What is it about turning fifty that makes someone want to climb a mountain?
It never occurred to me, in my thirties, to visit Machu Picchu, cage dive with Great Whites or climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Maybe fifty is a wake up call – as if to say, “you better do something special because you may be running out of time”. With that in mind, the trip to take on Mount Kilimanjaro was booked and in a few short months, we would be off to Tanzania.
My forty-six year old wife, Julie, ran a marathon seven years ago. It never ceases to amaze me how she manages to work this accomplishment into everyday conversation. If we are at a cocktail party and someone mentions having read a good book, she might say something like, “Oh, I read that book back in ’99 while I was training for my marathon”.
To her credit, Julie has religiously maintained her fitness level. I, on the other hand, had not done any serious exercising for over a year. Ninety days before the trip, I started a crash course, jogging three to four miles every day – rain or shine.
While we tried to cram in as much cardiovascular training as possible, there was not much we could do to train for the altitude. “To prepare for Kilimanjaro, try to do as many day hikes as possible between 6,000 and 9,000 feet,” the travel agency advised. Very difficult to do when you live in Birmingham, Alabama (elevation 800 feet). It looked like we would have to rely on diamox.
At 19,340 feet, Kilimanjaro is the world’s highest freestanding mountain and one of the coveted Seven Summits. Although it is higher than three of the others; Mount Vinson (Antarctica), Mount Elbrus (Europe) and Mount Kosciuszko (Australia), it is one of the most accessible peaks because it does not require crampons, ice picks or technical climbing experience. Still, it is a mountain that must be taken seriously. Depending on what guidebook you read, only one-third to one-half of the people who attempt Kilimanjaro summit.
Base Camp for Kilimanjaro has to be the Marangu Hotel, a one-hundred-year-old former coffee plantation situated on twelve acres of beautifully maintained grounds. There are several routes to the summit. We chose the Rongai Route which originates close to the Kenyan border. It is more remote and less crowded than the more common Marangu Route, plus it promises majestic views as it traverses through five distinct vegetation zones.
Prior to setting out for the Rongai Gate, we met with owners of the hotel who said that by attempting this climb in seven days, we would be “breaking all of the rules of mountaineering”. They went on to describe morbid details of pulmonary and cerebral edema, both of which can be fatal.
“Most of you will experience some form of altitude sickness. Severe headaches, nosebleeds, shortness of breath, loss of appetite and uncontrolled vomiting are common. Don’t fear these. Embrace them. They are normal." And we paid for this, I thought? "Twenty five thousand attempt Kili each year. While less than half make it, only about twenty-five die trying.” So much for the pep talk.
Following the briefing, it was time to meet our guide, our assistant guide and our thirteen porters. Our chief guide, Honest Minja, one of the best known guides on Kili, was featured in the IMAX film, Kilimanjaro. He is credited with taking the youngest person ever to the summit, an eleven-year-old American boy. This would be the sixty-third summit attempt for Honest. Our assistant guide, Charlie, would be making his seventieth trip. Samson, a young porter training to be a guide, would also accompany us.
Tanzania is one of the poorest countries in the world. While porters earn far more that the average per capita income of $40.00 per month, their mortality rate is alarmingly high. Many do not own adequate cold weather clothing as it is expensive and difficult to find at the equator. Forced to sleep in cold and wet conditions, many die each year of exposure. I was relieved that all our team had tents and plenty to eat.
The three-hour drive from the hotel to the Rongai Gate passed quickly as we traveled through several small villages. What had to be the bumpiest and dustiest road on the planet was filled with hundreds of women walking to market with huge banana bunches balanced on their heads. Small children waived to us and called out pepe, the Swahili word for candy. Fortunately, we had anticipated this and loaded up on several hundred pixie sticks at the Birmingham Wal-Mart.
Once we arrived at the gate (elevation 6,000 feet), we signed the official Kilimanjaro log book and set out. A very leisurely four hours later, we arrived at our first camp (elevation 8,500 feet), and we saw the tent that would be our home for the next six nights.
Spirits were high that evening as the first leg seemed rather easy. The next day’s trek to Kikelewa Caves (elevation 11,300 feet), however, would slap us back to reality. Throughout the nine-hour hike, the terrain changed several times – from plowed corn fields to rainforest to desert moorlands. Honest was constantly encouraging us to drink as much water as we could for acclimation and to take it pole pole, Swahili for slowly. “You can not reach the top if you climb too quickly.”
After about five hours, boredom set in. Julie and I came up with word games to help pass the time. “Rock bands in alphabetical order,” I suggested and immediately threw out ABBA. “ABBA?” Julie taunted. “Is that the best you can do?” You couldn’t think of Aerosmith?” She was clearly trying to get in my head, but I was not about to let it happen.
Kilimanjaro rises in two volcanic peaks – Kibo, the giant glacier capped volcano and Mawenzi, a jagged and fierce looking peak. Day three took us another five hours to Mawenzi Tarn (elevation 14,200 feet) located at the base of Mawenzi, adjacent to a crystal clear pond and a 1,000 foot sheer rock wall. Here we would spend the next two nights in an attempt to acclimate ourselves.
On the fourth day, we took a day hike up Mawenzi. We entered a strange and spooky world. With the cold fog blocking the view of our tents below, it seemed as though we were in the most remote place on earth. If a film studio went searching for a location to shoot a science fiction movie depicting life in another galaxy, this would be the place.
When we reached 15,000 feet (higher than Everest Base Camp), Honest showed us how to move baseball sized rocks to spell out our names on the mountain. He spelled out Kent for me. Julie arranged rocks to form T.S., the initials shared by our two children, Tanner and Taylor. I spelled out the name Papa Jack, in tribute to my father who passed away five years ago. It was comforting to know that very few would ever see our handiwork – likely the rocks would stay undisturbed for decades.
At about 2:00 a.m., back at the camp, I reluctantly left the tent for a bathroom break and was treated to an unbelievable scene. With just a sliver of moon out, the sky was pitch black. Millions of stars were beaming from horizon to horizon. One band was so thick that it had to have been the Milky Way. I woke Julie and tried my best to get her to go out and look, but the freezing temperature won out. She let me know that it would be a cold day in Kibo before she left the relative warmth of her sleeping bag.
We were happy to see the sun come up on day five as we had grown tired of Mawenzi; we were anxious to get to Kibo Hut. About thirty minutes into the hike, Honest and Charlie slowed down and allowed us to take the lead. Having hiked this route many times, they knew the scene that awaited us, just over a mound of boulders.
After climbing over the rocks, there, under a perfect blue sky, was Kibo. For the first time, we actually saw the summit and the huge glaciers that framed the flat top peak. Kili is so large that it makes its own weather and we were very fortunate to catch this view at a cloudless time. Fifteen minutes later, we snapped a picture, the entire peak covered in clouds.
The hike from Mawenzi to Kibo Hut was supposed to take seven to eight hours, but we must have caught our second wind as we made the journey in just under five. The hike is over what is referred to as "the saddle". It resembles what the moon must be like with dark gray scree, huge scattered boulders and no vegetation.
Upon our arrival at Kibo Hut (altitude 15,850 feet), the first thing we witnessed was a climber being strapped to a one-wheeled gurney for transport back down the mountain. Kibo is where acute altitude sickness kicks in for many climbers. It can result in severe headaches, lack of appetite and nausea. Approximately half of the people who make it to Kibo Hut, turn back. We felt badly for the unfortunate climber who looked young and fit. We wondered how we were adapting to the altitude so well.
After an early bland spaghetti and bean dinner, we retired to the tent about 4:30 to try and sleep since Honest would be waking us at 11:00 p.m. for our summit attempt.
Nights are cold at Kibo Hut – layers of clothing are necessary. At 11:00, the call came. Using only the light of our headlamps, we could see just a few feet in front of us. Charlie led the way. I had read numerous blogs and diaries from other climbers about what was ahead of us. I thought I was mentally prepared for the agony. Excruciating is one of the words to describe summit day.
Time drags. Your mind plays tricks. Hundreds of random thoughts collided in my brain as we moved silently up the steep face of the mountain. I found myself writing new lyrics to old songs. I tried to think happy thoughts – a celebration dinner with my family, sipping a good glass of Bordeaux, toasting our success. I came back to this image time and time again. It helped get me through the first few hours.
On two occasions, we were passed by climbers who seemed to be racing up the mountain. “Don’t worry”, Honest said. “You will make it to the top before they will.” Sure enough, an hour later the same poor souls who looked so indestructible on the way up had abandoned their attempt and passed us on the way back to camp; one with a severe nosebleed and the other holding his head and vomiting. “Tortoises two…hares zero” said Julie in her most condescending voice. Even in my misery, I had to laugh at that one.
As it got steeper and colder, our next goal was to make it to Gilman’s Point, the top of the crater rim at 18,650 feet. As a fiftieth birthday present, Julie had bought me an altimeter and I was constantly checking it to gauge our progress. After what seemed like an eternity, I looked down to see we were at 18,100 feet. Sensing we were close to Gilman’s, I made a critical mistake. I asked a German guide who had apparently joined up with us how much further it was to Gilman’s. Expecting to hear twenty to thirty minutes, my heart sank when he said “just over two hours”.
For the first time in five days, serious doubt hit me and I sank into a deep depression. After coming all this way, I was not going to make it to the summit, Uhuru Peak. The next two hours are a blur. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. At some point, the scree was replaced by bus-sized boulders and the walking turned to climbing. Finally, as I slowly crawled over yet another boulder, a strong wind slapped me square in the face. We had arrived at Gilman’s Point on the rim of the crater.
While Uhuru Peak, the true summit, is only 690 feet higher than Gilman’s Point, it is another two and a half hours further, following the narrow crater rim. Thirty percent of the people who make it to Gilman’s Point turn back here. When we were told this at our briefing, I found it hard to understand, but now I did.
The thought of getting down the mountain was overwhelming. Before the trip, Julie and I had made a pact. If one of us became sick or had to turn back, the other would continue alone. The thought of her making it and having her picture taken without me was all the motivation I needed to continue.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I ran a marathon and summited Kilimanjaro while my husband cowered in our tent?”
We started out for the final push to Uhuru Peak. Soon after leaving Gilman’s Point, Julie saw a shooting star blaze across the black sky. “That is a sign we are going to make it” she said, as disgustingly perky as she had been the entire trip. I missed it as I was busy staring at my boots and concentrating on staying upright.
Later the sun came up giving us a much needed boost. Altough a spectacular sunrise, we were too exhausted, too sick to even attempt to get our camera out and capture it. At over 18,000 feet, each step was a battle. Several times I had to lean against a boulder. To our right was the huge dormant volcano crater bottom and to our left, a field of white glacier. Each year, a couple of climbers, most likely due to fatigue, lose their footing and slide to their deaths into the glacier.
Just when I thought I could not take another step, Julie grabbed my arm and pointed to the sign at the summit. I had seen pictures of the rather non-descript sign many times and dreamed of having our picture taken in front of it. It was only about a quarter mile away, but it seemed further.
At 7:30 a.m., we finally reached the Rooftop of Africa. From out of nowhere came relief and an overpowering sense of accomplishment. We still had a long day ahead – we had to get down – but at least we had made it to the top.
After hugging Honest, Charlie, Samson and Julie (in that order), I stood and looked 360 degrees at the plains of Tanzania and Kenya. While the ascent took eight hours, the decent took three. It is necessary to climb in a zig zag pattern and go slowly, but we were free to take a more direct line going down, basically skiing the scree on the heels of our boots using two ski poles.
Back at Kibo, the temptation to go into the tent was powerful. Honest warned us not to, though. “Once you lay down, it's over. We will never make it to our next camp”.
After a light lunch, we took off for our final camp five hours away, down the less scenic but easier Marangu Route.
There was now a bounce to our step, treking downhill, passing climbers going up the mountain. We knew we had survived the ordeal they would have to face. Some stopped us and ask what it was like. “It's not so bad, just go slowly and you can make it,” we would say in our most encouraging voice. Looking into the hollow faces of a few, we knew they had a zero chance.
Arriving at our final camp about 4:00 p.m., we crashed – for fourteen straight hours. After breakfast, we hiked the final six hours to the Marangu Gate. We signed the Uhuru book signifying we had reached the summit. Julie and I agreed the climb was physically and mentally the most difficult thing we had ever done, multiplied by a hundred.
The porters and guides have a tradition of toasting the climbers who summit. According to Honest, the porters waged on who would make it. Early betting favored me over Julie because she is a vegetarian, they did not think she would be able to eat enough. Their nickname for her was mtoto, baby. Julie proved them wrong.
After the beers were served, Honest, Charlie and the porters surprised us by breaking into song. Even though we could not understand all the words, we did recognize the words, Kent, Julie and Kili. Watching these hard working men and boys smiling and singing was amazing. In gratitude, we decided to leave most of our cold weather clothing and gear for them to divide.
We finally left the hotel for Arusha and had our first shower in seven days. Not a day goes by that I do not think of our guides and of the mountain.
On a twelve passenger plane from Kilimanjaro airport back to Nairobi, the pilot announced, “If you look to your right, you will see Mount Kilimanjaro, the tallest freestanding mountain in the world." The plane was at 9,000 feet. Julie looked at me and said, “Can you believe we climbed that?” One of the best moments of my life.
When we first came off the mountain, I said that my short mountain climbing career was over. I meant it. I had made it to the top, lived to tell about it, got the picture and the T-shirt. With time I found I could not get the mountain out of my mind. The cold, the pain and the miserable memories were erased. All that was left was joy. So much so than in less than a month, plans were being made for a trip to Russia and Mount Elbrus.
All I have to do is start jogging and working on my word game skills. Anyone know a rock band that starts with X?
