by Junko Tabei
Tell me how you arranged the good weather for Mt Fuji, as opposed to the rain we had every day up till then. It was a wonderful thing to climb Fuji with the keeners, in particular, the women. I also made good friends with the Everest summitters. I found it very interesting to know that, despite our different social backgrounds, all of us share certain ideas in terms of women’s role in each society.
I think the summitters in general are a group of cheerful people with a fun sense of humour. Research says that the women mountaineers who climb higher than 7,000 metres spend more than a quarter of their lifetime laughing, share domestic works with their partners and wear flashy-coloured clothes. Also, 89 per cent of women who have experienced climbing higher than 7,000 metres show more resolute attitudes toward everything….
I laughed having read Bradey’s letter, and I especially enjoyed her parting offer: “Please come to New Zealand, Junko and Setsuko. I’ll send the brochure for the routes I recommend.” Climbing begets climbing, and in an unforeseen way, Everest opened the door even wider for many of us to continue following our dreams. These added friendships were a bonus to the many years of hard work and commitment that led us to Everest in the first place.
CHAPTER 12
Mount Tomur, Pobeda Peak
With the sight of the admired summit in front of us, we turned around and retreated down the mountain.
Mount Tomur, meaning “iron peak” in Chinese, has the highest summit in the Tian Shan Range that lies between the former Soviet Union and China. I was there on an all-women’s expedition, a group of climbers that never gave up, until there was no other choice. We had to turn our backs on the summit. Prior to that decision, we climbed with all our might. There were four of us ahead of the rest of the team. We were climbing a bowl-shaped snow slope on a diagonal course towards a rock wall that, from below, looked like a ship’s prow. We named it Battleship Rock and had set our sights there for Camp 3. Despite our constant efforts, the rocky feature was still a long way off, and Yuko Kuramatsu, the youngest member of the team, was suffering from altitude sickness. We were at 5550-plus metres of elevation, and her headache had progressed to severe. The other members, Fumie Kimura, Mayuri Yasuhara and I, were fine, but we had to act quickly for Yuko’s sake.
As team leader, I decided that she would immediately descend to Camp 2, but she could not go alone. I weighed my choices. First, I asked her to empty her pack of the shared food and gear; the rest of us would divide the items up to carry. Next, I measured who was best to assist Yuko down the mountain. Yasuhara was at the top end of the rope, followed by me and Kimura, with Yuko tied in last. If Yasuhara left with Yuko, there would be too much extra rope at the front and tail, but if Kimura went down, Yasuhara and I could continue with the system we had in place, and I could manage the extra rope behind me. Decision made, I asked Kimura to join Yuko in the descent. “You bet,” she said. “I’ll go down with Yuko to Camp 2 and come back up once she is met there by the others, so I’ll leave my backpack here. Our trail is clear and I’ll be fine. I’ll catch up with you soon.” I nodded at her confident reply and sent them on their way.
“I’m sorry,” said Yuko as she turned from our objective.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Drink lots of water and rest well at Camp 2. If your headache remains tomorrow morning, go down to Camp 1. Please keep us updated by radio.” She agreed to my words and began the descent with only personal gear in her backpack and Kimura two steps behind.
I coiled up the length of rope that lay behind me and secured it to the top of my pack. I knew we should continue to climb as high as possible while the snowpack conditions were safe. Yasuhara quickly repacked Yuko’s share of gear and then began her strong steps up the untouched slope. The bowl was like a blank canvass, marked with the brushstroke of our ascent. Heads down and with no chit chat, we resumed the struggle in knee-deep snow. The two sounds that broke the cocoon of silence that enveloped me were my laboured breath and the bite of crampons as I kicked them into the slope.
It was 1986. We were an all-women’s team of twelve, granted a permit from the Chinese Mountaineering Association for the first foreign-party ascent of Mount Tomur. We had also applied for a permit for the Soviet Union side of the mountain but were rejected; foreign expeditions were not yet being accepted there. Available information on the climb was slim, and all we had to rely on were reports from a 1960s Chinese expedition.
Greatly admired by climbers, the Tian Shan Mountains are a mountain range of dreams. To finally set foot there was almost unreal, but the environment posed challenges. Even reaching Base Camp was not straightforward. We used packhorses to carry loads of gear and food, hiked through areas with no trails or signage, relied on locals as guides and had to endure endless meetings with the liaison officer assigned to us by the Chinese Mountaineering Association. At first, we were hopeful since the liaison officer was said to have been a member on the earlier Chinese expedition, but his memory was rusty and details were vague. We were on our own in this regard.
A maze of crevasses had us carefully navigate the glacier from Base Camp to Camp 1. A series of seracs were added to the puzzle en route to Camp 2, often forcing us to climb ice walls rather than contour around them. We were behind schedule and began to push things a bit, which meant that when the four of us left to establish a third camp below Battleship Rock, we had not allowed ourselves enough time to acclimatize. The result: we were down two climbers with Yuko suffering from altitude sickness and being accompanied by Kimura, while Yasuhara and I drove on.
We took turns breaking trail up the slope. Incredibly, Kimura caught up to us, yet Battleship Rock appeared no closer. Finally, as darkness began to settle, we arrived within an acceptable distance of the rock face. I checked my watch – 6 p.m. We dug a platform into the steep slope and pitched the tent. After brewing a hot soup, I stepped outside. There was heavy snowfall and the temperature was warm. I had a bad feeling about the combination of these factors. As we slipped into our down bags, we convinced ourselves to sleep that night regardless, and in the early morning we would re-evaluate the snow conditions.
In our cavelike hole, the tent was protected from the falling snow, but I could not put to rest the looming sense of danger I felt. My heart stirred in nonstop discontent. In the wee hours the next day, Kimura was the first out of the tent to gauge the situation. “Lots of fresh snow,” she said, “about 70 centimetres.” My heart sank further as I pictured that much new snow on such a steep slope. Avalanche. We were sitting ducks.
Stay there or move? We had to decide, so I stepped outside, too, for a better look. The steep drop of the slope beneath us was accentuated by the dark crevasses we could see lower down. If we moved, we would likely trigger the mountainside to release. First, I had to warn the members at Camp 2 and have them descend to Camp 1. Then we would climb higher once we knew everyone else was in a safe zone. This was the only reasonable solution I could formulate. Kimura and Yasuhara agreed. It was more dangerous for us to head downward than cover the final distance to Battleship Rock. A light snow continued to fall. The clouds hung low and visibility was poor.
As soon as we received a radio call to confirm that Camp 2 was vacated and our teammates were safe, we started to climb. I was in the lead. Heavy packs, a steep slope and new snow dictated a gruelling pace. We were at an elevation of more than 6000 metres, and I was breathing hard. I felt rushed. Ultimately, I reached the bottom of the rocky prow and hammered a 60-centimetre snow picket into the slope. “Climb up!” I yelled once I was secured to the anchor. Kimura was next on the rope, and then Yasuhara – they would climb in unison as I pulled up slack in the line. I was braced on top of an overhang and was unable to see their movement, but as the rope fed through my mitted hands I knew they were on their way. Soon I saw the top of Kimura’s helmet and was relieved that she only had 5 metres left to climb. Then, a split second later, she disappeared.
With a distinct and unforgiving sound, the snow cracked across the slope between K
imura and Yasuhara, and the mountainside gave way. The instantaneous force of the huge avalanche ripped out the snow picket I had hammered in, and with it, yanked me from my perch. I was thrown onto the slope below, somersaulting once, and then began to turbo slide downhill atop the chunks of moving snow. A single thought jolted my brain: React! I flailed my arms and legs as much as possible while hard snow like sharp needles hit my eyes, nose and mouth. In no time, I covered the distance that had taken us more than a day to ascend. My thoughts expanded to this moment possibly being the end of my life. “Shinya!” I called, the name of my young son, eight years old, at home waiting for his mother to return. I felt helpless. What will happen next? When will it stop? What can I do? These questions fiercely stormed my mind as the avalanche pummelled me farther down the slope.
BAM! The massive pressure of the updraft slammed me against the snow, and all movement stopped. The avalanche had dropped into a crevasse and the resulting updraft lodged me onto the surface above the lip at the last minute. I was buried like a human corkscrew up to my hips. Both my arms were free, but my legs were unable to budge, as if set in concrete, and my body began to shake. Hastily, I pulled the rope that lay in front of me on the snow, shouting, “Are you alive?” I desperately looked for Yasuhara and Kimura, insistent that the rope was our life line, that my friends would be all right. My mouth was completely dry.
More than 10 metres away, a pile of snow shifted, like a mole finding its way to the surface. It was Kimura. She, too, pulled on the rope, yelling, “Yasuhara-san!” There was another stir in the snow farther away, and Yasuhara appeared. Both were alive and uninjured. Miracle of miracles. They brushed themselves off and rushed over to help me, chopping with ice axes and digging with their hands through the debris that held me firmly in place. At last, my legs were freed.
Looking upslope, we saw the start of the fracture line close to where we were positioned before the slide. It was obvious another avalanche could be triggered in the bowl and that we had to get out of there. “Leave your packs and let’s go down,” I said, knowing that time was of the essence.
“Are we really throwing them away? A brand-new tent is in there. That’s 70,000 yen,” piped Kimura.
“Life is more precious than a tent, isn’t it? We can work hard and buy a new tent again – if we go home alive. The priority now is to get down to a safe place as quickly as possible.” Relieved of loads, we began our retreat.
We could hardly move fast enough in the deep snow, but we urgently pushed forward. Sure enough, another avalanche released, its white powder cloud chasing us like a giant wave. “Escape to the side!” I shouted, but we were too late. The edge of the avalanche hit us and we fell like dominos. We were covered with snow but not buried. We shook ourselves off and started to scurry down again. I looked back up the slope to reassess, and a third avalanche was on its way. “Coming on our left this time!” My heart pounded with alarm, but the debris stopped before it reached us. A depleted trio collapsed to their knees.
“So, avalanches happened as predicted.”
“Good thing we came down.”
“Had we stayed there any longer, we’d have all been buried alive in deep snow.”
“We should be safe here for now.”
Thus went the conversation we shared while trying to catch our wheezing breath. Truth is, we were terrified. Recalling the initial fall from the top scared us half to death.
Camp 1 came into view. The other team members milled around full of worry. They could only imagine what had occurred on the slope above and had no idea if we were dead or not. Fear abated as we approached the camp, and they hugged us with immense joy while we stood there, covered head to toe in snow. “Great to see you again, alive!” they cried as we gathered in a tent that night to celebrate our survival.
The merriment was short lived. At around midnight, much like at Camp 2 on Everest, another avalanche released and we were caught in its grip once more. With no warning, the rumbling noise like that of an oncoming train descended on camp. Although we were not hit head-on by the fourth avalanche, the force of the wind it created ploughed into our tent, pushing it away as if it were a feather. There were six of us asleep inside, and we were tossed around like marbles, banging into each other over and over. We were utterly useless in the fight against nature.
“What’s happening?” we yelled, and then with the braking sound of a big truck, all movement ceased. I reached to unzip my sleeping bag, but fumbling in the darkness and overcome with confusion and shock, I was unable to locate the zipper. Trapped in my bag, I shouted, “Is everyone OK?”
Desperate pleas for help responded. “I can’t move. I can’t move,” cried the voice of one of the younger members. I felt the fabric of the tent beside my head; I would have to cut it open to get us out. I finally unzipped my bag and grabbed the knife I always wore on a cord around my neck, and pulled open the blade with my teeth. I slit into the tent wall with abandon. “Save us now,” I thought. “I’ll deal with the tent later.”
A rush of cold air struck my face, and in the black of night I could only see avalanche debris – it had scarcely passed us by. There were still two other tents to address, and frustrated by the difficulty I had in clambering out of my sleeping bag, I yelled, “Hey, are you safe?”
“We’re all right,” came a response, “cutting the tent open now.” One by one, members crawled out of the enormous mess, hair strewn and faces bewildered, altogether shaken. Each person was accounted for, physically present in a setting of panic. I knew the cold temperature was our next enemy.
“Everyone, get dressed, put your boots on!” I demanded, despite my own overpowering sense of fear. I tried to ignore the playback in my mind of the events that had just occurred – an avalanche blew by our tent in the middle of the night; inside, we were blown around like leaves in the wind. I could barely articulate what to do next, but I kept delivering instructions. To a younger member who sat stunned and non-responsive, I spoke clearly: “Find your headlight first, put your down jacket on, find your boots and put them on.” I realized my own boots were missing, but luckily, I had on down booties, an adequate substitute.
The camp looked like a battlefield, with the ongoing threat of attack from above. Petrified of further avalanches, we swallowed our fear while we grabbed whatever we could from the tents and organized ourselves to move.
We could not expose ourselves to a mountain where avalanches occurred at midnight. As soon as dawn was upon us, we would leave. In climbing, the purpose is to stand on the summit, but more important, there should be the same number of people in the party at the start of the climb and at the finish. I refused to turn my back on this conviction. “Come early morning, we’ll go down,” I concluded. “For now, let’s prepare ourselves to not get cold and wait for the sunrise.” The climb was over.
One teammate was too frightened to speak. I warmed my hands by rubbing them together and wrapped her cheeks with my palms. “It’s OK,” I said. “We’ll go down together in the morning.” I massaged circulation into her earlobes. With a big sigh, she began to cry, clinging to me. “It’s all right,” I repeated, “it’s all right.” I gently patted her back like a mother would her child.
The nighttime hours slowly passed as we waited in dread of our surroundings. All the gear was packed; as soon as any hint of morning light appeared, we would be on our way. As much as a hot tea would warm our spirits, we kept the stoves stuffed away, too scared of exposure to another avalanche. I wished I could have formulated a prayer for dawn to arrive faster than normal.
We huddled in two separate groups to avoid a mass burial should another avalanche hit. Those were long painful hours of waiting we endured, rubbing each other’s backs and hands to encourage circulation, and stomping around to stay warm. My mind replayed the day’s events, and I relived the panic I felt when I slid down the slope in the turmoil of the avalanche and thought my life was over. Yet no one died. And there we stood, the group of us, having survived a near bur
ial at midnight. I wanted us back at Base Camp. I was as scared as the others, although no one would guess. They were pale and shaken; I felt responsible for cheering them up and getting us through this ordeal. “Remain patient and calm,” I said to myself, “especially in the time of alarm.”
I spoke with team doctor and assistant trip leader Kaori Hashimoto. “We’ll split into two parties, mixing the Himalayan-experienced members with the novices. The ropes should be on the outside of the backpacks, ready to go, because even a small crevasse may be difficult to cross – our bodies don’t work well in a state of panic,” I said.
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll do a medical checkup on everyone once we’re at Base Camp.” Her shared confidence offered me the hint of relief I needed.
My toes were numb. The temperature had dropped, and it was bitterly cold in the deepest of night. “Too cold for another avalanche,” I thought, but I knew Mother Nature was unpredictable. Her unleashed power could demolish us in an instant. With that in mind, I had to humbly accept our situation while her stormy rage stabilized.
Silhouettes began to take shape. Dawn was upon us. The excitement from the night was over, giving me the chance to stop and think: “Don’t hurry; look carefully around; check on everyone.” We had to be methodical in our retreat, be certain that equipment was safe, that harnesses were correctly buckled up. There was no room for error. The party leaders were instructed to stay at least 20 metres apart at all times, providing some space between groups but not enough for us to lose sight of one another. Then we began our final descent from the mountain.