Honouring High Places
Page 27
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU/ LADIES CLIMBING CLUB
Masanobu and Shinya at a motocross race, circa 1986.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei with French cyclist who rode down Aconcagua, 1987.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei, Majima and Kitamura (with guide top right) climbing Vinson Massif in Antarctica, 1991.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
On the summit of Vinson Massif, 1991. From left to right, Kitamura, Majima and Tabei.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
The Tabei family (from left to right, Noriko, Shinya, Junko, Masanobu) at the summit of Kosciuszko, Australia, 1991.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei (pink shirt) and Kitamura (white shirt) with the locals, Carstensz Pyramid, 1992.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei with Illaga villagers, Carstensz Pyramid, 1992.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Wet feet, Carstensz Pyramid, 1992.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei (left) with one of her “young lads” on the summit of Carstensz Pyramid, 1992.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei climbing Khan Tengri (~6400 m), 1993.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei with Watanabe-sensei, Everest trekking, 1994.
COURTESY OF EIKO TABE
Tabei with Watanabe-sensei, Kathmandu, 1994.
COURTESY OF EIKO TABE
Tabei (left) and Kitamura on summit of the Eiger, 101 years of age between the two of them, 1995.
COURTESY OF SETSUKO KITAMURA
Tabei with her mother, Kiyo Ishibashi, circa 1995.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Mount Everest seen from Cho Oyu, 1996.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
The Iranian team leader (second from left in patterned sweater) is invited for tea by the Japanese women’s team, Pobeda Peak, 1999.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Climbing Pobeda Peak, just below Camp 3, 1999.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
The 30th anniversary of the first women on Mount Everest, Kathmandu, 2005. Tabei (left) summitted on May, 16, 1975; Pan Duo summitted eleven days later.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei on the way up to Pico Bolivar, 4978m, the highest mountain in Venezuela, January 2008.
COURTESY OF EIKO TABE
Tabei singing at Women of No Fear concert, for Cheer Up Tohoku, 2012.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Cheer Up Tohoku concert by Women of No Fear, 2012. Tabei is third from left, in white patterned dress.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei with her son Shinya, Western Australia, 2013.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei offering reassurance to a tired student hiker on Mount Fuji, 2014.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei (second from left), hiking on Mount Fuji with the high-school students of Tohoku, 2014.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei (bottom row, in pink shirt) on summit of Mount Fuji with high-school students from Tohoku, 2014.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Forty years after the summit of Mount Everest, Tabei reunites with former kitchen helper Lhakpa Norbu, who advanced to sirdar in his career, Everest trekking, 2015.
COURTESY OF YUMIKO HIRAKI
Tabei inspecting a garbage incinerator (in need of replacement) provided by the Himalayan Adventure Trust of Japan, Lukla, 2015.
COURTESY OF YUMIKO HIRAKI
The fortieth anniversary Mount Everest (in the cloud, to the right of visible peak) trek, 2015. From left to right, Yoshida, Tabei, Mori, Hiraki.
COURTESY OF YUMIKO HIRAKI
The Tabei family (Masanobu, Junko, Shinya and Noriko) at the Everest fortieth-anniversary event, Kathmandu, 2015.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei with former liaison officer Lhakpa Tenzing, forty years after her summit of Mount Everest, Kathmandu, 2015.
COURTESY OF YUMIKO HIRAKI
Makeup time for Women of No Fear concert, June 2016.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Summit of Mount Kerinci (3805 m), Indonesia, Masanobu (left) and Junko (third from left), on her final overseas mountain trip, May 2016.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Tabei ready to start the day on Mount Fuji with high-school students of Tohoku, her final mountain trip. She climbed to 3010 metres. July 2016.
COURTESY OF TABEI KIKAKU
Junko Tabei
“Wow, you aren’t so different from us, the ordinary folk,” said Majima. “What a relief. I was worried you might be an intimidating, strict obasan [auntie] who cares only for the mountains. To be honest, I usually don’t like celebrities. I didn’t enjoy a previous trip with a celebrity as the guide. But when I first met you at Narita, I was pleasantly surprised that you’re not that way at all. I am so glad.” I was relieved to have made a good first impression, because Majima and I went on to climb and ski together for years afterwards. Eventually, along with Setsuko Kitamura, we climbed Denali and Vinson Massif together. In 2003 Majima and I, along with two other female friends, also climbed Mount Assiniboine in the Canadian Rockies, with local mountain guides Barry Blanchard and Todd Craig.
Summit Dog
The plan was to establish Camp 1 and Camp 2, and then we would attack the summit from there. To start, we had to ferry gear from Base Camp to Camp 1. Only those members in good enough shape after spending the night at Base Camp’s 4200 metres were allowed to continue. Nine of us fit the bill. Ten, counting Acon. Each climber carried 15 kilograms, for a total of 135 kilograms being transported per ferry load. The route we followed was a switchback trail of scree, similar to the mid-section of Mount Fuji.
Unified in thought, we hiked up the mountain. Acon either marched ahead or dropped behind the group, as if to ensure we were all together. He was low maintenance – we fed him and that was all – but he certainly had noticeable preferences (he chose meats and salami bought in Mendoza over leftover Japanese food). To answer our earlier question about dogs and altitude sickness, he certainly showed signs of wear as we continued to the higher camps. He moved more slowly and spent more time lying down compared to the start.
The reddish brown–coloured spires of Aconcagua rose to our right, and ahead of us was a large snow patch on an open scree field that would be Camp 1 (5200 metres). The wind was strong, and gusts blasted down from the mountainsides. The snow patch served as our source for meltwater. People in our group were already feeling the effects of altitude. The amount of available oxygen was about half that at valley bottom, and shortness of breath, headache, fatigue and loss of appetite were common complaints. The solution was to descend to lower elevations until symptoms subsided, and our team had to implement that strategy. Only four of us were able to stay at Camp 1; the other five returned to Base Camp to feel better.
Circumnavigating the snow patch of Camp 1, and hiking another 100 metres on the rocky trail, led to the big snowfield called Nido de Condores, or Condor Square. From that point, the mountains on the other side of Aconcagua came into view.
Two of the four team members who stayed at Camp 1 for the night immediately descended to Base Camp the next morning when they woke up with headaches. One of the remaining clients, another female, and I decided to ferry a load to Camp 2. From Nido de Condores, we continued up the switchback trail of rocks, scree and sand while inhaling the endless view of the purple-hued Andes Mountains, gaining elevation as we hiked. At 5800 metres, we arrived at Camp 2. The remnants of three small shacks were there, with neither glass panels in the windows nor roofs on top. The ground was dry sand – so different from the glaciated terrain of the Himalayas – and we had to utilize icicles that hung down from the shaded side of rocks for drinking water. It was a place of innovation.
Oddly, while resting there to catch our breath, we met an energetic young French man returning from the summit on his bicycle. He had carried his 13-kilogram m
ade-in-Japan bike to the top of Aconcagua in three days, and would descend in one.
“Why on bicycle?” I asked.
“Because anyone can reach the summit if they climb it the regular way,” he replied.
Happy to have met this interesting fellow, I then recognized the face of another man who appeared to be the cyclist’s cameraman. He approached me and asked, “Aren’t you Junko Tabei?”
Ah, yes, the French mountaineer who had climbed K2 in three days. We knew each other through various articles and photographs in mountain magazines, and it was funny to have met on Aconcagua, each of us so far from our homeland. Without further ado, we snapped a photo of us together, a picture that would unfortunately go missing, like many others, later in life.
Exhilarated by the pair’s cheerfulness and positive energy, we returned to Camp 1. Concern set in though, when upon that night’s 10 p.m. radio call with Base Camp, we learned that one of the male clients, Ono, who was supposed to have descended to Base Camp from Camp 1, was yet to arrive. The trail between camps was obvious and it was still light enough outside, but I felt uneasy, knowing Ono suffered from altitude sickness. I double-checked the number of people at Base Camp and realized a woman from our group was also missing.
I began to run through scenarios in my head. Perhaps she was tired on her ascent from Base Camp to Camp 1, and then ran into Ono, who was on his way down. Maybe they had joined forces and were staying together somewhere on the trail. Seriously worried, the local guide and I started our descent in the oncoming darkness to search for the missing team members.
At 10:15 p.m., we heard from Base Camp that Ono had safely arrived. We asked if he had seen our other teammate on the way. His answer was negative. How was that possible? There was only one trail. If two people failed to cross paths, then that meant one of two things: someone was off route or an accident had befallen them.
We kept the radio on and continued down the trail.
Half an hour later, we found our climber, crouched on the trail in the black of night. She was attempting to hike to Camp 1 on her own but was too tired and could no longer walk. It was lucky we found her. That close call taught me a profound lesson right there on the trail, and I knew from then on, I would strictly enforce a rule that should have already been in place: No one must act alone.
We returned to Base Camp, relieved that everyone was safe. As on Mount Fuji, there was one main trail to follow up Aconcagua, but a person could descend any of the path-like options that braided the route.
“Recalling it now, I was a bit confused,” said Ono. “I thought I was following the trail, but suddenly the trail disappeared and I couldn’t tell where I was. Knowing I could get lost if I kept descending, I decided to head back up. Then I saw the light from the tents and found my way. I didn’t meet anyone on the trail because I must have been off route.”
We were not a team that had been climbing together for years, yet everyone demonstrated concern and care for the lost hikers. Lights were turned on at Base Camp to draw the climbers downwards, and hot tea was ready for their return. Although it was not a technically difficult route, we still had to manage being at high altitude, and I reminded the team that we could never be too careful.
Since Camp 2 was established, we decided that the team members in good shape would continue up to Camp 1 then Camp 2 and on to the summit. Those with a slower ability to acclimatize would follow two days later.
I assumed the one thing we would not experience on the mountain in summer was a heavy snowfall, but we did. Even Base Camp was covered in a fresh layer of snow. And the wind was vicious. There was no way we could climb Aconcagua in such poor conditions, so we were forced to take a few rest days.
Eventually, the weather calmed down, and two days later, the snow disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. The summit was ready for us to climb. On January 3 at 6 p.m., four team members with our local guide, and our loyal dog, Acon, reached the top of the mountain. We were delighted by the news and re-energized by the success of the dog.
At that time, we thought Acon was the only record holder for a high summit climbed by a dog. Later research by my canine-loving journalist friend, Kitamura, showed that the first record was set on Mont Blanc (4808 metres) in the European Alps by a dog named Tschingel in 1869. To celebrate Tschingel’s success, the local mountain town of Chamonix performed a cannon salute. We had no means to honour Acon in that fashion on Aconcagua, and he had to settle for robust pats on the back.
Four months later, Acon’s achievement was surpassed by two Bhotia dogs that reached the summit of India’s Mount Chaukhamba (7138 metres) with a six-person Indian-Tibetan border-security team. In 1988, when Kitamura, Majima and I climbed Denali, a dog reached the summit with a French climber. What a sight it must have been years earlier in 1979 when Susan Butcher, the Alaskan musher, climbed Denali with a number of her sled dogs.
Acon aside, seven of our team members summitted Aconcagua, myself included. We endured several challenges that began with altitude sickness and expanded to strong winds, deep snowfall, –25°C temperatures and lost hikers. My sights for the summit had been set for January 7 from Camp 2.
A few members in the group, who were older, had no intention of hiking to the top, but their help was invaluable in ferrying loads from Base Camp to Camp 1. Ono, who had a rough start with altitude sickness, finally acclimatized and was able to summit. On his way down he even assisted a teammate who became too weak to continue past 6500 metres. In fact, I would not have summitted Aconcagua if it were not for Ono. At 500 metres from the peak, it was meant to be me who turned around with my client, but Ono stepped in. “Tabei-san, please go up to the summit. Another climber is still on their way up. I will go down, no worries,” he said.
I was lost for words as Ono, the person who could barely reach Camp 1 at the start, turned to escort our tired teammate back down the mountain. I shared my heartfelt thanks with him, a true climbing partner, before I turned to face the summit trail. Having caught up with the other client, the two of us stood on the summit at 6:30 p.m. The sun still shone and the wide rocky summit plateau was an astounding burnt sienna.
A shiny silver cross stood on the peak. The custom we had heard pertaining to Aconcagua was that when a person summitted the mountain, they were to take an item that was left by the previous climber, and in return, leave something new. Thus, we unwrapped a strip of thin rope from the cross for our keeping and tied my bandana in its place.
For a team that came together as a commercial party, meeting for the first time at the Narita Airport, we had become integrated as one. Mountain trips have that ability. We worked together, everyone cooperating to ferry loads, set up camps and even take care of Acon. People looked out for one another and showed concern when warranted. My satisfaction with the trip was profound, and once again I felt certain that if a person is determined to pursue a dream, then, by all means, they have the ability to fulfill it. Although our ascent was not as unique as that of the man on the bicycle, it was an ascent after all.
Scanning the horizon of gradually darkening peaks that surrounded the summit, I wanted to yell, “Hey, your dad/your son/your daughter climbed Aconcagua!” After a final inhalation of the magnificent sunset, I stepped away from the summit, leaving it alone in the evening glow.
CHAPTER 14
Carstensz Pyramid
“Humans are made of pretty enduring stuff,” I said.
“Why?” asked Tabei.
“We slept in minus 30 Celsius last year in Antarctica, and now it must be more than 50 degrees in the sun.”
“Well, we’ll be in a cool climate soon.”
Here we go, aiming for Carstensz Pyramid (4884 metres), the highest mountain in the backbone range of New Guinea and the last of the Seven Summits for Tabei.
– Setsuko Kitamura
The chartered nine-passenger Cessna completed its bumpy landing on the grassy runway, and an audible sound of relief filled the body of the plane, as if we had all been holding o
ur breath. We had safely arrived in Indonesia, one of my final mountain destinations. A variety of feelings filled my heart.
As I was about to step off the plane down a narrow ladder, I was caught off guard by our audience. We were surrounded by a group of almost-naked villagers from Ilaga. The men wore nothing but penis sheaths, and the women were dressed in straw skirts, their upper bodies bare except for knitted tube-like baskets that hung from their heads. A few wore T-shirts, but mainly, they were uncovered.
I was in awe that a culture thousands of years old remained intact. As a youngster, the descriptions of New Guinea I was familiar with were: jungle, unforgiving equatorial heat, a Second-World-War battlefield, malaria, and Indigenous naked tribes – all scary images made worse by the imagination of a child. Now, at the age of fifty-two, for my mountaineering trip, I felt better informed about the people of New Guinea. I had read the report of the 1964 joint expedition of the University of Kyoto and the Indonesian Army for West Irian, titled Indigenous Tribes in New Guinea Highlands by Katsuichi Honda, a prominent journalist of the era. I assumed the information from the thirty-year-old report was outdated, and thought the New Guinea society would have changed by the time I visited there. I was wrong. The same people I saw in the report’s pictures stood in front of me as I descended from the airplane.