Evening, December 31, 2010

We rested at Kibo Hut for a few hours before midnight.  The camp is an amalgamation of permanent low-slung wooden buildings with sheet metal roofs housing workers who remain at the camp and open spaces for pitching the tents of groups climbing the mountain.  Latrines sit at the far edge of camp, isolated from the camp site to keep the smell at bay.  When we arrived, dozens of identical brightly colored, parachutesque single-person tents were already pitched in the prime camping areas; our group set up camp in the lowland below camp underneath a large boulder outcropping that reminded me of a wizened man.  Just below us lay an area unmotivated climbers had turned into an open-pit toilet.  Feces and toilet paper littered the ground, leaving one with the unenviable choice of climbing up to the smelly latrines for some privacy or relieving yourself on the open plain beneath a barely concealing rock shelter.

Kay, Tom and I bought cans of Coca-Cola from the camp management to celebrate our success thus far.  Considering that the main route, Marangu, is nicknamed the “Coca-Cola” Route, we thought it fitting that Coke was available to buy and ingest.  After a week of water mixed with Crystal Light Fruit Punch and other flavors that quickly grew stale, drinking a cold Coca-Cola in the frigid weather was a pleasant respite.  We sat and took photos of each other drinking cans of Coke.  Kay had traded her burdensome hiking boots for light flip-flops and looked very humorous drinking a cold drink with her freezing feet peeking out from her heavy wardrobe.

Waiting for our final ascent up Kilimanjaro was like anticipating the start of a major life event a la running a marathon or having your first child.  Fraught with trepidation as a first-time climber, I waited anxiously for what I expected would be the most difficult challenge of my life.  I picked at my dinner – spaghetti with gruel again — and retired to my tent and sleeping bag to rest until 11:00 p.m.  I willed my body to relax and told my restless mind to be still.  Thoughts of whether I could climb the final 1,200 meters to the top of Uhuru Peak preoccupied me.  Would it be easier or harder than I expected?  After all I’d been through over the past five days, would I succumb to altitude sickness and end up aborting the climb or find the strength to reach the top?

On New Year’s Eve at 11:00 p.m. a guide awoke me.  I realized that I had slept a couple of hours.  I wrapped myriad layers of clothing around my body to insulate it from the bitter cold of midnight. Two layers of woolen socks inside hiking boots.  Two layers of long johns under hiking pants.  Stocking cap.  Heavy gloves.  Balaclava to cover the face.  Head lamp attached to the forehead to light my way.  Trusty hiking poles.  I was finally ready to climb.  I played with the crackers and tea the cook had set at the foot of our tent for our last meal.  I said a silent, hopeful prayer and crawled out of my tent into the freezing night air.

Wisps of a light snowfall and frozen breath threw shadows across my head lamp beam.  It was a surreal moment in the cold darkness waiting in haunting silence for the climb to begin.  The guides were busy preparing Kay, Tom, and me for the climb and arranging for Betty to be evacuated from the mountain by park rangers.  We waited for half an hour in the cold to leave camp.  I anxiously paced around a clearing near our tent next to a sharp drop-off overlooking the makeshift toilet.  I peered into the blackness and saw only clouds emanating from my lungs and twinkling lights from a few of the nearby tents.  Half an hour seemed like an eternity.

Lesson learned:  Don’t be too anxious to leave camp.  Rest as much as you can.  When your guide says you’re leaving at midnight, you won’t leave early.  There’s no need to leave your tent and mill about aimlessly no matter how anxious you are.  If another climber has to be medically evacuated from the group, make sure your guide has a definite plan to get them off the mountain long before midnight so they can devote their attention to you.  The night before the summit is one time when you can and should selfishly demand your guide’s attention.

Nestled 4,700 meters up the flanks of Kilimanjaro, School Hut is a mountain training facility for park rangers.  The camp is tantalizingly close to the rim of Kibo Peak, an extinct volcano.  The summit beckoned to me like a siren song and made me forget what we had already endured.  Remorse gnawed at me.  I regretted this seemingly pointless hike and still chagrined that we weren’t going all the way to the summit today.  It was there, right within my grasp!  Delusion hoodwinked me into thinking that I could have made it to the top.  It was as if I had been seduced by a coveted prize dangling before my eyes.  It finally occurred to me that perhaps I was overestimating my own ability and underestimating the road ahead.  At last my senses came back to reality.  If the trek to School Hut had been this difficult, there was no way I would make it to the top with what little strength I had left.   

Kay and I slumped against a large boulder.  We swapped energy bars and snacks filled with sugar jolts.  Our guide, Minja, waited for us nearby.  He rarely interacted with us and preferred to stay watchful but aloof.  We chatted with a German couple that had stopped here for the night before making their final ascent.  We lamented that we were staying much further down the mountain than they.  It didn’t make sense.  Staying at School Hut made more sense than camping at Camp 30 Caves.  It’s much closer to the summit and a short hike to Kibo Hut, the summit base camp every climber must pass en route to the top.  Our lead guide, August, told us that the Tanzanian government prohibited camping at School Hut, which was an obviously incorrect statement given that another group was setting up camp right in front of us.  Park management apparently limited overnight camping at School Hut and reserved it for elite tour groups that charged a lot of money to climb Kilimanjaro.  Although this would have been an ideal stopping point, I was unwilling to pay thousands of dollars more to camp there.

As I rested I looked out over the alien terrain.  Large boulders and loose rock littered the horizon.  The dust kicked up by a brisk wind whipped us from all sides and coated our clothing and lungs.  We could see, taste, touch and smell the earth.  The barren wasteland reminded me that we were touching the sky and yet were closer to Earth than ever before.  Low visibility and the imposing mountain face obscured the heavens that once stretched above us for eons.  I was like an insignificant insect clinging to the edge of a massive mound.

Kay and I rested at School Hut for about 20 minutes before pressing on.  I had to coax my muscles to move again.  Resting seemed to do more harm than good and reminded me of how tired and sore I was; there’s something to be said about moving on and not letting the pain register.  We hiked 45 minutes downhill at an easier pace until we reached another trail.  Minja tried to lead us uphill in the direction of Kibo Hut, but Kay and I rebelled.  Vigorous hands signals made it perfectly clear to him that we weren’t about to follow him no matter what August had instructed.  Rest and recuperation were our priorities, and we were determined to get back to Camp 30 Caves without any unnecessary detours.  Minja finally gave in and skulked behind.

We put Kibo Hut at our backs at about 1 p.m. and headed downhill again.  The journey was less strenuous than before but left me slipping and sliding precariously.  Gaiters on my shins protected my legs from the onslaught of loose gravel and rock.  My Keen-brand hiking boots, which until now had been excellent companions, didn’t fare so well.  Several times I slipped and did comical pirouettes with my hiking poles to avoid falling unceremoniously on my keister.  Unfortunately, my hips and knees acted as shock absorbers and took the full force of my shifting weight.  My muscles and joints groaned, and the pain grew acute.  With each slide I cursed the ground and resolved to give August an earful for sending us on this unnecessary hike.

Kay and I made it back to camp at mid-day.  Kay was also frustrated by the day’s events but held up much better physically than I.  As I limped into the encampment I yelled angrily, “Where’s August?”

“He’s on the mountain,” one porter told me.  Angry, I stormed off to my tent, casting my poles aside in disgust.  It took me hours to cool down and relax to the point that I was able to move about again.  Our companions, Betty and Tom, and August staggered into camp just before dark – almost eight hours after they had left!  Tom later told me that they had done the entire route, including Kibo Hut, but had spent so much time there that they barely returned before dark.  They too were utterly exhausted from the ordeal and agreed that today’s hike was fruitless.

Reunited, the four of us commiserated over dinner and expressed our mutual displeasure at August.  We decided to talk to him as a group and tell him our dissatisfaction with the day’s hike and other mistakes that had been made on this trip.  While August was caring man who did his utmost for us, he was very disorganized and clearly had not thought through some of his plans.  For example, August seemed worried about altitude sickness to a fault.  He did not take into account whether today’s climb would affect our group in other ways.  In fact, it figuratively killed all of us.  Betty was in the worst shape of all.  We were concerned that she wouldn’t make it to the summit, a major setback for a woman who had previously tried and failed to summit Kilimanjaro years before.  We were all rooting for her to make it this time.  Kay and Tom fared better physically but could have done without the visit to School Hut.  As for me, I thought that the hike had wasted too much of my strength and left my hips and knees badly weakened and bruised. The high altitude also left my respiratory condition worsened.  I began coughing more.  I was definitely not in the physical shape I had wanted to be in before my final ascent.  Altitude sickness I can handle.  Not making it to the top because of today’s hike was unacceptable.

Tom, Kay and I talked to August after dinner and suggested some ways to improve.  (Betty went to bed exhausted.)  We told him that the guides needed to speak English.  We shuddered to think what would have happened if one of us had been injured along the way.  How would Minja communicate his rescue plan to us — let alone rescue us — with such meager English?  We suggested that August change the route to avoid such a difficult acclimatization hike.  We offered other tips to improve communication to ensure that we would have a more pleasant and safer hike.  In hindsight I was glad August was gone when I had arrived at camp; it was more productive for cooler heads to prevail and talk to him civilly as a group.

In spite of today’s difficulties, there were some positive developments today.  Camp 30 Caves offered us much needed sanctuary from the elements.  In the evening when the clouds parted, the mountain appeared in full view and offered us a spectacular show as the sun set.  The peak has become a beautiful focal point to ease my mind of life’s challenges, stresses, or discomforts.  In spite of such an arduous day, the night finally brought peace.  I slept very, very well.

Lesson learned:  Question your guide’s advice if something seems amiss. Guides tend to apply a one size fits all formula that may not be optimal for you.  For example, acclimatizing may be good for those prone to altitude sickness.  It may not be so good for someone with no such symptoms who might be better off resting weary bones.