Every day a little closer
Dissecting Kilimanjaro
Day 0: Slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace
You arrive at Kilimanjaro Airport in the mid afternoon. The air here is cooler than in Zanzibar, less moist. You do not feel as though you are closer to the equator. You gather your luggage, what is left of it after Air Canada and British Airways have done their worst, and are met at the gate by a representative from the Hotel.
The drive to Moshi is about an hour. You pass children herding goats and Maasai women carrying buckets of water on their heads. Every nook and cranny of land is used for something: Sunflowers, grazing, an impromptu garbage dump. The road is surprisingly smooth and well paved, though narrow. The driver honks the horn approximately 37 times during the course of the trip. Here, you honk to say "Hello", or "I'm coming", or "Mind your goat". Friendly honks, attention-getting honks, but never impatient "get your ass in gear" honks.
The hotel is surrounded by a high cement wall with shards broken glass stuccoed into the top and the large metal gate is gaurded by men with AK-47s. You are torn between feelings of security and vulnerability.
You check in, are told of your briefing at 5:00 pm, and escorted to your room. Staff carry your packs on their heads, show you how to turn on the hot water, where the light switches are. The room is small and modest, but comfortable. It's only one night.
The hotel receptionist delivers the briefing like a nursery rhyme. She has done this a thousand times. She has a rythm. The key take home message: "Slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace". Every hike's description, for every route, starts with this phrase. It is the mantra of Kilimanjaro. When she is done, she introduces you to your guide, Chitanda. He's young, maybe 22 or 23. He has been a guide since 2001, and has climbed the mountain twice a month every month since then. Machame, the route you will be taking, is his favourite route. He says it's hard, but that most people succeed on it, and that's what he likes to see. He is raising money to go to University to become a mechanical engineer. His brother is a guide as well, taking people on Safari. You feel more confident having met Chitanda. He knows what he is doing, and can tell just by looking at you whether or not you will make it.
At dinner you meet a woman from New York, which she pronounces New Yawk. She was on the mountain for one night and then "did something stupid" to her knee. She tells you that the altitude sickness will hit you earlier than you expect, and that it's dreadfully cold. She has no words of encouragement; she also has no limp. The receptionist had warned you of the poisonous "blah blah blah" that people coming off the mountain might have to say. You smile politely, because that's what people from New Yawk expect of Canadians, and disregard everything else she says.
Day 1: I don't know what it is, but I like it
Toilet paper? Check. Three litres of water? Check. Day pack organized? Check. Will three bottles of hand sanitizer be enough? Do I have emergency telephone numbers in an easily accessible compartment? Maybe I should get more toilet paper.
The bus is crammed full of climbers, guides, porters, and eggs. There are dozens of eggs. You wonder who will be responsible for carrying them, and how. The ratio of porters to hikers is about 3:1. You drive through Moshi, make one last pit stop to pick up what appears to be more eggs and some kerosene, and then continue on your way to Macahame gate. The paved road soon gives way to a dirt one, then to a single dirt lane, and finally to thick red mud. The bus struggles with the mud, the porters and guides get out to push it up the hill. About 40 feet from the gate, the bus gives up entirely. Everyone files off the bus and walks past throngs of porter hopefuls selling ponchos and bag covers. No longer carrying such a heavy load, the bus can now slowly drive through the gates. You sign in at the ranger's office, read the posted notices informing you how to identify altitude sickness. Chitanda hands you your lunch box. When everyone is organised, you are introduced to your team. Each porter can carry 25 kg, plus his own gear. You have 6 porters, a waiter, an assistant guide, and Chitanda assigned to your team. You try to remember everyone's names, but it's all happening so quickly, and you feel like you're in the way.
You begin to climb through the thick red mud. You're in a rain forest. Tree ferns, Lobelia, campher all tower around you. The only noise is your breathing and the occasional limb falling. You crack a lame joke about how "they really do make a sound". You're hiking with an American, Robert, and two Brits, Ed and John. You will later learn that John is actually from Ireland, so the term Brit is probably politically incorrect.
Up, up, slowly, slowly, at your own suitable pace. After about an hour and a half, you reach the lunch spot. You open your packed lunch: a hard boiled egg, a bottle of mango juice, a bun, a piece of chicken, some sponge cake, peanuts, and an unidentifiable sausage-like concoction. It's crispy on the outside. Inside...what is that? Mashed potato? And some sort of meat. You don't know what it is, but you like it. Even after someone mentions how much it reminds them of haggis. Lunch is eaten quickly, and afterward you decide to investigate the mountain's offerings in the way of toilet facilities. A quick inspection leads you to the following decision: the bushes look very inviting. As long as there is still vegetation, you will squat in the bushes. Somehow, and this is a stretch, that seems more civilized.
The hike continues, slowly. Eventually, the trees and ferns start to get shorter, thinning out. By late afternoon, you've arrived in the heather zone, and reached your first camp, Machame. The porters have beat you there. Your packs have been unloaded outside of your tent, already set up. Kamil, your waiter, brings hot water to wash your face and hands. Then, popcorn and tea in your mess tent. The mess tent is also where Kamil sleeps. His pack, an old canvas school bag held together with safety pins and twine, rests in a corner.
A few games of hangman, and then a candlelight dinner back in the mess tent. Romantic, despite having to crouch over the table to avoid hitting your head on the tent ceiling. Mushroom soup, Irish stew with potatoes, and lady finger bananas for dessert. Maybe it is the fresher, thinner air, but everything tastes so much better up here.
By the time dinner is over, it is dark. You stumble back to your tent. Tomorrow night, you will remember to bring a flashlight. You get changed quickly...it's already quite cool, and climb inside your sleeping bag. Thirty minutes later, you climb back out. This happens five more times during the course of the night. By morning, you have sworn off Diamox for good. You're going to need your sleep.
Day 2: This is not good
Eggs. That's why there were so many eggs on the bus. You each get two eggs for breakfast, scrambled, served with toast, a wiener, fresh fruit, and porridge. You drink as much tea as you can stomach, and give your empty water bottles to Kamil to refill with boiled water left to cool overnight. The day begins quickly. You reorganise your packs, and set off while the tents are dismantled. The porters will pass you soon enough. They do this three or four times each month. Their pace is so much stronger, even though some of them wear sandals and they are carrying so much more weight than you are. You almost feel lazy, but you know that this adds to your chance of success.
Despite having to get up so many times last night, you slept well. Others are not so lucky. Robert, on his own in his tent, has no ambient body heat to keep him warm. It was a rough night, and will likely only be more so the further up you go. Today's goal, Shira hut, elevation 3800 m.
You continue walking through the heather lands, shrubberies occasionally punctuated by Gladiola and giant Senecio. White-necked ravens scavenge for pieces of egg at the lunch site. You pass by caves and rock overhangs. In front of one is a large mound of flowers. This, Chitanda tells you, marks the spot where a porter was caught in the rain two months ago. He was not properly equipped, and died of exposure. You feel unsure how to pay your respects. Add another flower? A moment of silence? You take a deep breath before continuing on.
Not long after, the gurgling starts. It can't be. Not now. You can make it to camp. You'll make it to camp, and... there is no vegetation at camp. You will have to use the outhouse. You did not want this to happen here. This is not good. Maybe that's all there is. Maybe it won't happen again. You go back to the tent and lie down. Now you have to pee. There is still Diamox in your system. You know that if you have to stay up all night doing this, you will surely go insane. That outhouse. On your next trip out of the tent, you scout around for a well hidden rocky nook. It's almost too late. This is really not good. You have to bring out the big guns. Immodium and Cipro. You have only tea at dinner, and retire to bed early. The medication kicks in quickly, but the gurgling continues without its nastier side effects well into the night, leaving your stomach bloated and taught. Tonight, you will have to leave the tent only twice.
Day 3: Look Ma, no ropes!
Day three starts out slowly, but the gurgling has stopped. You still feel sluggish, and are speaking a little bit like Stevie from Malcolm in the Middle. Pole pole. Slowly, slowly. Your own suitable pace is positively elephantine. Today, you will be climbing up to 4600 m, but then quickly coming back down to 3940 m as you make your way along the Barranco wall. The Cipro has left your skin more sensitive than usual. The sun is hot, the lack of vegetation providing no shade from its rays and no shelter from the wind. The landscape has given way to an alpine desert. Brown and beige. Stone dust.
The lava tower is good for acclimatization. And when they say tower, they really mean tower. A sheer rock face. You're going to be free climbing. You haven't been bouldering in four years, and even then, you were only a foot away from a soft rubber mat to break your fall. You freeze, you want to climb back down five seconds after you've started. You don't want to pull your body away from the wall to navigate around the outcropping. Your arms aren't long enough, are they? Your legs certainly aren't. A group of American male climbers are on their way down, and you're in their way. You retreat, and climb down. They make it look so easy, one after one, descending the wall. They strengthen your resolve. They don't call you "little lady", but you know they're thinking of it. After the last one descends (he was a little hesitant, too), you climb back on. Don't look down. Just breathe. Pole pole. Put your hands where Chitanda's were. Follow his footholds. Your legs are long enough. Your arms are long enough, and stronger than you thought. You make it to the top. The view. The glacier seems so close now. How can it take three more days? You really climbed up here.
You descend rapidly toward Barranco camp, following a glacial stream. A thin ribbon oasis bordered by Lobelia, colourful birds flirting with the icey water.
Day 4: Hot lunch
The American isn't looking very good. The nights are getting colder. His rented sleeping bag provides little comfort. He sleeps with a hot water bottle clutched to his chest. When it cools down, he wakes and spends the rest of the night shivering.
Today is a short day. The other hikes have all been between 5 and 7 hours. Today, you will arrive at the next camp by noon, in time for a hot lunch. You are taking an extra acclimatization day, along with Ed and John. You will be making camp just above the Karanga valley, while Robert, the American, continues on to base camp.
You scale the Barranco wall. It's steep, in places not unlike the tower from yesterday. Ascending 200 m takes you more than an hour. As you grip the rocks with white knuckles, porters pass you balancing large packs on their heads, perfect posture, as though they're just climbing stairs. Four-strip mice scitter across the path.
Up and down. Up and down. This is why the Machame route has a reputation for being difficult, but also why more of its climbers are successful. Chitanda believes you will be together to the top.
At dinner, you learn sad news. Robert has had to go back down. Pulmonary edema. He made it as far as Karanga when his guide heard the distinctive rattle in the chest. Others are starting to experience headaches and loss of appetite. Knock on wood.
At this altitude, you are looking down on the clouds. The entire milky way stretches out above you. Constellations you've never seen before. Scorpio. The Southern Cross. Sky meeting sky at the horizon.
Day 5: Every day a little closer
Another short day. Three hours to Barafu, the base camp. A hot lunch. Get as much rest as you can. Drink a lot of water. The pace is so slow, it's almost painful. You must conserve your energy. Tonight, at 11 pm, you will be woken up with tea and biscuits. At midnight, you begin the trek to the summit. By dawn tomorrow morning, you will have ascended almost 2000 m.
The landscape is all rock now, almost martian. The only other life forms are the ever present white-necked ravens. You try to get as much sleep as possible, but by now, a headache has slowly begun to creep up along your neck, nesting in the base of your skull.
The summit influences its own weather system. You wake up at about 10 pm, freezing rain pelting the outside of your tent. You have to pee again. You crawl outside, everything covered with ice. The air is a bright white. Static electricity. You crouch along the rocks, not wanting to tempt fate or lightning. You want to share this sight with someone, but it's too cold, and we are all so tired. You creep back into your tent and doze off.
Day 6: The longest yard
Midnight. You follow a long serpentine line of headlamps slowly ascending to the summit. The headache was gone for a little while, but soon comes back. Exposure, dehydration, exhaustion. Each step no more than 6 inches. You collapse onto a rock, wanting to give up, but each time you are urged on. Your cheerleader. You love him and hate him at the same time. This is the most amazing thing I have ever done. How could you do this to me? It's harder and harder to get back up, but you do. You've come this far.
The sun rises with 50 m to go to the top of the rim. For every step you take, you slide back half. The ground is rock, dust, and sand. You have so little energy left, and don't know where that is coming from. You could fall asleep where you stand. You reach Stella point. The placard reads 5758 m. You can go no further. The headache is back, angry to have been neglected for so long. You actually do begin to fall asleep where you stand. The cold is starting to take over. A quick photo, and your guide points you back down the mountain. You must lean heavily. You are no longer in control of your legs. They give out twice on the way down, as you slide along on your heels. Half the time, Chitanda is dragging you. He gives you some juice, and tells you about the pictures of Vancouver his brother sent him.
At the campsite, you crawl into your tent, half delirious with exhaustion. Kamil brings more juice, and water. You fall asleep before you can thank him.
At noon, you must walk again. Down this time, the air thicker with every step. No more pole pole. Hustle. They sell Coca-cola at the Mweke hut. Only one more night in a tent. One more night until you can have a hot shower. One more night crouching in bushes.
After dinner, you thank the guides, and give them their tips. You tell them that at the gate you will be giving them the gear you don't need anymore. A ski jacket, toque, gaiter, and camelback.
You don't need to leave the tent at all that night.
Day 7: I just climbed a freaking mountain
The last 6 days seem surreal. Did it even really happen? You walk down to the gate so quickly, the buses aren't even ready for you yet. The only thing on your mind is a hot shower and a beverage other than tea or water. The elements have not been kind to your skin. Chunks of face are peeling off, and you're sure everyone is staring. But you just climbed a freaking mountain. You're entitled.
Comments
Sarah,
What a beautiful account of your climb. You climbed a freakin' mountain all right! Even reading it is surreal. I can't wait to see the photos.
Welcome back, climber!
P.S. I'm assuming that things are okay with THAT guy, since you made it down alive? :-)
Posted by: Marsha at July 20, 2005 08:33 AM
Everything is fine with Mike. He has his own account of the climb, of course. ;-) He managed to make it all the way to Uhuru peak, the "summit", that last 100 m. And he did it in rented gear, his baggage having gone missing between London and Nairobi. I am very proud of him. Pictures will be coming shortly. :-)
Posted by: Saedigh at July 20, 2005 08:41 AM
Hi Sarah,
You did a great job of capturing the essence of the trip, through, what seems like periods of dehydration, exhaustion, and pain...(Not to mention some of the other stuff!) I'm so proud of you!!! You're writing style captures the moment, so much so that I felt a bit of hesitation as 'we' climbed the sheer rock face, and the delayed thrill of excitement as we realized what we'd just accomplished...I can't wait for your first novel.
T
Posted by: Troy at July 20, 2005 09:29 AM
Amazing, and very well told. What a rare and incredible experience!
So glad you are home safe and that you had such an incredible and successful journey. I'm sure there is much you're not saying, that you just want to keep to yourself. I have to imagine it has been in some way a life altering experience, and has given you much to reflect upon.
It's funny - I will likely never climb a real mountain but metaphorically speaking much of what you described in terms of your emotional response to what you were experiencing resonated with me :-)
Posted by: heather at July 20, 2005 02:03 PM
This is a very interesting first-hand account of climbing the mountain. I'm strongly considering such a climb myself, and it is more useful to me to read about a real experience rather than generalities from the outfitters. I have two questions for you. The first is how did you prepare yourself before the climb? (Did you prepare? Did you spend six months jogging two miles daily? etc.) Also, I was wondering what time of year you went. From what I can gather, I think you went at the end of June or beginning of July. Am I right?
Thanks.
--Jim
Posted by: Jim at February 14, 2006 05:09 PM