[The events hereunder described took place from 5th to 10th July 2010.]
Day 1
The glory of Kilimanjaro was first apparent to me in 2006 during a visit to Amboseli National Park in southern Kenya. Scraping together what remained of my holiday allowance from work, I headed to visit my girlfriend who was a journalist with Reuters in their Nairobi office. A five day trip packed in three days in the wonderful game park on the border with Tanzania whence we could see, from our hotel room window, the still snow-capped peak in a remarkable couple days when the entire mountain appeared free from its usual nebulous shroud. In yet another demonstration of the turns life can take it probably wouldn’t have occurred to the Erik of April 2006 that a little over four years later he would have been living in Kigali for a year and a half via Mexico, Peru, California and Nevada and would be climbing that mountain from the other side in Tanzania.An early wake-up, for a vacation. Up not long after sunrise to have breakfast, ensure all our gear is packed and get on the bus which is to whisk us to the start of the Rongai route. After multiple stops we eventually get under way around two in the afternoon. Rongai is a quieter, less traveled path up the Eastern side of Kilimanjaro. The more popular means to climbing the mountain is via the Marangu route, colloquially known as the Coca Cola route. We set off from an altitude of two thousand meters, through a forest landscape. Eventually the forest gives way to tall shrubbery. Our guide is Hadji who claims to be from Chicago but who is clearly Tanzanian born and raised. No sign of the mountain which is obscured by cloud. We’re hiking in t-shirts but it’s not long before we’re adding fleeces at the first rest stop. After just four hours we have arrived at our first camp (altitude 2,650m). We set up in our tents and almost immediately it’s time for dinner. Just as with the hikes I went on in Peru (Choquequirao and Macchu Pichu) our meals are served in a tent with chairs and a table. The food isn’t as good as it was in Peru but then the South American country is well known for its culinary artistry whereas, for the most part, East Africa isn’t. An hour or so of chatting and in bed by nine. We all sleep until nearly seven.
Day 2
Wake-up call with coffee delivered to the tent. Hesitate a few minutes before emerging from the tent whereupon a slice of Kilimanjaro and an entire neighboring peak called Mawenzi appear majestically. As we prepare for the day the clouds clear until we see Uhuru Peak, the Roof of Africa. The Sun hits the two snowcaps and behind us the rising sun casts a red glare across the entire horizon and the mountains of western Kenya. After breakfast we set off as the clouds close in again. Still in t-shirts we ascend to three thousand meters before our first rest. The fleece goes on as the temperature drops. The guide informs us that we are halfway to our objective for the day and it’s yet to hit ten in the morning! As we resume the tall shrubbery recedes. Yellow, white and purple flowers (elder flowers we are told) appear. Bees, so unusual to the Rwandan resident, fly by. The Sun breaks through the clouds and in no time we’re above the white haze looking back on an endless expanse of off-white cumulus. A little further ahead and we’v reached camp (altitude 3,480m).
Lunch is served and is swiftly followed by a guilty stretching out under the warm afternoon Sun. The landscape has morphed yet again into a cross between the lowlands of Scotland and the hinterlands of the Cote d’Azure; dry, craggy rock, parched earth and green heather and gorse. After a couple hours of intense Sun a cool breeze sweeps across the mountain from north to south enticing the dry grass and heather into a lazy dance. Mist begins to form just above the clouds and threatens to engulf our camp at two in the afternoon but the breeze and Sun do their part to ensure a few more hours of basking in the warm embiance. The sensation is not unlike skiing in April, stripped as we are of shoes, socks and sweaters. Little birds provide a sonorous backdrop while large black crows lend a vaguely ominous air to the scene. Every time we crane our necks there looms Kibo Peak which marks 5,000m, two snowcaps bookending the crown with a small smattering of white in between. In the afternoon we go for a stroll a couple hundred meters up at which point our guide declares that the snowcaps used to extend to the point at which we are now standing, a good kilometer and a half in altitude below the lowest evidence of snow today. We are surrounded by thinning bush and tenacious tussock grass. From here we can see that no more than half a kilometer away the vegetation line delineates yet another terrain. From this vantage point it appears moon-like and portends a strenuous final day.
Our original itinerary had laid out a six day roundtrip with Uhuru Peak reached by sunrise on the fifth day. Following two days of no more than four hours of less-than-challenging hiking and the prospect of a pathetically short two-and-a-half-hour effort scheduled by our guide for the third day, our group puts in a polite request to up the pace. (In retrospect this was a misguided determination, the effect of which would be strongly felt on day four. Six alpha-type individuals with no mediating influence bar the accompagnateurs whose salaries we were paying.) An alternative plan is hatched; we’ll be climbing over a kilometer tomorrow instead of less than half that and beginning the final 1,200m ascent to the summit at around midnight on day three. This fine day draws to a close with what we believe will be a cinematic viewing of a spectacular sunset over the northern ridge of Kilimanjaro and out over the vast expanse of cloud stretched out ahead of us. And then disaster strikes. For the third time in the space of just a few hours the white blanket spews forth a wall of mist which rapidly clambers up the mountain towards us. In under five minutes we are enveloped. All hands snatch warm clothes from their resting places and our hopes for a technicolor show dissipate into the surrounding fog. And just as soon as it comes in, it goes out. The Sun lingers a few finger-widths above the ridge and our show is back on. And what a show! Every shade and hue from lemon yellow to ketchup red backlights the ridge and accents the clouds. The orange-glowing orb swiftly dips below the ridge and leaves in its wake a strong chill. The final act of this dramatic scene has the slopes of Kilimanjaro turn orange-grey before the curtain falls.
Day 3
“Tea!” Our wake-up call comes just after daybreak and the tea delivered to our tent flap provides welcome relief from the night spent tossing in unsuccessful attempts at avoiding contact with the ineffectual sleeping bag rented from the guide company; the cold permeates the inner lining with such ease and at such low altitude that concern brews all around at what is to come. In the small hours I had had to slip out of my sleeping bag and tent to answer nature’s call and found myself not only shivering wildly but struggling for breath camped as we are two kilometers higher than is my habit. Not even a glance up at the starry, starry night could break the mild panic my body was experiencing so I scampered back inside and told myself to calm down. Our hike that morning sees the vegetation thin until there is virtually none left. The tree-line is in sight when we stop briefly for lunch. By this point our group has developed its dynamic; Barbara and her boyfriend Tobi lose their individual identities and become simply, “The Austrians”; Courtney spends the entire time reminding us to, “hydrate!” in her regressed-to-the-age-of-five voice; Asli sleeps; and I stride ahead of the pack at my natural pace which occasionally has me turning around to search for my companions like a child who has wandered away from her parents in a supermarket. Joe was too busy taking one of five hundred or so pictures to notice any of this.
By mid afternoon we are well on our way to completing the 1,200m ascent for the day and mysteriously found ourselves traipsing across the moon; Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano which hasn’t unleashed its fury for many thousands of years. Given our surroundings it would have not been in the least surprising to see Neil Armstrong bouncing by in a space suit. Someone suggests the we should all sing our respective national anthems, better to make the time go by. Asli the Turk kicks off and because no-one is quite sure whether she is singing the Turkish national anthem or a Klingon nursery rhyme, her rendition elicits little comment. Next up are the Austrians who meekly mumble Saxon lyrics without much national pride (which seemed to appear more emphatically whenever Red Bull was discussed). Then it is the turn of the US contingent which gets off to a shaky start when Joe, a US Marine, admits to knowing perhaps a fifth of the lyrics to the Star-Spangled Banner. By way of explanation or apology, I cannot say which, he assures us that he could recite backwards the Pledge of Allegiance. Our assumption that his more complete recollection of these words results from years of commencing each day at school with a collective recital proves amusingly misplaced. It turns out that this is Joe’s proven mechanism for staving off an embarrassing early finish with the ladies. In any case Courtney and I do Francis Scott Key proud. And I round off proceedings with a breathless version of La Marseillaise. In mid afternoon we stumble into Kibo Hut having completed by far the longest day in terms of distance hiked and altitude ascended.
For the first time on the trek we have all expended some energy and are grateful for the opportunity to down poles for the day. Taking in our surrounds it feels as though we have arrived in a mountain-top skiers rest-stop albeit with no snow and not a sprout of vegetation to behold. There are stone huts for porters and trekkers who have paid for the privilege and dotted around them are various tents for the likes of the rest of us. A larger proportion of the trekkers present have come up the (in)famous Coca Cola Route (Muhanga). The setting has more the look of a refugee camp in the Hindu Kush than an international mountain-climbers’ campsite. Plans are made for the final assault due to begin at midnight, the idea being to reach the summit in time for sunrise. Dinner is swiftly inhaled and all are in bed as early as possible. As Joe and I, tent buddies all along, get settled in he starts complaining of stomach pain. It has become common by this stage for all of us habitually to produce an impressively reverberating array of bodily excretions, which we ascribe primarily to the food. What begins to emanate from Joe however is of a different order entirely. Sufficiently so for Courtney to enquire from her adjacent tent as to Joe’s well-being. It soon becomes clear that for Joe to take part in the approaching climb would require a significant focus on mind over matter. Any thought that he might do so is however laid to rest when in one rapid acrobatic movement he sits up, reaches for the tent-flap zip, dives head-first through the opening and violently expels the full contents of his stomach. He lays back down, apologises and concedes defeat.
Day 4
Not much sleep has been had by the time our porters announce it is time. Given the low temperatures we are all fully attired in our sleeping bags, and consequently not a little fragrant. Preparation is quickly completed, plaintive expressions of regret directed towards Joe and headlights illuminated. The terrain is now what climbers would refer to as scree, something of a cross between gravel and shale. Looking up the mountain one sees many groups that have set out before us, their headlights indicating the path up to the peak. The five of us march up the slope at a clip which matches our pace over the previous days but which is perhaps ill-advised given the steeper incline and higher altitude. Our goal is to ascend from 4,700m to the Roof of Africa at 5,895m over the course of the next six hours. The means to achieving this is to zig-zag in single file up the slope , attempting to lose as little forward momentum as possible with each step in the scree. Our heads are all pointed down at our feet; in the absolute darkness this is the only means to assuring we know where we are placing our feet. It is not long before we hit traffic. With few opportunities to pass this slows our progress considerably. By this stage many trekkers are already feeling the effects of the thin air and consequently speed of movement is variable. One lady is moving so slowly, not more than three quarters of an hour into our effort, we are left wondering at what time she will reach the summit.
The folly of our speed has yet to have its impending deleterious effect on us. At advantageous points where the path widens to allow two bodies to walk side-by-side our group is ready and moves up a few gears to pass slower walkers. With each zig and zag the temperature drops a little and the amount of water available to us decreases through consumption and gradual freezing. All along the trek I have been consuming Haribo bears to keep my energy levels up. I am by now throwing them in my mouth three by three every ten minutes. Much of the first minute in my mouth is spent warming them back into their normal chewy state but the impetus they provide is vital to my progress. About halfway to our target the altitudinous effects become more pronounced. Courtney is experiencing significant discomfort from the cold on her extremities. Asli is slowing and expressing that she has begun to hallucinate that she is treading a wide asphalt road with her a band of her close Turkish friends. I am feeling light-headed with a dull ache beginning to pulsate in my crown. The Austrians are complaining of the cold and Tobi’s knees are beginning to bother him. Everyone’s humor is ebbing. Our guides, well used to this sort of collapse in fortunes among their charges are firm in their demeanor. We will get to the top. A little further up and Courtney is buckled on the ground, the lack of sensation in her fingers and toes breaking through her mental barriers and causing her to lose faith. One of our guides slaps her gloved hands together to restart the flow of blood and cause some heat to permeate. The loss of warmth is starting to affect my hands as I witness Courtney’s pain. A constant chorus from our guides of “nearly there” drives us on. The Austrians soldier on in silence. Asli is reaching her breaking point and starts to fall behind. One of the guides insists that she will make it to the top even if he has to carry her.
Our path to the Roof of Africa takes us first to Gilman’s Point at 5,685m, whence a much more gentle gradient transports hikers to the summit. After what seems an eternity, the Austrians, Courtney and I reach the rocky outcrop which marks Gilman’s and are greeted by an icy wind. We clamber over some rocks to a pocket of relative stillness but the elements have by this stage done for me; my hands hurt from the cold, my head is a thumping, pulsating mass and my emotions have spilled into tears. Courtney has by this stage recovered sufficiently to whisper comforting words in my ear and apply the same hand-warming technique the guide had taught her. It occurs to me that this experience ranks with running a marathon as the most physically challenging of my life. All I can think of is wanting to climb back down, and we are still 200m below our goal. That objective is however no longer an option in my mind. A quarter of an hour later a hoarse shout from below signals Asli’s arrival and the strength of her resolve; she has made it. The sky has been very gradually changing in hue and now portends the imminent arrival of the Sun. A few minutes pass and the red ball breaks through the sea of cloud below us, a few degrees to the left of Mawenzi. It is a magnificent sight. A sense of wonder and accomplishment are however no palliative for my physical distress. No sooner have we taken photographic evidence next to the sign indicating Gilman’s Point than I am on my way down. Note to self: next time, get a helicopter!
