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NARRATOR: Kathmandu, February 27.

It seems a simple idea to go to Mount

Everest with a small group of enthusiastic skiers

and climbers, but it is not simple.

I wonder if I would have dared to think of this adventure

if I had known how complex it would be.

There are 27 tons of luggage.

We will need 800 porters to carry it all.

The ski team needs supporting mountaineers.

There are scientific research teams, a film crew,

photographers, and press men.

March 6th, the trail from Kathmandu

to the foot of Everest winds for 185 miles through the valleys

and foothills of the Himalayas.

These Himalayan expeditions are possible

only because of the barefooted tribesmen,

who were born to walk and walk to live.

I feel there are many spirits carrying me along.

In the ancient days of the gods, we invited the sun and the moon

and the stars to join us in singing and living.

But those days are gone.

We have wandered from the paths of the winds

and become children of the Earth.

Now is the time to open up our world, to find the sun, moon,

and stars again.

To men of the east, Mount Everest

has been the mother goddess of the world, Chomolungma.

To men of the west, the mountain has presented a challenge

to reach the summit.

I go as a pilgrim, inspired by the majesty of Chomolungma,

to ski down the highest mountain in the world.

On the first part of the journey,

we follow the path that has been used for centuries by trade

caravans, traveling on foot from Kathmandu,

across the high passes to Tibet.

There is nothing to do but walk and think.

My mind floats from one incomplete memory to another.

I think of my own son, Yuta.

I wonder how he is.

What would he think if he were old enough

to understand the life of adventure I

have chosen, to escape from the labyrinth of the cities?

I have never felt so tired.

I'm no longer 20.

I'm 37 years old.

But it's too late to think of that now.

Each time I think we have left civilization behind,

we come upon a village clinging to a hillside.

When I read the stories of the world's great wanderers,

my imagination soars.

Skiing is my doorway to adventure.

I am Tom Sawyer in the snow or the Little Prince

in a mountain world.

I remember the race in Italy where

I set the world's speed record.

I took a bad fall near the end of the run.

I got some bruises, but I was lucky.

The Italian announcers seemed amazed that I had survived.

Miura is alive, he kept shouting.

Miura is alive.

I was a hero that day.

Then there was Fuji.

It seemed a heroic idea to schuss down

the sacred mountain of Japan, an exploit that would capture

the imagination of the world.

But it was not so daring after all.

It seems to me that greater than the satisfaction of winning

in competition is the joy of forgetting

yourself and becoming one with the mountains.

I have traveled the world to ski, to soar with the winds,

to laugh with the gods.

March 13th, we have been walking seven days.

We have reached the gateway to the foothills, Junbhasi Pass,

11,000 feet high, higher than Fuji.

At Junbhasi, we encounter snow for the first time.

There is some fear that these low altitude

porters will go home.

Fortunately, on the other side of the ridge,

there is little snow.

To ski down the sacred mountain, the basic requirement

will be endurance.

My job on this trip is to be in perfect physical condition.

Perhaps the porters think me a bit arrogant, a show off,

doing all these crazy exercises.

Someone told them I was a religious fanatic,

worshipping my gods with this continual prostration.

Perhaps they are right.

It is a sort of ritual preparation for the meeting

with the mountain.

When I stood at the top of Fuji,

I knew that the mountains set high the price of victory.

Weakness of body or spirit brings defeat.

The challenge of the peaks is the challenge of life itself,

to struggle higher, forever higher.

After 10 days of walking, we stop

at the village of Tachin Du.

When you crawl into your sleeping bag,

each cell of your body begins to sing very softly

and to expand in joy and warmth,

looking at the starlight coming through the crack of the tent,

listening to the trickling sound of a creek, falling asleep.

Each morning brings us closer to our great adventure.

The word adventure sounds a little cheap.

It doesn't quite express the spirit of our fathers

who wandered the earth.

We've lost the words that encourage action,

the words of question, laughter, mystery,

the words of spirits awakened, and the words of dreams.

The streams we cross now are the melted snows of Everest itself.

This seems to be a cold-hearted procession, a 1,600

legged monster that keeps walking, endlessly

walking, uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill,

and repeat, and repeat again.

If anyone dropped behind, I'm sure the monster would not even

look back, just keep on walking.

Chomolungma, mother goddess of the world.

March 18th, on the 12th day, we reach Namche Bazaar, halfway

to Everest.

Here, the trade caravans branch off to Tibet.

This is the main village of the Sherpas,

the people of the mountains.

Our low-level porters are paid off

at the rate of one US dollar a day.

Are there men in the Western world

who would carry 30 kilos on their backs

from Kathmandu through the mountains for a living?

I think there would be no Europeans or Japanese who

would do it.

Under the starlight, a dance begins.

The girls are like bright angels in rags.

They're a little embarrassed, but they

put their arms around us and lead us

through the rhythmic waves of the dance.

Not quite so graceful when we do it

because we have drunk a little too much chan.

This local liquor is a very happy drink.

In the morning, we set out with about 400 Sherpas.

These are the best mountain climbers in the world.

Some of them have been on as many as eight Everest

expeditions.

We leave behind a village of women and children.

Their men are often in the mountains for weeks at a time.

I wonder what will be the future of these tribesmen who

have lived here for centuries, almost independent

of the rest of the world.

I hope their land will remain unspoiled by the ways of life

that we call progress.

Above the village of Khumjung,

there is a hospital built with money raised in New Zealand

by Sir Edmund Hillary, who reached the summit of Everest

with Tenzing Norgay in 1953.

We visit him and tell him about our dream of skiing down

the face of Everest.

I've been told by the leader of the American team who

also reached the top that it's impossible.

Hillary says if he were younger, he'd come with us himself.

HILLARY: I only wish I could ski as well.

And you will have to conserve your strength

for the big effort.

NARRATOR: He says that challenge is what makes men.

HILLARY: When men stop looking for challenges,

meeting challenges, well, we human beings

will be in a very bad way.

NARRATOR: Challenge is what makes men.

And there can be no challenge without the risk of failure.

As I walk, I feel the earth in all its warmth and beauty.

It may be the last time.

March 20th,

near the lamasery of Tengboche, we stop for five days rest.

This has become traditional because every expedition needs

time for acclimation in the thin air.

Time seems to pass without heeding.

It may be a sense of euphoria from lack of oxygen

or the beauty of the scenery, but there is no boredom.

At night, the mountains become a world of silence

beyond imagination.

I can see Ama Dablam.

A bit steep, but what a downhill run.

An old yogi told me that on my pilgrimage,

I should breathe out the badness within me

and breathe in the goodness of the universe.

From this, I learned that breathing begins with exhaling,

and then comes inhaling.

I begin training my lungs for higher altitudes.

This valley seems endless.

It is the valley of the Khumbu Glacier, a huge river of ice

that flows from the foot of Everest.

We are getting closer.

March 28th, we have traveled the 185 miles

from Kathmandu in 22 days.

It will take us 40 days to go the next three miles.

Our base camp is on the level area

at the foot of Everest used by every expedition

from the south.

This will be home to 150 people until the day

of the great downhill.

Thonko, who is in charge of the base camp, is like a magician.

He can find anything you need.

I have tried to find a diet that would

create a Superman for the Himalayas,

but I didn't find one.

I try to eat like the Sherpas.

Potatoes and roasted barley are their staple foods.

The young man in charge of our supplies

spent a few million yen on instant food.

I feel sad for the future of young Japanese

with that kind of nutrition.

The medical research team and the other scientists

set up their experiments.

They use us as guinea pigs too.

Sometimes, this looks like an Apollo moon shot.

It is an adventure for machines.

They record the action of our hearts and lungs.

And no doubt, they will pass on useful medical data

to other machines all over the world.

During the caravan, I was tired.

But in my mind, there was always a song.

Here, my body has slowed down and my mind

seems to have stopped also.

I've dreamed of skiing on the virgin snows of the Himalayas.

It's almost like the beginning of love.

You can do anything.

The first barrier in the ascent of Everest is a huge icefall.

It looks like the tongue of some gigantic demon.

More lives have been lost here than on Everest itself.

It rises 1,600 feet, a world of dangerous,

fragile beauty, a cascade of massive blocks of ice moving

imperceptibly from the glacier above,

pushed by the weight of centuries

of the snows of Everest.

Without warning, it can shift and break

into an avalanche of millions of tons of ice.

On the other side of this barrier

lies the most challenging ski run in the world.

In this strange world, a boy becomes a man.

Little Elephant is 15.

He has come with the expedition to learn

the skills of the mountaineer, handed down from father to son

for countless generations.

He learns from our books, too.

And the mountain tells him her own story.

The reconnaissance of the icefall begins.

The most experienced Sherpa and Japanese mountaineers

are chosen to find a safe passage through the icefall.

It is very important that we move quickly,

as we have heard that the monsoon will

come early this year.

While the reconnaissance goes on, I work on my equipment.

Like an old-fashioned soldier getting ready for battle,

my life will depend on it.

Every item that I will use higher up

must be prepared and checked.

I'm going to a glacier called Shangri-La,

about two days walk from here to make some tests,

skiing with a parachute.

To mark the speed and direction of the wind,

flares are attached to my boots and a video tape record

is made.

A parachute could break my speed on an icy slopes.

But if it is too large, the wind might catch it and pull me

off course.

I would like to use a parachute.

It would add grace and beauty to the adventure,

like an airy lotus blossom on the sacred mountain.

April the 5th, the reconnaissance party

have radioed that they have established

a passage through the icefall.

6:00 AM, the mountaineers begin to move up

the two tons of equipment and supplies we will need.

40 of the best Sherpa climbers will help our Japanese mountain

climbers from here on.

The sun's rays, scorching through the thin air,

melt the ice.

But at night, the temperature drops more than 100 degrees.

The ice freezes and expands.

Old bridges disappear and new crevices open.

Each man carries about 65 pounds on his back.

While the porterage goes on, we wait.

I guess this is the world's highest video tape audience.

The Sherpas have never seen "The Seven Samurai."

And Little Elephant has never seen "Bonanza."

Only a roll call will tell who is missing.

The icefall took six lives.

But why only Sherpas?

There were Japanese in there at the same time.

How does the order of destiny apply to people?

Little Elephant's father is in the icefall.

That anyone lived was a miracle.

About 4 square miles of ice seemed

to have suddenly fallen away, as though the roof

of a giant cavern beneath had collapsed

and the space was filled with tons of jagged ice.

Men lived, standing a few feet from others who were crushed.

No cry, ok, ok. Just wait here, hm?

NARRATOR: Death should not come suddenly

to men who are in the midst of living.

It should come gently, as a silent prayer.

They had no chance.

I feel a hopeless anger.

My anger expands into a great nothingness,

and sorrow comes like waves of the ocean into which you sink.

MAN: This morning, we have had a very, very unlucky accident

at the height of the 5,700 meters.

And we lost...

NARRATOR: This is one of the worst accidents in the history

of Himalayan climbing.

An old hermit had told the Sherpas

that an evil star in the east was

a bad omen for the expedition.

Their families want them to go home.

HASHIMA: I will make a short speech in Japanese.

MAN: Mr. Hashima said that men may meet misfortunate...

Meaning misfortune will come to fortune.

Those six lives were lost in order to achieve a great thing.

No one can avoid to meet with death.

It was fate.

Miura, who has the same regrets about these sorrowful

happenings, says that those who died

will now be watching over us so that we can succeed.

We must try to compensate the families of the missing

Sherpas.

And, at the same time, we must achieve our goal

of skiing down Chomolungma.

CHOTULAl: It happened only a few minutes from the South Col

Japanese Camp.

NARRATOR: Chotulai, whose own brother died in the accident,

speaks to the Sherpas.

And on behalf of the climbing leaders of this expedition,

I have to say this is very, very sorry.

We lost such a very, very valuable six Sherpas

to such unlucky accident.

The mountains are home for us, and a Sherpa

will not be a Sherpa if he's afraid of the mountains.

So I will continue to climb as long as my Japanese brothers

need me.

NARRATOR: A shadow covers the expedition.

How can I justify this adventure now?

There can be no happy ending anymore, no matter what I do.

The Sherpas believe that the souls

of men killed in accidents wander the world as ghosts.

We must believe that out of sorrow

will come the power to cross over into the light of life.

We must use the energy of those six spirits

to fight on in order to rest their souls in peace.

The downhill of the spirit is more painful than the uphill

of the body.

How can the icefall be so cruel, yet so beautiful?

It is like a great crystal pavilion

of the goddess changed by the demon that protects her

into an icy tomb.

April the 16th, the icefall is behind us.

We have reached the Western Cwm, a sloping glacier

basin a little more than two miles long.

A camp has been established near the top

of the icefall, the first camp for the actual ascent

of the mountain.

There will be five camps on the way up.

Camp two, the advance base camp will

be near the top of the Western Cwm.

Camp three, not far from the huge crevasse

called the bergschrund, an unfathomed canyon of ice

that cuts across the face of the mountain.

We will have to look for a small ledge on the Lhotse face,

where we can pitch the tents for Camp four.

At each camp, we will stay a few days to get used to the height.

Camp 5 will be above the yellow band on the South Col,

near the start position.

The downhill course on the icy wall

should end above the bergschrund.

If it doesn't, it's certain death.

These mountains are beginning to steal away my identity.

They decide how I feel, when I will be hot and when I will be

cold, when I can eat, and when I cannot eat.

They let me breathe or they take my breath away.

I can't tell where the mountains end and I begin.

April the 24th, at camp two, above 18,000 feet,

the advance party awaits our arrival.

The Sherpas call this the evil altitude.

Every step seems to rob us of our breath.

It is an effort to walk, to talk, even to think.

It is almost too much of an effort to live.

As we climbed, our bodies have been acclimatized.

The chest cavities increased to take in more air,

the red blood corpuscles multiply

to absorb more of the available oxygen.

But, here, with less than half the oxygen at sea level,

it is beyond human acclimation.

Survival is a matter of sheer endurance.

The brain requires 20 times more oxygen

than the muscles for normal functioning.

And, at this altitude, it begins to deteriorate.

Intellect and senses are dulled.

And, therefore, one can be in danger without realizing it.

A long stay would be fatal.

My heartbeat and blood pressure are still close to normal.

I wonder if I can ski at this height.

After two hours, I felt the energy drain from my body

as though a switch were turned off.

On the last jump, I lost consciousness in mid-air.

In the morning, when we set out for camp 3, the air is clear,

but it clouds up.

This weather pattern as a warning

that the monsoon is coming.

The ice wall of Mt. Everest

looks like poured silver falling into the Western Cwm,

a cold, cruel beauty.

We are face to face with the unknown reality.

Is it true that I will ski down there in a few days time?

It is steep, an angle of 40 degrees,

45 in some places, an 8,000 foot wall of ice that doesn't even

have a name.

There are jutting rocks the size of a four story building.

And, at the bottom, the deep dark void of ice

that is the bergschrund.

This is not a world for human beings.

At camp three, we watch the video recordings

of our parachute tests.

We must decide which chute to use.

The tests were made in good snow conditions on Shangri-La,

but we must prepare for the icy wall and the thinner

atmosphere of Everest.

Not even the experts know how a parachute

will behave in the thin air.

Skydivers and astronauts open their chutes

at much lower altitudes than this.

From camp 3 to camp 4 is a day's climb.

I use oxygen for the first time.

I could climb without it, but there

is the growing fear that lack of oxygen

will affect my mind and body.

It is a vertical ascent of 3,000 feet.

Clinging to this desperate ice wall,

there is no room for any mistake.

This is not a place that you can change danger

into mere difficulty.

The fourth camp is like three little bird's nests

clinging with stilt legs to an icy cliff.

Meditation among these silent peaks

empties all the pockets of my mind.

As we go higher, only the most precious images remain.

I have a strange sense of being close to my family.

And, yet, I feel an almost mystical removal

from the world.

I think of the Greek myth of Icarus

who fastened wings to his back with wax

to escape from a labyrinth where he was a prisoner.

In the joy of flight, he soared closer and closer to the sun,

challenging the gods.

The sun melted the wax and lcarus fell to his death

in the sea.

May 5th, traversing the steep slope above camp four,

I begin to feel again the pride of the samurai challenging

something huge.

Our 27 tons of baggage at Kathmandu

has diminished to less than half a ton.

The caravan of 800 has dwindled to seven men.

We reached the Yellow Band, an almost vertical wall

of dangerous crumbling rock.

I follow in the footsteps of the great mountaineers of the past.

But I will not walk this path again.

Tomorrow, I will take a different road.

The South Col, at last.

This is a very high place, over 26,000 feet.

I can see the summits just above,

with it's royal plume of snow carried

by the jet stream, the mighty river of wind that

rushes about the world above the atmosphere

at 300 miles an hour.

This has been called the most desolate spot on earth.

Cold, with an eerie thin wind,

it is like the barren dry bed of the river that separates hell

from paradise.

It was here that the Swiss turned back in 1952.

Here, Lambert sensed the odor of death.

For me, it is the end of a pilgrimage.

I have a strange feeling that I have been here before.

Was it an earlier incarnation?

I try to write a letter to my daughter,

to tell her about my dreams and my ambitions.

But my mind wanders.

There have been many summits, many adventures,

but this is different.

Something has happened to me.

For the first time, I am afraid.

I feel lonely and burdened.

I worry about failing, more than dying.

I think of the Icarus who flew too close the sun.

Death would be an easy way out.

May 6th, dawn breaks clear and calm.

Then, without warning, the wind rises.

It's pattern is unpredictable.

If the wind doesn't drop today,

I will have to go back to camp 3 to get back into condition.

And it will take another week to bring up supplies.

No one can help me any further.

Only my skis will go with me to the end.

In a cairn built of rocks, I offer to the mother goddess

the names of the dead Sherpas, and a mirror,

symbol of the soul of man, placed so that the mountain

can see her own reflection.

It is a gentle ceremony in the face of such violence.

Suddenly, the wind begins to abate.

8,000 feet below, the control center gets ready.

Each man of the rescue team takes his position.

They read a final checklist to me

through a transceiver in my helmet.

Is the main chute attached to my waist?

Oxygen tank firmly attached.

Chin strap fastened.

Has the safety pin been removed?

Transceiver test.

Can you hear us?

Mask and antenna are OK.

Are ski boots binding stock OK?

Checks are complete.

It looks skiable.

There's no way to know what the wind is like.

If it's behind me, the chute may not open.

Six seconds from the start, the speed

will be over a hundred miles an hour.

White snow where rocks stick out.

Mixed snow and ice down to small rocks.

Below that, 90% ice.

Then the bergschrund.

There's nowhere to pause, nothing comforting.

No escape.

The mountain seems to be falling over me.

Can't hear the wind.

No sound.

White.

Nothing.

I wonder what it meant, being alive.

Living and dying are all one space.

There was a place I was supposed to go.

I don't know where it is.

But I can go there now.

Was it a dream?

A dream?

The parachute, slow to open.

No sound of wind.

A world without sound.

Try to break.

Diagonal sidestep.

Use the edges.

Nothing worked.

Only shiny ice.

I'm falling into a world without air.

There was no fear.

No fear, just nothing.

My ski caught on something.

I felt the ice on my back.

Falling, just falling.

A big rock.

The bergschrund!

I am alive.

They say I skied 6,600 feet in two minutes and 20 seconds.

I fell 1,320 feet.

I stopped 250 feet from the crevasse.

Numbers have meaning in the world below.

But in this almost airless world, what do they mean?

Was it a success?

Or a failure?

That I am alive must be the will of some higher power.

It was like following an order from a different world,

not like being good or bad.

Maybe it's love.

The end of one thing is the beginning of another.

I am a pilgrim again.