Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

  As a child, I had always been small in stature and considered weak. I was often struck with a high fever and had pneumonia several times. My siblings were similar, and when the doctor was called to visit our home, as he was on numerous occasions, he would say, “Which one this time?” Years later, when people who knew me from my childhood heard that I had climbed Mount Everest, they would be lost for words and then say, “How could that tiny Junko possibly have done such a thing?”

  I performed poorly in physical education classes, too, unable to succeed at a kip or vault until the end of Grade 6. In elementary and middle schools, the so-called popular kids, the ones other classmates looked up to, were those who were good at sports, not grades. Sadly, I felt I had nothing to be proud of in that regard, but I did love to sing. My older sisters sang in a choir, and in support, my father bought us an old organ. After supper, we had little else to do but sing songs together while one of us played at the organ’s worn keys.

  Although my sisters were in high school at the time and were given parts to sing in soprano or alto, I was told by my own music teacher that my singing voice was beyond the years of a young child, and I was invited to sing solo on a Japanese public radio program. I could have become a professional singer. Instead, I recognized my calling when my fourth-grade teacher, Watanabe-Shuntaro-sensei introduced me to the wonders of the mountains. Who knows which life pursuit – mountains or music – would have been more advantageous to me.

  Watanabe-sensei was much like the popular kids – everyone looked up to him. When students caught sight of him walking to school, with his furoshiki bag in one hand and his unkempt long hair being combed by the other, everyone raced towards him, hanging from his arms in order to get even closer.

  Children two or three layers deep would surround him as he neared the schoolyard. Despite his strict nature when necessary, he was constantly encircled by students. On the evenings when he was on night duty as a security guard, I would return to school with some friends to listen to his stories about the mountains while I practiced calligraphy or edited my essay booklet. If the weather was nice in the daytime, he would invite us to eat lunch at Castle Mountain – no sooner would he announce the idea than everyone was running outside, delighted by it. Under the cherry trees, he told us about books like Jiro’s Story, The Diary of Anne Frank, The Broken Commandment and Before the Dawn. Those were difficult stories for young children to understand, but we listened intently with tears running down our cheeks. Inspired by Watanabe-sensei’s storytelling, I started to read countless books from wherever I could find them – my sisters’ bookshelves, the public library. Sometimes I read sitting on the cart that my mother pulled into the farm fields in the evenings, anything for a good story. Looking back, I remember more about the times I spent outdoors rather than learning from textbooks inside the classroom.

  In a less stringent manner than the way current-day school trips are planned, Watanabe-sensei casually asked my Grade 4 class, “Who wants to go to the mountains this summer?” My parents agreed to the excursion provided a teacher was present. A handful of us – a few boys, two girls, Watanabe-sensei, his brother and a female teacher – headed to Nasudake (peak), one of the hundred famous mountains in Japan, in Nikko National Park in Tochigi Prefecture north of Tokyo. The adventure included transport by train, bus and foot. Accommodations were set up for self-catering, so we carried our own food (miso, rice, vegetables) and cooking pots. In our small backpacks we also stuffed blankets and extra clothing. When the hiking portion began at Yumoto hot springs, we crisscrossed our way along the trail, passing each other back and forth in conversation with the teachers.

  “The ground is somehow warm,” one of us commented, and everyone reached for the moistened soil beneath our feet.

  “Yes, this is a volcanic area, so hot water is running underneath the ground,” said Watanabe-sensei. Nasu-dake is one of the hundred-plus volcanoes in Japan.

  “Hot water?” We could hardly believe it. We pressed our hands into the ground, stunned at the temperature that was emitted. Until that moment, I believed that only cool water ran in rivers, but right in front of us flowed steaming water. A hot spring had formed where the river was blocked with rocks. “It’s a river bath! A running hot-water river!” I was in awe that such a feature existed. So went my introduction to the natural onsen of Japan that peppered the country, the beauty and warmth of which I would crave some twenty-five years later when camped on Mount Everest.

  At night, we peeled and chopped potatoes and carrots to make curry, and fried eggplant and diced tomatoes. Although I never helped my mother in the kitchen at home, to prepare food with my friends and cook for our teachers enraptured me. After dinner, we went for a soak in the hot spring, and then, under lamplight, listened to stories from Watanabe-sensei as we fell asleep.

  The next day, in a dress and running shoes, I hiked up Nasu-dake and Asahi-dake (asahi meaning morning sun). There, I was treated to a view from the top that was unlike anything I had ever seen. I was much higher up than the mountains that surrounded my home. These were not the green hills covered with grasses and trees that I was used to; this was a setting where everything was new: the foliage, the landscape, the scent in the air. I loved every element.

  All around us, sulphur-stained holes in the ground sizzled where natural onsen came to life at our feet. I admired the juxtaposition of the heat from the springs and the cold temperatures (despite it being summer) on the mountain. The impact this had on me, the effect on my body and skin, was unforgettable. It triggered an awareness that there were many things in the world for me to discover. When we reached the summit that day, I felt a joy of achievement that I had never experienced before.

  After that, I thought more about mountaineering. My initial sense was that it was not competitive, unlike other sports, at least not in a team-like manner. No matter how slow a person walked, they could reach the summit, one step at a time. On the other hand, I also understood that in mountain climbing, no matter how hard the struggle became, there would be no substitutions, no switch of players. One had to complete the task themselves. I learned those lessons on Nasu-dake, at age nine, and applied them to the rest of my life.

  There is no doubt that I became an accomplished climber due to having met my Grade 4 teacher.

  In 1994, when Watanabe-Shuntaro-sensei turned seventy years old, he had one remaining wish: to see the Mount Everest that I had climbed. In full appreciation for his contribution to my life, I invited him, my brother and a few of my earlier classmates to Nepal. We chartered a helicopter, and after thirty minutes in the air, we were blessed with the grand view of the Himalayas. When Everest came into sight, there sat my teacher, arms spread in disbelief of the mountain’s immensity, face pressed against the window like a child in wonder, eyes filled with tears. I had come full circle in my life as a mountaineer, from beginner to beyond, and it all started with my grade-school teacher, a person willing to share his passion for adventure with me.

  City Life

  The girls-only students’ dorm at university in Tokyo had an etiquette all its own. Upon entering, we knelt in front of the room and greeted everyone with “Gomen asobase,” a very feminine, polite, upper-class way of saying excuse me. These ways were foreign to me. Six girls, from first to fourth year of study, lived together in a ten-tatami room, a size that was considered large in Japan. We woke at 6 a.m., lights out by 10 p.m., and the only days we were permitted to leave the campus were Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays – with a curfew of 7 p.m. We required our parents’ permission to receive letters from men, and only parents or siblings could pick us up to spend a night away from school. We brought our own chopsticks to the dining room for every meal, arranged ourselves in assigned seating based on room number, waited for the music to end after prayer, and began to eat. The strictness of our communal living never waned. The year was 1959.

  The enforced quiet in the dorm extended to the classroom, and rarely was there a peep heard from student or teache
r. It was a stern environment, one that exuded self-control and discipline. Later, on high mountain peaks, I would be grateful for my mastery of these qualities, but at twenty, the stress of the place unnerved me.

  As my attention to detail intensified while living in the dorm, small things, like a dirty tatami mat or a roommate’s tea cup left on the table, began to bother me. The anxiety of daily life had me worried around the clock about tiny infractions, like making a slight noise when turning a page as I completed homework before bedtime. I was no longer able to sleep, my heart felt as though it was being squeezed tight, I lost my appetite, my eyes grew dark and my skin showed signs of distress. I was having a breakdown. Ultimately, I was prescribed extended rest.

  Chikako (less formally, Chika), my sister closest to me in age and friendship, became ill when I was in Grade 6. She was diagnosed with leukemia, which shifted our life from playful to serious. While daily chores were maintained in our household, my mother spent all her time by my sister’s bedside in the hospital. My father sold his farm estates to pay for treatment, and he diligently prayed for her each morning by way of a traditional ice-cold shower with buckets of water from the well. Hundreds of Chika’s fellow schoolmates from high school donated blood for her transfusions. She was well-loved and supported, but sadly died at age eighteen, the year I began Grade 7, middle school. My attachment to Chika had me visit her grave every day, and without fail, whenever I arrived there, I laid fresh flowers, orizurus (paper cranes) and written poetry on slips of paper. Her spirit certainly lived on amongst her friends and loved ones.

  Something changed in me after my sister’s death. I turned from a cheerful, relaxed child to a problematic girl, marked by a newly found rebellious behaviour. My antics were very unladylike: I told a few boys from class to catch a frog and hide it in the teacher’s desk drawer, knowing they would be blamed, not me; I squeezed a bag full of ash between the sliding door and the wall so it would fall upon the teacher as he entered the room; I looked elsewhere, blankly into the distance, when the teacher addressed the class.

  I developed a particular disdain for my English teacher. Even though my high marks were easy to attain in elementary school, I found Grade 7 difficult. I elected to not study at home because I had no desk, and the negative result of that choice was obvious on my first English exam. The low mark I received was enough for me to switch gears, and I began to study each night at the dining-room table with my brother, who was in Grade 9. When I produced a better mark on my next test, the teacher accused me of cheating. After that, I completely ignored him but continued to study with my brother. My marks remained high, which was my intention – to show the teacher I could succeed without him. Looking back, it was foolish to play tough, but the experience taught me perseverance. Once again, with no athletic ability, thus no sports to partake in, and still grieving for my sister, I turned to reading books to get me through the middle-school years. I longed for something more in my life but was unable to identify what that could possibly be.

  While friends of mine applied for jobs after middle school, I was expected to continue my education. My father was a proponent of higher learning, in a variety of ways. When one sibling showed interest in photography, my father bought a camera and converted a backyard shed into a dark room; he purchased a radio for one of my brothers to listen to on-the-air classes. I took it for granted that I would pursue high school and likely university. What surprised me was the lack of interest teachers had in female students attending post-secondary institutions. Information on options was scarce, and it was up to the individual to make it happen. I bargained with my father, because by that point in my schooling, I had my hopes set on university in Tokyo. He would rather I attended a school closer to home, but I was greatly inspired by my sisters having been there, by their stories about cafés and concerts and the theatre. I made it clear that if I completed four years of university, I would need nothing from my father after I graduated and married. Consequently, I applied to Showa Women’s University in Tokyo, with the picture-perfect image of how the female student life would be. I could see myself as an independent, intelligent and popular woman, able to debate and philosophize about plays and such, and meet a nice man who is attracted to her. I believed that was how the next stage of my life would unfold.

  Instead, when I arrived in Tokyo, I found it an uncomfortable place to be. I was shocked by the number of war veterans who begged for money at train stations. I was embarrassed about my rural background, not believing it was good enough for city life. I simply could not fit in. I was deeply aware of my dialect being different from others, and I worried that everyone was better than me. I was shy and nervous and could hardly speak to a soul, much to my own detriment. I failed to adjust at school, and ultimately, my father came to see me and helped me seek the medical attention I needed. The doctor prescribed time away from the city, so I went to stay at Dake hot springs, near Miharu. Every day, I hiked in the forest by myself and wrote in my diary. I dug deep to figure out what I wanted in life and to decide how important schooling was to me. In the end, I returned to Tokyo to finish university. I remained forever grateful to my father for providing the time and environment I needed to answer those questions for myself.

  It was the middle of second semester when I returned to school, and I rented a room in a house rather than succumb to the restrictive dorm life again. I still struggled with a feeling of despair, but no one seemed to notice, and classmates thought I was much better after my time away. Life felt more positive, and when some friends invited me to join them on a hike, I rediscovered my love for the outdoors. I was thrilled to learn that there were mountains in the Tokyo area. As we stepped beyond the trailhead to Mitake-yama, deep in the forest, my body quivered with the cool air of nature and the scent of the earth. I felt instantly alive as I found my pace and relaxed into each forward stride. I began to open up again.

  Persimmons were dark orange with ripeness in the nearby village, and the sight of farmers carrying their equipment on carts reminded me of Miharu. I was transfixed by the scenery, the growth of the trees, and how the foggy summits were like a black and white photograph – everything was so varied from the mountains I had known all my life. As on Nasudake in Grade 4, I had the same realization that there were many more destinations in the world for me to realize.

  On my way home that day, I stopped downtown and bought a guide book called Mountains Around Tokyo. That evening, I read the section on where I had hiked. It was glorious to be able to identify the trail that I had completed, and that, yes, there was a shrine on the route, and that the mountain I could see in the distance from the summit was called Kumotori-yama. Flipping through the pages and reading each climbing description, I found that there were countless mountains near Mitake-yama, and that single-day ascents were possible if one travelled to the area the night before. This catapulted me into a whole new way of seeing things – mountain hikes no longer meant leaving home in the morning and returning the same day.

  I became excited – happy – with planning my next climb, and then the next and the next, one after the other. Tanzawa-yama, Haruna-yama, Yatsugatake, Tanigawa-dake and Kumotori-yama, the highest peak in Tokyo Prefecture. Each trip had a purpose, and what elated me most was the fact that if I kept walking, no matter how fast, or slow, I would arrive at a place I had never been before.

  I knew that not many of my university friends could relate to how I felt in the mountains, that the release I had there was nothing like what they experienced in their fashionable world of shopping. I could hardly explain how much I needed to climb and to be among the peaks. The rocky landscape had become a part of me.

  I constantly wrote to my father about the adventures I went on. He replied in letters attached to an allowance he sent me each month. In his six- or seven-line responses, he would say, “Hiking is good for your health,” and then he would always add, “Take care of your health.” He understood me.

  Even though I was absorbed by mountain life, and
school, I was able to create room for another passion of mine: music. I chose to play the koto (Japanese harp) in university, and quickly advanced under the guidance of maestro Ms. Ando. I gravitated towards her strict lessons, given twice a week, and was amazed at how the more I practiced, the more there was to learn.

  I worked hard at my grades in order to maintain my dedication to music and the mountains, and my health was better for it. Still, at times, I could feel my mood shift downwards, and I would behave excessively cheerfully so friends were unable to sense my decline.

  During one of those periods, a telegram arrived for me. With no warning, I read the words: “Father passed away; come home immediately. Mother.” Neither my parents nor I had a telephone, so I promptly left rather than attempt a convoluted stream of communication with family. My host mother had told me to go, she would inform the university, and I headed to my sister Fuchi and her husband’s house in Tokyo. They were yet to receive the news and at first thought it could be a mistake. My brother-in-law rushed to a neighbour’s house to use their phone only to return with a nod, that yes, my father was dead. The three of us boarded the night train to return to Miharu to be with our family.

  My father had died in a work accident, such a sudden occurrence that my entire family was in indescribable grief. Despite the pain we felt, my mother and brother (who had worked for my father) told me to remain at university, to finish my two years until graduation. They would send me money. This brought more tears to my eyes – I had caused my father a lot of worry in his years, and now I could do nothing more to ease his concern for me. He was gone.

  That first time I travelled to Tokyo, a few years before my father died, I arrived there by train with him, and we walked the streets to my school together. He was a dilettante and a hard worker. He rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle and played the violin. He absolutely loved new things (a trait I inherited). But he lived by a very cautious philosophy: “Put your cane on the ground before you fall, as it’s too late once you’re hurt.”