All language subtitles for The Man Who Skied Down Everest 1975

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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.