“Get Me Off This Mountain”: An Ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro – Part Three

Day 7

I was right to go with the slower group. The lack of oxygen hits me almost immediately when we begin to climb, my lungs tight with the pressure of breathing up here. Our group is quiet anyway, breathing out into the cold of the night, but I fall silent in my position in the line, focusing each step. Each breath. For every step forward, inhale, exhale. And on we go.

The terrain below us is like moon dust, loose rocks and soft dirt that slips beneath your boots. It’s impossible to climb straight up and the path makes it clear that no one does – not with the earth beneath our feet the way it is and the huge volcanic boulders that block the path here and there. Instead, we have to wind our way up, so every metre of elevation takes twice as long as it might otherwise.

The path ahead seems endless in the dark, even with the nearly full moon overhead. There is no distinguishing between the top of the climb and the night sky, the darkness dotted only by the glow of headlamps ahead of ours. Every now and again, the light from a procession of climbers disappears and I am momentarily seized with hope. But we will see them again, once we crest the next dip or move around the large rock blocking our view.

Down below, the lights of the city glow. Down below, where people are tucked up in their houses, asleep under the night sky as the clocks ticks past midnight. It is Christmas Day. We murmur our greetings to one another, voices soft and revered in the darkness.

There isn’t much stopping here, not like on the trail where we would break often. We rest occasionally and I lean back on a rock to take the pressure off the balls of my feet. I try to eat the corner of something here or there although my mouth is dry and it’s like chewing on cardboard to do so.

Stop more than five minutes, however, and you start to freeze. Your fingers grow stiff and cold. Your toes numb in your boots. Your limbs lock into place. A shuddering that ripples down your body and doesn’t stop, not when you are already so tired.

So you have to keep moving. Keep moving up the never-ending slope. The guides try to keep us invigorated, singing songs that I envy their energy and breath for. Above our heads, the stars twinkle.

I think about my parents – it is late evening there. I wonder if they are thinking of me. A shooting star passes overhead, so fast that I almost miss it. I take it as my sign that they are. And I so keep going.

Time loses all meaning and, in a way, I lose consciousness. I am there, and I am moving, but I am not there at all. I turn my mind off, my body moving on autopilot. One foot forward, inhale, exhale. Next foot, inhale, exhale. Time passes quicker this way. When we next stop, several hours have passed. And I am still alive. I am still breathing.

The voice of my spin instructor comes to mind, one of my greatest sources of encouragement through my whole training process. Know the difference between “I can’t” and “I don’t want to”. I could. I just didn’t want to anymore.

It takes nearly seven hours for us to get to Stella Point, with just 100 m of elevation left between us and the summit. I laugh, almost in disbelief that I have made it this far, so overjoyed to finally see anything that isn’t black rock and dirt. Here, the landscape changes. Here, the sky opens up and the glacier comes into view. Here, the sun is just starting to rise, casting a warm orange glow over the snow and ice.

Here, the wind hits. The coldest wind I’ve ever experienced in my life, strong and gusting, blowing right through my body and making my teeth chatter. I dive into my daypack for my second jacket and thicker gloves, barely able to get my zip up for how hard my hands are shaking. I accept a mug of ginger tea, although the hot liquid only warms my stomach for mere seconds before the cold sinks in again.

We don’t linger there, not with all of us freezing into place, setting off along the narrow icy path dug through the snow toward the summit. The sunrise is in full force, the most beautiful I have ever seen and may ever see.

But for all the beauty, and the relief of having made it this far, my body continues to struggle. I can’t feel my toes at all, despite the thermal socks, and I wriggle them desperately in the hopes to stave off frostbite. My pace has slowed down even though it is the most gentle sloping rise to the summit. Every breath hurts, the wind still pummelling my side and making it difficult to inhale without coughing. Soft tickles of nausea sweep through me, although I can’t tell if it’s from the altitude, the tiredness, or the hunger – or all three.

We begin to pass those coming down, sharing our Christmas greetings.

“You’re nearly there!” they all assure us but it’s hard to believe them.

The end is still not visible, all that is ahead of us instead endless sheets of ice and snow rising up. It’s the longest hour of my life. Where the previous hours had disappeared into my disassociated haze, I am awake and conscious and the path goes on forever.

The summit comes out of nowhere – Uhuru Peak. Freedom Peak. I don’t see it and then I see it. The second half of our group catches up to us just in time for us to summit almost all together. The sun is high in the sky and reflecting off the snow. It is blinding. It is unbelievable.

I made it.

I try to take it in, through the daze; I try to capture this moment into my memory. I feel elated but exhausted. I feel victorious but broken. I feel as though I have worked so hard to get up here and now all I want to do is get down.

I’m not the only one. I check in on some of my group mates, who are in varying stages of being. One of our group is sat on the ground with his head between his knees.

“You okay?” I call out over the breeze. I get a thumbs up in return, even if he doesn’t lift his head.

It’s more of a relief when we begin our descent. It shouldn’t be that way: to work so hard for something only to wish for it to be over when you make it. But, then, the journey to Kilimanjaro is just that. A journey. It is not just about the twenty minutes you spend standing on the roof of Africa, it’s about every single step you take to get there.

As we set off, I am cold, I am tired, and I am almost dizzy. “Get me off this mountain,” I say to no one in particular and receive a few murmurs of agreement.

After Stella Point, sheltered from the wind and with the sun now high in the sky, I am immediately too hot. I pull off layers, stuffing them into my daypack, and stare down at the dusty track that lies between me and being able to lie down.

Remember what I said about going down being worse than going up?

I soon come to learn that the only way to get down is fast; short, quick steps down, never letting your feet linger long enough to get pulled down by the loose rocks. It sort of works. I slip constantly, landing on the soft ground and dragging myself up again.

After one too many of these falls (by his standards) one of the porters grabs me by the arm and starts to walk me down at his pace, which is even faster than mine and arguably, too fast. My protests do nothing and it’s all I can do to keep up, the two of us all but sprinting down the mountain.

I collapse at the bottom onto a rock to catch my breath, sweat pouring down my temples from the hot sun overhead. One of our team has come down the path from camp to await us, and hands me a cup of fruit juice. It’s the only thing I’ve had besides water or tea in seven hours and it is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Unfortunately, there is still at least a thirty minute walk between myself and camp. My feet are dragging now, my body lethargic. The porters and support staff of the various teams line the path back, looking out for their people, calling out their congratulations.

I smile and nod but all I’m thinking about is my tent, nestled in the rocks, that’s awaiting me. It’s half past ten in the morning on Christmas Day when I collapse onto the thin mattress, letting out a groan. My feet are tingling in my boots. My hips ache, my knees tired.

I have an hour, give or take, it to sleep. And then, we will eat, and then we will start walking. Again.

The storm rolls in just as we are setting off, thick clouds and furious thunder. Then comes the hail. We trudge downhill through the elements, leaving the mountain behind us. Three helicopters pass over our heads toward the summit as we walk down. Three separate people, at least, who had not been as lucky as we.

My body is too tired to keep upright. We reach a rocky downhill section, damp from the rain even though it has now eased off, and I slip constantly. My palms are scratched and my tailbone is bruised but all I care about is making it to the end of this very, very long day.

Yet, it is surreal when we do finally walk into our final camp. Nestled in the trees, with the sun not yet set, and the smell of barbecued meat in the air. It will take a long time to process the whole journey, and I won’t even begin to do so here.

Not as I clean myself off with the warm water. Not as I hang up my wet layers to dry on the top of my tent. Not as I settle into a Christmas feast from our cooks with the group, complete with a sweet red wine.

My appetite is still negligible but I eat what I can and have a few sips of wine. The sun is setting on my time in Tanzania but I knew already then that I would carry the person I had become here with me for the rest of my life.

Stats

Signposted distance: 21 km
Actual distance walked: 25.7 km
Elevation gained: 1,222 m to the highest point of Uhuru Peak

Day 8

We wake early to beat the rush out of the park gates, so early that the sun has not yet risen when I drag myself out of my tent for the last time for breakfast. My body doesn’t know what time of day is what anymore. It will take well over a week to fix my sleeping schedule, let alone my appetite.

It feels impossible that we still have to walk today, after over fifteen hours on our feet the day before. But the going is easy, compared to everything we have traversed over the past week, and we’re out of the forest and onto the dirt track before long.

We pass evidence of those who have not been able to walk themselves out, the one-wheeled metal stretchers abandoned here where a vehicle could reach them. We continue on down, the promise of a shower so achingly close that is all anyone can think about. At least, it’s all I’m thinking about.

It still comes as a surprise to see buses parked at the end of the path. To see the sign congratulating us, welcoming us to the end of the trail. To reach a building, with a roof, and flushable toilets.

It is mid-morning but our day is far from over. The walking was the easy part. There is lunch and there is the long drive back and there is all the ceremonies to part ways with our support staff, all of which would be far more important if I didn’t just desperately want a shower. Desperately want to take off my hiking pants that smelled worse than anything I’d ever known. Desperately want to call my parents and let them know I was all right.

There comes an awkward twenty minutes in which we stand in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for room keys and bags and for our guide to organise all for one last photo together. It’s a moment in which our exclaimed cries of “we really don’t smell that bad!” from the previous days was suddenly put into perspective, in this clean, polished space with lots of people who had access to running water.

That terrible smell that was permeating the air around us, was us.

But when I got into my hotel room, I didn’t know what to do first. I had to find some clean clothes from my other bag, I had to get my sweaty layers off. I had to try and contain the mud from my boots to one corner of the room and I had to get the WiFi to actually work.

After using up the contents of the complimentary shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner, I finally got the internet to connect long enough to call my parents.

“You’re sunburnt,” was the first thing my mother said.

I sighed. Some things would never change.

Stats

Signposted distance: 10 km
Actual distance walked: 7.6 km

I had four quiet days in Zanzibar following my trek. Time to myself, to try and process the days that had passed. To sleep. To regain some semblance of a normal routine, and not be tied to the sunrise and sunset that had defined my life. It was peaceful – with the exception of the monkeys who stole my malaria medication – but that is a story for another time.

I still struggle to really fully process everything from the trip. I struggle, in some ways, to know how to talk about it – how to write about it. It’s why it took me so long to post this. People ask me how it was and I try, desperately, to summarise something so monumental in my life into the few word summary that they want.

“Great!”I usually settle on. “Really hard. The altitude was rough. But it was great.”

Most people accept that and move on. With some people, I’ve sat down and told more. With others, stories come out now and again, as I remember them.

I have a mountaineering certificate with my name on it that says I summited. My brother looked at it and smiled at me. “Suze, you’re a mountaineer.”

I suppose I am. I’m not sure I’m ready to accept that title after just one mountain. But I do know that it changed something in me; the whole process of it, from the dedication to my training before I left right to the summit and down again.

Because once you’ve done something like summiting Mount Kilimanjaro, you realise something very important, that might just be the key to life: if I can achieve that, I can achieve anything I set my mind to.

So… What’s next?