It’s been over a year since I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. I
just traveled to Turks and Caicos, and while sitting on the beach, I had the
opportunity to re-read Ernest Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro”. While the
story itself has very little to do with Kilimanjaro, it reminded me of my trip,
and also that I never wrote about the final ascent and descent. I figured I
should finally record my thoughts, before I write about another trip.
Accordingly, what follows are my recollections of my ascent to the summit of
the mountain, and the following descent.
9/14/2011
I had dinner at the end of Day 4 at Barafu, the “base camp”
for most treks to Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. I ate around
8:30-ish in the evening, and finished around 9. I stayed up a little bit longer
preparing for bed, writing, and getting ready mentally for what awaited later
that night. After falling asleep around 9:30, Bryson woke me up a little before
midnight. You see, when making the final ascent, you don’t wait until the next
day; you start at midnight. This gives you the opportunity to be at the summit
to watch the dawn… as long as you move fast enough. It’s supposed to be about a
six hour trek, and dawn comes around 6:00am.
I dressed, grabbed my pack and got ready to head off. Other groups
around me were doing the same. Unlike the previous sections of trail, this one
would be made just by myself and the guide. We would be coming back to Barafu
afterwards, and meeting up with the rest of our crew for the descent. We
started off somewhere in the middle of several large groups. It was completely
dark, except for a little moonlight and the twinkling stars. The larger groups
formed long chains going up the mountain, with their flashlights and headlamps
lighting their way. They looked like long chains of miners from a distance,
snaking their way up the slope. I tried to photograph them, but the lack of
ambient light, combined with my own inexperience as a photographer prevented me
from getting any good shots.
We moved quickly. We passed one group, and quickly got
caught behind another one. On the one hand, I wanted to climb fast to make sure
we were at the top before dawn, and to just get it over with. On the other
hand, I didn’t want to ascend so quickly that I would get altitude sickness. We
were moving from the 15239 ft of Barafu to the 19,341 ft of Uhuru, the largest
ascent since the first day. Climbing that many feet between the hours of
midnight and 6:00am would be difficult even if I was well rested. Instead I had
about two hours of sleep. And the previous day had been the longest single day
trek so far, one in which two days of trekking were done in one day. Needless
to say, I was exhausted, and the exhaustion took its toll.
Nevertheless, we continued to pass other groups, until there
were none left in front of us that we could see. I told myself that we moved
faster because I was a Marine, so I was tougher and could move faster than the
others. In actuality, it was probably more because there was only two of us,
compared to the groups we passed. But in my pride, I asked for fewer stops to
rest, and ignored my growing headache.
An hour passed, and then another. It was godawfully boring.
The terrain was steep, much steeper than the previous days. At times it was
practically sand, and for every two steps forward I took, the sand slid me back
one step. There was no talking to Bryson, or gazing at the beautiful scenery to
pass the time. It was just drudgery, moving forward in the darkness, all the
time wondering how much further to go.
I passed the time any way I could think of. I had gone
through a difficult break up in the first half of the year. I worked on a
stanza in my head expressing my relief at leaving those feelings behind in New
York when I left. It took me the better part of an hour, because my head was
spinning, making it difficult to concentrate. It’s hard to remember it exactly,
but it went something like this:
Goodbye dear friends,
I must now depart
I leave again
To make a new start
With hopefulness,
But sorrow in part
Goodbye Brooklyn
Heights and broken heart.
Sometime around the fourth hour or so, the pain in my head
was becoming unbearable. In the same way that I didn’t pack any sunscreen or
lip balm, I also didn’t bring any altitude medicine, or even simple
painkillers. My pace was slowing, and I was taking much more frequent “rest
stops”. Bryson began to taunt me, “You want to turn back?” He was trying to
push me, thinking I was considering giving up. “No,” I muttered through gritted
teeth.
We came up behind another small group, a couple and their
guide. I never figured out where they came from, because when we stopped next
to them, I couldn’t focus enough to listen to their conversation with Bryson. They
had either gotten an earlier start, or come from some adjoining trail.
I begrudgingly admitted that I was suffering from some
altitude sickness. “You wouldn’t have any pills, would you?” I asked them.
“No altitude sickness medicine, but I think I have some
ibuprofen if you want it.”
“Gladly. Thank you.” I shamelessly swallowed the couple
pills she had, and we continued.
The headache eventually lessened, and after about another
hour we reached Stella Point. This is the point where you can finally see into
the crater of Kilimanjaro. It is my understanding that several different routes
used to reach Uhuru join here and continue as one path to the very top. The
remaining ascent was not much higher. Instead it consisted mostly of walking
around the edge of the crater to the actual “peak.” The peak is not very
pronounced, of course., since Kilimanjaro flattens out around its crater. When
we reached Stella I was elated, because it felt like the end was in sight, even
though we had about an hour to go.
This last hour was fairly pleasant though. The predawn sky
began turning purple, and I could see the glacier of Kilimanjaro all around me
in the distance. We weren’t walking on snow, just rocky ground, but off to the
right and left on other parts of the mountain it was beautiful. As more light
came into the sky, it reflected off the snow in an array of colors. We raced to
the top, all exhaustion having disappeared with the excitement of the finish.
We were close to the first up that morning, but I remember
at least one other trekker and guide from a different route already there as we
arrived. Nevertheless, we beat the crowd, and made it just in time for dawn. It
was gorgeous. I could see for hundreds of miles in all different directions.
The sun slowly rose, and on one hand light began to shine on part of the land,
and on the other hand it was still peaceful and dark. The sky was a brilliant
canvas of colors. I took as many photos as I could, and tried to capture as
much of the scene in my memory as possible. It was an amazing feeling, standing
there at the roof of Africa, knowing that there was not a single person on the
entire continent who was standing higher than I was at that moment.
Soon the crowds of other trekkers began arriving. Getting
there early allowed me to take more photos in front of the sign marking the
peak than people who got there later, and had to rotate with so many others.
Even so, we only had about 15-20 minutes at the top, due to the cold
temperature, altitude, and the long trek we still needed to make back. I took
photos with a Teach For American shirt, since I had raised money for TFA as
part of my climb, a Texas flag bandana with Willie Nelson’s signature printed
on it, and finally I cracked open the bottle of Kilimanjaro Lager that I had
carried with me the entire trek.
I was inspired to do this by a British man I met while
climbing to the base camp of Mount Everest. In the cold, the beer had almost
completely frozen, but there was just enough liquid to still drink some. The
sight of me drinking the beer at the peak caused a minor stir. Everyone loved
the idea, and wished they had done the same thing. People laughed and begged me
to let them borrow the bottle for their own photos, so I hung out for a couple
minutes and shared the prop. Eventually, though, Bryson got impatient, and we
were both pretty cold, so I grabbed the bottle and we started back down.
While going up was a six-hour trek, coming back down to
Barafu was only about a three-hour trek at most. The trail down is mostly
within sight of the trail up, but off to the side by a couple hundred yards on
average. It was also a lot more sandy, and we literally skied down the sand in
many parts. It was not safe to say the least, and several times I almost
busted. Fortunately, the couple times I stumbled, I managed to land on my butt.
west
The speed at which we “skied” and frankly ran down the trail
ensured we got back to Barafu before 10:00am. I was on a high, having just
gotten back from the summit. Bryson told me I could rest for a little while,
and then we would start down.
The descent from Barafu is a two day descent. It takes you
through the all the terrain types that I had already encountered, from the
rocky mountaintop, through alpine desert, then rocky scrub-land, and finally
lush forest. Along the way, treks stop at Mweka camp, about halfway, and then
finally to Mweka gate at the bottom.
After about an hour and a half rest, and some breakfast, we
started off. Bryson told me it was up to me how fast we did it, meaning I could
do it in the normal two days, or push hard and finish in one day. I had been up
since midnight, with about two hours of sleep, and had been trekking for
approximately 9 hours at this point.
“How long is it until the bottom?” I asked.
“About three or four hours,” he replied.
I decided to push it, and finish it that day. It was Day 5
of the normally six or seven day route. I don’t know whether I was out of my
senses because of exhaustion, or overconfidence from being so close, or because
I hadn’t been in contact with the girl I had recently become smitten with for a
couple days. But I had done it. I had conquered the largest freestanding
mountain in the world.
Epilogue:
The descent itself was fairly uneventful. Bryson told me I
would start off with Saidi and he would catch up with me later. I didn’t see
him until more than half way down, and still continued on with just Saidi, who
didn’t speak English. Bryson met up with us and discussed with me a fair tip
for himself and the others at Mweka Camp. I also ran into some middle-aged
Texan men, who were there with their mother. She had just finished the more
difficult Lemosho Route. She was doing it in anticipation of her upcoming
60-year college reunion at Texas Woman’s University. It was kind of incredible.
I don’t know whether there was a miscommunication or what,
but it did not take three to four hours. That’s how long it took to get to
Mweka Camp. To get to Mweka gate was an additional three hours or so. Maybe Bryson
meant that the normal day’s trek was only three to four hours. Or maybe he just
wanted to get down himself. The sun was getting low in the sky by the time we
reached Mweka Gate. Thabit met us there with a car, and made sure that I was
ok.
“Bryson didn’t make you come down today, did he?” Thabit
asked.
“No, no, it was my decision.”
I stayed in Moshi that night, in the same hotel that I
stayed in before the trek. My lips was so burnt, dry and cracked that they were
bleeding. My skin was red from the sun. Everything hurt. But it was worth it.
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