Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

  Base Camp was a brighter shade of green than when we were there last. To leave the glacier and stand on soil was a strange sensation, but a welcomed one. Three team members who had volunteered as base-camp managers held a banner written in Chinese characters, to greet us – , “A PASSIONATE WELCOME, EVERYBODY BACK HOME SAFE.”

  Once we were within a short distance of camp, we all began to run. There was an onslaught of hand shaking and hugging and patting of backs. The message was reiterated from our friends: “It’s great, so glad to see you, coming back safe is the most important thing!” We were a team of distorted faces blurred with tears and runny noses, and for us there was no happier moment.

  Although we were granted the first-ever permit for a foreign expedition on Mount Tomur, to continue the climb was beyond us. We chose survival over summit. It was a big change in plans to call off the ascent, but all members agreed that it was the right decision. Tomur was one of only a few mountains that I retreated from, forgoing the chance to stand on its peak. More than a decade passed before I had recovered from the fear that engulfed me on that trip.

  Beyond Intellect

  “It’s strange. Something is wrong with my body. I can’t even put my foot forward.” In the second when I wondered what was happening, I spun around and felt a huge force push against me.

  In 1990, four years after retreating from Mount Tomur at the 6200-metre mark, leaving the peak unclimbed by my team, I received a phone call from a fellow climber. “As the fiftieth anniversary event for my university’s mountaineering club, we’re planning to climb Mount Tomur. The only information available is the report from your expedition. Would it be possible to meet you and talk about it?” he asked. At the time, a Japanese team was yet to climb the highest peak in the Tian Shan Mountains.

  So it was that three robust mountain men visited my home in Kawagoe. One of them I immediately recognized; he was the husband of a teammate of mine from Everest in 1975. I attended their wedding. No time was wasted before we delved into the contours of Mount Tomur. I was quick to admit that the route my team had taken was overly prone to avalanches, and I adamantly suggested they find another direction to climb. “I can’t tell you if we could have found a route onto Battleship Rock,” I said, something I would never know, “but I’ll lend you all the photos we took. Study them well.” Again, I strongly encouraged them to take a different route up the mountain than we did, and the three of them left my house.

  My heart raced in August of that year when the news leapt at me that three climbers were missing on Mount Tomur. “It couldn’t be,” I thought, “not the three men I spoke with.” I tried to convince myself it was impossible, the coincidence, but sure enough, in a deep state of concern for these men’s lives, I traced the news to its source and yes, in fact, the three climbers, the strongest on the alumni team, were at the front end of the line when an avalanche struck. Same route as ours, same exact spot at 6200 metres in elevation. The man I knew, the one married to my Everest teammate, the father of three very young children, had been killed. It broke my heart to watch his kids run around, innocently at play, when I paid my respects to my friend.

  I blamed myself for their accident, regretting that I had not told them more decisively that they should not climb the route I had been on, that avalanches were certain, that it was unsafe. I should have told them to look for another mountain.

  Nine years later, from when I first saw those children play after their father had died, visions of their youth remained forefront in my mind. I still carried remorse when I thought of them, and I worried about their mother. From time to time, I sent small gifts, like gourmet treats or customary seasonal delicacies, as a way to express my ongoing sorrow.

  Pobeda Peak

  This fateful mountain, Mount Tomur, never quite escaped me. When the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991, climbing permits became available from the Kyrgyzstan side of the peak. It was time to try again. Once more, our party of twelve women, including two base-camp managers and hikers who planned to only go as far as the start of the climb, applied for and received the necessary documentation to set foot on Mount Tomur. Our expedition began in the small town of Almaty in Kazakhstan. A single day’s drive from there led us to the unique tent-village of Kalkara in a setting of wildflowers. The location was ideal – there were restaurants and saunas, and the tent accommodations were sized for two people, with a front room attached. The ceilings were full height so we could enjoy standing upright. We settled in to acclimatize there while hiking the surrounding mountains. The remote destination was surprisingly busy with hikers and climbers from all over the world, but, as usual, we stood out among them as a group of Japanese women.

  In Kyrgyzstan, the Chinese name for Mount Tomur is Pobeda Peak. Its neighbour, Khan Tengri, is a Matterhorn-like spire reaching 7010 metres, while Pobeda stands taller at 7439 metres but looks lower because it is within such a wide range that spreads like a massive horizontal wall.

  Its extensive high-elevation ridgeline, 4 kilometres in length, makes Pobeda Peak one of the most difficult climbs among the five 7000-metre peaks in the former Soviet Union. The success rate on the mountain is low, while its death toll is the opposite. Quite simply, there is no other mountain that requires such a long ridge walk at an altitude of 7000 metres.

  The span of a helicopter flight from Kalkara to Base Camp transported us from a village in full bloom to the sparseness of a glacier. Still, the sun shone bright. The mountain’s obvious long, foreboding ridge skimmed the skyline, and high on its left stood Pobeda Peak. The view was different from that of the Chinese side, and the daunting ridge appeared difficult to reach.

  Six of the women spent only one day with us, trekking in the area, before they flew back to Kalkara. Left behind were four climbers and two camp managers. More than once the Russian guides said to us, “Pobeda is a tough mountain. You need quite a bit of stamina for the long ridge.” Its far-reaching silhouette proved their point.

  To acclimatize, we ferried food and tents up to Camp 1. We repeated the trip three times, winding our way around the crevassed glacier. If anyone on the team failed to acclimatize well with this exercise, they would not climb any higher. It was strictly ice climbing above Camp 1, with fixed ropes and jumars. We had to move fast through that section and could not risk multiple climbs and rappels there. Hence, only those who were strong enough to continue would be chosen to do so.

  We progressed well, yet one of the summit selects (I call her T) began to fall significantly behind. We helped T lighten her pack load, but she still could not maintain her pace. The remaining team of three had to stop and wait for her to catch up at the end of each pitch. Finally, one of the Russian guides stated that our teammate could not continue.

  Obviously, expeditions involve investment – time, financial and personal commitment. We were simply a group of women who wanted to climb; we had neither a fancy title for our team nor outside monetary support. Each one of us paid the same amount to be on the trip. To tell someone she could no longer be part of the climb was detrimental to friendships and possible future expeditions. Nonetheless, as leader, I had to seriously consider the guide’s input.

  I reminded myself of how an expedition worked, that an individual’s accomplishments, no matter what elevation they climbed to, contributed to the overall goal of reaching the mountaintop. In the case of Pobeda, we had a single chance for the summit. We would climb directly from Camp 1 to Camp 2 and Camp 3 to the top, with no ferrying of loads back and forth, and using supplemental oxygen above 7000 metres. We would carry the minimal number of oxygen bottles required to summit, meaning that our slower teammate would have to carry her own, which seemed unlikely given her state of weakness. Even if the four of us arrived at Camp 1 together, it had become obvious that she would not be able to continue past there; she was already stumbling on her crampons between Base Camp and Camp 1. My decision was clear. I would have to tell her the most disappointing news for a climber to hear, despite the trip’s intent of b
eing a fun, low-key expedition.

  We reconvened at Base Camp and brewed tea, my mind heavy with the conversation I was about to engage in. I spoke honestly and openly with T, and expressed my concern for her current condition. I explained that the summit was no longer possible for her to consider. She disagreed and pressed me to reconsider. “I hear you,” I said, “but that’s not an option on this mountain.”

  A lingering silence filled the space around us. The tea had long since turned cold. The two other teammates remained as quiet as mice. They knew that if they voted for T to climb higher, then their chance for the summit would be compromised. We relied on T’s complete understanding of the scenario. It was difficult for everybody.

  “I see,” she finally said. “I know I’m not in good shape. But it’s such a regret to give up after getting all the way here. I really want to keep going – but I know it’s not possible for me.” Her voice broke off with the weight of her own sadness. But after another moment of silence passed, she spoke again. “I understand. I’ll wait at Base Camp for you.” Her positivity was welcomed but made it no easier for me. It was agonizing to tell a teammate that she could not make it to the summit while unsure of how my own body would perform higher on the mountain.

  Two days later, three of us and the three Russian guides left Base Camp for Camp 1. Upon nearing our destination, a hanging glacier that sat about halfway down from the 4-kilometre-long ridge (but still significantly high above us) released and came plunging down. “To the right! Run to the right! Put your backpack like a shield and hide behind it!” yelled one of the guides. I ran a bit then dropped my belly to the ground and braced myself with my pack held firmly in front. Chunks of ice ricocheted off my pack as the avalanche came to a stop slightly ahead of us. We were safe. I must admit I was bold enough to take photographs from my hiding spot as I felt certain we were far enough away from the debris runout. Knowing my history on Tomur, I may have pushed my luck a bit.

  It was agreed that we would move Camp 1 a little higher than originally planned. “Above here,” our guides said, “there is no need to worry about avalanches.” When had I thought that before? Needless to say, we moved the tent.

  Early the next morning, we packed all the gear we would need for the summit, including food, gas and climbing equipment, and began our ascent on the ice wall. At 10 a.m. we again heard the sound of an avalanche. I turned to catch sight of it just as the tent we had slept in a few hours earlier was being blown away like a floppy rubber ball. We looked at each other, acknowledging that our only choice was to continue. Each movement was tediously hard work as we climbed the steep ice wall with heavy packs, but we were fuelled by the need to reach the start of the much-anticipated ridge. There, we would pitch Camp 2.

  Finally, we were met with a narrow spot of snow and ice that we could call home for the night, with the Inylchek Glacier, the largest glacier in Kyrgyzstan, in the background. With barely enough room to move, we secured the tent to the ground, and when we sat down inside, our feet hung over the ledge into space. If we thought that was cramped, we should have waited until we had to use the toilet, which became a team effort. Essentially, a person had to be on belay for a free-hanging bathroom break. Coordination by all was essential to not tangle any ropes or trip anyone, an ordeal that required patience and calm and was not meant for the faint of heart.

  The weather was good and seemed like it would stay that way for the next few days.

  After a night’s rest, we began to climb the final steep rock line that ran to the ridgetop, our route covered in continuous snow and ice. As a carryover from previous days, the sustained steepness and heavy load played on me. But I felt such relief to be out of harm’s way that I was happy to focus on careful foot placements and ignore any discomfort. After nearly seven hours, we reached the ridgeline at 7000 metres, and the Chinese side of the mountain was exposed to the south. I asked my teammates to secure me on the rope so I could climb down there and have a look around. On belay, I saw the familiar landform, the one we had named Battleship Rock. Assuming the three missing male climbers from the university alumni team had fallen from there, trapped in an avalanche, I closed my eyes and placed my hands in prayer position. I asked for their eternal rest in peace. In that moment, I felt an unusual sensation overcome me, akin to a new presence in my body. I had hoped for lightness when I bid them farewell, but that was not to be. I literally felt a weight placed on my shoulders.

  The dark of night was closing in, and we had to find a campsite. Two snow caves, likely from a previous party, presented themselves on a worthy patch of ground that was wider than our previous bivy site. Perfect. We made ourselves at home inside, cooked supper and ate. I had trouble falling asleep but persuaded myself to lie down, knowing that my body would benefit from rest even if I was wakeful. Quietly, I thought about the next day’s summit assault.

  By morning, I was ready to climb. I packed a bivouac sack with me in case we were delayed in returning to the snow caves, and we split the group gear amongst us. One of the guides set off, and I followed. “Here we go,” I thought, “the first step of the day.” Then I felt it again, that odd sensation I had the day before when I looked down at Battleship Rock. “It’s strange,” I said to myself. “Something is wrong with my body. I can’t even put my foot forward.” In the moment that I wondered what was happening, I spun around and felt the impact of a huge force against me.

  I checked my surroundings; nothing had changed. My pack had less weight in it than the previous day but somehow felt heavier. Was it possible that those three missing men were telling me not to go? I was unsure, but I tried to understand the undeniable weight I felt on my shoulders. “Wait,” I thought, “they also wanted to reach the summit.” Suddenly, it made sense. They wanted to go with me. “OK, let’s go together then,” I quietly said. My legs continued to feel extremely heavy, and since I had never suffered from altitude sickness before, I questioned what else could be the cause of this distress if not the added weight of the souls of three missing climbers.

  The flow of bottled oxygen, which we switched on for the summit assault, helped me feel a bit lighter in step, but I still positioned one foot in front of the other with great care. My breathing was strained, feeling the effects of elevation. The narrow ridge was juxtaposed between China to the south and Kyrgyzstan to the north, without an inch to spare in between. Each of us had to remain sharp on the rope until this section was over. I felt like there were several persons breathing via my lungs. How much could I sustain for those men to reach the top? I was determined to continue; I had to continue. My body was depleted, but my will to stand on the summit with these fallen climbers was too great.

  We walked along the 4 kilometres of ridgeline at 7000 metres to reach the summit of Pobeda Peak. It was an endless stretch, but we succeeded in reaching the summit. The pressure of having to descend by nightfall had us quickly take photos and head back down, retracing our route. Darkness settled in once we were past the marathon ridgeline, and then the heavens opened up with thunder and hail. We found a small space in which to retreat; we would either wait out the storm then continue, or spend the night there. Tucked in our bivouac sacks in a seated position, we were comfortable enough for the duration, even though the bottles of oxygen measured empty. We shared the remaining food and water we had and were able to reassure Base Camp via radio that we were in decent shape.

  The howling wind diminished the next morning and the sky was clear. A fast exit from the night’s bivy had us reach the snow caves in good time, and we gathered the gear we had left behind only a day earlier and prepared to hike down to Base Camp. Before I left, I pressed my hands together in prayer once more towards the Chinese side of the mountain. In my heart, I spoke the words, “We were able to get to the summit. Thank you for protecting us. Please rest in peace.” I bowed in respect and grabbed the rope for the descent.

  Right away my body became so light that I thought I was flying. I had let the three men return to their final pla
ce of rest on Mount Tomur. Feeling reassured that I could tell my friend that her husband had reached the summit with me, I began the long rappel. I was finished with this mountain.

  Usually I am not one to recognize divine inspiration, let alone act on it; however, there have been several occasions when I have had a hunch to refrain from climbing on a particular day. On Everest, despite clear weather on a day when we were carving a route up the Khumbu Icefall, I had the feeling of not wanting to climb. While the rest of the team was adamant about continuing up the route, I was hesitant, for no obvious reason. I had a hard time speaking my mind but eventually suggested that we call off the day’s plan. They said I let them down, that I was being too soft, but later that day a huge part of the icefall collapsed, burying our route. I was as surprised by the incident as anyone, and there was no viable connection between my feeling of reluctance to climb and what had happened, but there was also no denying it.

  The experience on Pobeda was a far greater phenomenon for me; I had never felt anything as profound as that before. Although I did not share my story right away, my fellow teammates commented on the notable change they saw in me on the mountain. On our descent, I told them about the three Japanese climbers who had gone missing in 1990. They commended me for allowing the ghosts of those climbers to finally reach the summit. “They must have been waiting for you,” one of them said, confirming my perception of the occurrence. At the end of the day, safely back at Base Camp, we pressed our hands together in a three-way prayer, and bowed once again, saying goodbye to those who were now at rest on the other side of Pobeda Peak.

  I retold the entire episode to my Everest friend when I returned to Japan. For years to come, I enjoyed hiking with her in her retirement as she shared stories about her grown-up children.

  With time, people’s emotions change, and the intensity of sadness and suffering lessens – we heal. It was fourteen years before I was able to write about the wonder I experienced on Pobeda Peak. The splinter of pain and guilt I felt when I first learned of the alumni tragedy had finally lost its sharpness.