summit of Everest. Soon, it would just be the two of us.
Gyaltsen spoke first: “Don’t go up if it’s too gusty tomorrow.” My heart warmed from his gentle voice, such an unlikely match to his large size. “Give us a shout on the radio, whatever happens. We’ll be waiting for you guys at the South Col. Take great care.”
“We’ll come up to get you the day after tomorrow, no matter what. Never be too daring. Make sure you return,” said Reenjee and Lama-san, both vigorously shaking hands with me. I poured my thanks out to each of them: Lhakpa Tsering, Ang Phurba, Anima, Phurba Tenzing and Ang Mingma. Thus, I bid our Sherpas farewell as they climbed down the steep slope from Camp 6 in lightly falling snow.
Nakamura, who had carried heavy TV cameras up this far and was filming Ang Tsering and me busying ourselves at the last camp, also prepared to go down. “Wait a second,” I said, thrusting at him a cup of leftover black tea, still slightly warm from the Thermos in my pack.
“No, thank you. I’ll rehydrate when I get down. Even a drop is too precious here to share,” he said. It would take nearly two hours to reach the South Col so I forced him to enjoy the drink. Shoulders buried in gear, he was off. “Be careful and hang in there,” he said to me.
Then Ang Tsering and I were alone.
The daily routine of entering the tent began. We cleaned snow from our packs and stored them inside, sat at the entranceway facing outdoors and removed crampons, tapped overboots together to shake off more snow, secured crampons to the outer tent straps so they stayed put, then peeled boots off and retreated indoors. Straightaway, I felt cozier.
We unpacked the food, stored the oxygen bottles away from where we would light up the butane stove and readied ourselves to cook. Due to the high elevation, the stove barely cooperated, but we managed to melt some snow. We drank milk tea, coffee, hot chocolate, green tea and hot lemon juice, one after the other until each of us had consumed six cups worth, but felt no difference. Rehydrating was nearly impossible, and my lips were dry before the next batch of snow began to melt.
Ang Tsering stopped me short of trying to grill frozen cheese directly over the flame. “It’s not good to burn food in the sacred fire,” he said. Although I craved the taste of warm melted cheese, I would never do anything to upset him, for the faith of the Sherpas is one to uphold.
We finished our supper by 5 p.m.
“What was on the menu for dinner tonight?” Advanced Base Camp asked the same question every evening.
“All right, here I present the menu for the last official dinner at the final camp on Mount Everest. To start, we had dried spinach soup to which we added dried green onion and carrot and miso flavour for perfection; followed by the main dish, which was freeze-dried instant rice with nori mix sprinkled. Delicious!” We laughed as we spoke in a dignified manner, like waiters at the finest of restaurants. Our high-quality radios made it sound like our teammates at Camp 2 were in a neighbouring tent, and I found that encouraging. By then, our thirst returned with a vengeance, and the simple conversation tired us out. Having had no supplemental oxygen for the duration of mealtime and the radio call, I felt light-headed and I already longed for the 1 litre per hour that was allotted for quiet time in the tent. Meanwhile, Ang Tsering had a look of contentment on his face as he puffed on a cigarette.
Despite our best efforts, the tent lay victim to the winds of Everest. The gusts were strong enough to nearly lift us off the ground, even with the oxygen bottles in position to weigh down the corners. Ang Tsering checked each bottle one by one, worried that their rolling around from the wind would reduce their set p
ressure, a disaster that would kill us on the summit. Deciding to check the pressure on the bottles or not was in itself a dilemma, because by simply opening the valve to test it, we would lose oxygen and decrease the available amounts for the next day. Thankfully, the pressure in each bottle remained at the necessary level for the summit assault.
Ang Tsering and I spoke in a mixed language of Nepali, English and Japanese. Flavourful as it was, we had no difficulty communicating with one another. When I had to go to the toilet, he secured me to a rope from inside the tent. When I was about to change my socks to a dry pair, he took out a thicker pair of his own and suggested I use them. “These are better,” he said, “French made.” Not only were we climbing partners, we were friends.
On the pre-summit evening, I thought to myself, “Whatever we smile at or cry for, tomorrow will be the day we get the result, the result of 1,400 days of preparation.” Unfortunately, I was unable to feel the excitement of my own words since my main concern was the potential change in the weather. Ang Tsering was equally as worried, and he continually stuck his head out the tent for an update. Thankfully, the light snow from earlier in the day had ceased and it was a strikingly clear night full of stars. The black silhouettes of Lhotse, Nuptse and Pumori were sharp against the stellar sky, the beauty of which made our nerves and the wind tolerable.
Dressed in down jackets and tucked into sleeping bags, the extinguished stove between us and a few more cups of tea gone by, and with oxygen set at a flow rate of half a litre per hour, we were ready for lights out by 9 p.m. Outside, gusts of wind as loud as subway trains roared us into a fitful sleep.
CHAPTER 9
The Summit
May 16