Trying to fall asleep at 8:00 p.m. anywhere is difficult, but in subzero temperatures at 15,000 feet, knowing we had at most three hours of rest ahead of us before waking and climbing for seven hours, it was a preposterous notion.
I tried to prepare as much as possible, and decided it was probably best to sleep in at least the under layers of the clothing I would wear to summit. Tired, yet restless, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It was frigid and the wind was whipping and wailing outside of our tent. I lay awake wondering how I could possibly muster the mental and physical strength to climb 4,000 feet in the dark and cold night.
I slept lightly and briefly, and at 11:00 p.m. a porter shook our tent to wake us and placed the warm bowls of water outside. We hurriedly tried to dress, but we did not have to pack up our duffels and tents this time because we would return to Barafu Camp to rest upon our return.
Because I slept in silk long underwear and thermal running tights and a fleece, I only had to pull on ski pants over the tights. But, they were size small, and I bought them years ago for skiing and had not considered how they might fit over the other layers. I pulled on two more thermal tops and my ski jacket. I felt a wave of concern and minor panic. I could barely walk. How would I be able to climb?
We swished and tottered in our Gore-Tex to the dining tent where we were served warm tea and popcorn. None of us knew what to expect, and there was an air of somberness tempered with excitement. Mndeme led the briefing and told us the climb would be a steep northwest ascent in the dark through the Rebmann and Tarzel glaciers. We would aim to reach our first milestone, Stella Point, at the rim of the main crater by sunrise. Then we would push for the final 700 feet to Uhuru Peak, the summit. I had read that many people make it to Stella Point, but that the trek from Stella Point to Uhuru was the toughest stretch of the climb.
Soon we left the tent and gathered our packs and poles and lined up. The wind was strong, and the temperature was well-below zero. And while there was a full moon that night, the sky was black. There were other groups near us shuffling around and preparing to leave. We began walking and quickly arrived at the base of the incline.
Each us wore a headlamp, but they only provided a range of about a foot or so of light. Even switching to different settings would not provide more, and we could not see farther than what was directly in front of us. And so when we began climbing it was a shock.
We were immediately confronted with another rock climb. The cold, gray stone was unforgiving. I had to continually remind myself that the climb was supposed to be difficult, not easy, and that was the whole point. To push, and test, grow beyond the person I was and had been. In that difficulty would lie discovery and meaning. We used our poles to try to push ourselves up each step that was about a foot or more high. It required intense focus and presence to find the footholds in the meandering rock.
The guides and porters watched us closely and knew how difficult it was for us. We could see and hear our breath, and in the beginning that was all we heard along with the scraping sound our hiking poles made against the rock and the crunching sound from stepping on the stone scree that was strewn over the rock. We were tired, and it was cold and slippery, and the air was thinning significantly. Each breath contained only half of the oxygen molecules at sea level.
The first couple of hours seemed to pass by slowly. But by the third hour, despite wearing two pairs of gloves, my toes and fingers were beginning to freeze and the water in my Camelback was freezing. A thin slush began to come through my rubber tube and I knew that soon it would be frozen solid. I had a thermos of warm tea that lasted for awhile and another water bottle. I hoped they wouldn’t freeze also, or at least not until I made the summit. At various times, one of the guides would take each of my hands out of my gloves and rub them vigorously between his hands to try to warm them before putting my gloves back on. It reminded me of Mr. Miyagi trying to heal Daniel in The Karate Kid, which made me laugh and simultaneously inspired a determined mindset. It did work temporarily to warm my hands. I also tried to climb with one pole while keeping the opposite hand in my pocket, then alternating until my hands were warmer.
By the fourth hour we were all struggling, and between breaks we moved painstakingly up the path. Even though it was dark, the clouds shifted and eventually the full moon shone over us and the sky was speckled with thousands of shimmering stars. Shooting stars streamed across the sky faster than I could wish upon them. I do not know if it was the altitude, or the otherworldliness about Kilimanjaro, but what I saw and felt that night was extraordinarily special and magical.
When I looked ahead I could see nothing except the small glowing dots of the headlamps of the climbers climbing up the steep path ahead of us. But because I could only see the lights and not the path, the lights looked like spirits, or angels, rising ahead and it felt holy. I felt that God was around me and with me, and that despite all of my perpetual questions about decisions I have made in my life, and their consequences, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment, and that everything that had happened was supposed to happen exactly as it did. I felt a peace and knowing that I have never experienced before or after that night. I thought of my family and friends who are living, and those whom I have lost, and felt that they were all with me. It was a profound feeling of love, gratitude and connectedness, and it was overwhelming. I believed the statement, commonly attributed to Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, that we are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience, and C.S. Lewis who said, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”
Perhaps it was the arduousness of the climb at that point, combined with the spirituality of the moment and the realization of how far I had climbed; not only up the mountain, but also in my life. Whatever the impetus, I was overcome with emotion and began crying. If I had the luxury of falling to my knees and putting my face in my hands and surrendering completely, I would have. But I didn’t and kept moving because I had no choice. I was alone for the most part, with the closest person several yards away oblivious to my falling apart. It was not a breakdown, but a breaking open. I felt my heart break open, and all of the pain and struggle of the years that led me to this place were released into the cold, night wind on Kilimanjaro. It was as if I had to use all of my strength to climb and no longer had the energy to hold up those invisible and impenetrable walls that I had worked hard to uphold for so long. I could also not believe I was on the cusp of summiting. I have never felt as stripped bare or exposed emotionally, despite being buried in layers of clothing. It was poignant and profound and my life changed forever in that moment.
Up to this point, I had somehow been able to mentally shut out most of the physical pain and discomfort of the hike that was a consequence of the altitude, including icy and tingling fingers and toes from the temperature and Diamox, headaches and nausea. But soon I realized the altitude was severely affecting my thought processes and I was beginning to hallucinate mildly. Physically I felt ok, but intellectually I knew something was wrong. I could not remember my teammates’ names. The labored breathing was still a surprise, even though I knew to expect it. Itmade me empathize with my grandmother who had passed away after a long struggle with lung disease and emphysema. I remember hearing her breathing but I just could not understand what it felt like. And my memory lapses, due to the lack of oxygen, made me think of my grandfather who succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease. I felt that in some small way, I could understand what he must have felt when trying to hold onto his thoughts and memories as they began to slip away. It is an absolutely helpless, devastating and terrifying feeing.
I saw Ashild (pronounced O-seal), and thought to myself, what is her name? All that I could manage to recall was that it sounded like an animal. And so I thought to myself, is it O-bird? No, that wasn’t it. O-cat? No… I stopped and hunched over my hiking poles and tried to catch my breath. Even though we were moving slowly, my heart was racing as if we were running sprints.
Our guides carried one bottle of oxygen in case of an emergency, and it had been given to one of the Australians who was not well. He had left our group with a guide earlier and we did not know where they were. I was worried for him. I was also worried for Ashild, or whatever the hell her name was. She seemed to be struggling and was led by the hand up the mountain path by one of the guides. Her new husband, Christian, climbed directly behind her.
Gradually I began to feel a shift within myself. What had been, for the most part, a physical challenge until that point, was transitioning to a true mental test. We knew once the sun began to rise that the temperature would grow warmer and we would feel some relief from the cold, but the night seemed endless. Eventually, we began to see traces of pink light to the east and it grew to a beautiful pinkish, yellow-orange light in the sky to the right of our path, while on the left, the full moon was still above us. I had never been in a place where I could so vividly see the sun rise and the moon set simultaneously.
At this point we were at nearly 18,000 feet and higher than both of Mt. Everest’s base camps. Every step was grueling. The guides in our group, and in other groups, sang evocative African songs that soothed us and helped to pull us out of our thoughts and discomfort. With the beauty of the sunrise, the surreal view of the glaciers, and the haunting melodies, I felt that I was in a dream.
As we continued, we passed by many people who were sitting and resting and struggling. We saw many guides and porters from other groups evacuating climbers down the mountain to mitigate high altitude pulmonary and cerebral edema. Many people were very sick and some were unconscious. Some were falling asleep while resting, which can lead to hypothermia and death.
I was struggling physically, but aside from some memory loss, I felt mentally strong. Our group had separated quite a bit. Some members were ahead of us and some were behind. For the most part Marina, Angela, Belinda and I stayed together. Trevor, Andrew, Michelle and Dan were ahead of us. Christian, Ashild, and Jeff were behind us and we did not know David’s whereabouts but we knew he was in good hands with one of our guides.
Even though we were climbing as a group, we were all climbing alone. No one and no thing was getting us up that mountain except ourselves. I found myself thinking positive mantras and drawing on every challenging experience I had ever had to push myself forward. Exasperated, I began to ask climbers who had summited, and who had already begun their descent, how much further we had to climb to reach Stella Point. We were almost there.
The terrain had changed from large rock and scree to what felt and looked like volcanic ash. It was like climbing a sand dune on the moon. The girls and I tried to encourage one another. One of us would move ahead and then need to rest, and another would scuttle past the person who was resting like little crabs on a beach. At one point I was ahead of Belinda and feeling absolutely depleted, she began to cry. I yelled to her, trying to add some levity to the moment, “Come on, Dr. B!” “This can’t be harder than medical school!” She cried harder and yelled back at me, “It is!!!” But then she pressed forward one step at a time. Soon we had arrived at Stella Point.
When we saw the bright green sign, the sun had risen and we were elated. It was not the summit but it was close. We rested and ate a snack and tried to thaw and drink our water. We posed for a group photo but Ashild was not well. She was sitting and leaning with her eyes closed and her lips looked as if they were turning blue.
The guides encouraged Ashild to turn back at Stella Point and begin her descent. Christian, her husband, agreed and they left us and began hiking back down to camp. I felt crushed for Ashild and Christian, but it was not worth risking her life to try to hike the 700 additional feet to the summit.
We could not rest for long because of the cold temperatures and altitude. It was imperative that we keep moving so that we could begin our descent as soon as possible. We could see the Uhuru Peak sign from Stella Point, and with it in sight, we had a second wind and began the final push. The trail from Stella Point was snow-covered and every step was punishing. But the sun was shining brightly and we were warming up, and the adrenaline of being so close to achieving our dream of summiting propelled us forward.
Uhuru means Freedom in Swahili, and Uhuru is the highest point in Africa at 19,341 feet. It is known as The Roof of Africa, and we were there.
Time seemed to stop for a moment, and although there were many people celebrating and taking photos, I could not hear them. I blocked out their voices and looked at the view and thanked God for the gift of the experience of being in a place that very few people would ever have the opportunity to witness. It was an important and meaningful moment of solitude and gratitude.
I looked around at all of the people in my group and in the other groups, and marveled at the different paths – on the mountain, and in life – that had led us to the summit of Kilimanjaro that morning. It was exhilarating and beautiful. It truly was the journey and not the destination, but the destination was pretty sweet.
We took celebratory photos and hugged and high-fived, and then suddenly, it occurred to us that we had to descend. We had not given much thought to how we would get down, and we realized that we had seven more hours of hiking ahead of us. Even though it was a descent, we felt ready to collapse. The thought of any more physical activity was beyond our realm of comprehension.
And so we began our descent to Barafu Camp via the same trail that led us to the summit. There we would rest for a couple of hours and collect our gear and continue hiking down to Mweka Camp, where we camped our first night.
The descent was not easy. In some ways it was more difficult because it is very hard on your knees given the steep decline. As we began moving down the mountain in the powdery ash it felt almost like skiing, except at 8:00 am with the sun shining, it became scorchingly hot. We all began to shed our outer layers as quickly as possible. Ski jacket, ski pants, gloves, hat. Soon I was down to my running tights and thermal shirt. I could feel my hands beginning to be sunburned. I had not thought of applying sunscreen to my hands the night before. Every step downward my toes jammed into the end of my hiking boots and I could feel blisters beginning to form.
After a couple of hours we arrived at Barafu Camp and I removed my hiking boots and crawled into my tent and collapsed. I fell asleep immediately. After a short rest we were awakened for lunch. I did not know how I could possibly hike for five more hours. I could not understand why we wouldn’t stay at Barafu to recover for the rest of that day and then continue to Mweka the next day, but I knew it would be worth it in the end. I dreamed of running water and a long shower with soap and shampoo. Fresh towels and clothes and cushiony flip-flops. And so I thought of these things as we continued our hike down to Mweka.
The five hour hike from Barafu to Mweka was unbearable. I was alone with a porter for most of the trek. Our group had separated completely, or at least I had separated from the last part of our group, and was having difficulty descending due to a former knee injury that had never healed properly. The extra weight from my daypack compounded the pressure put on my knee with each step down. It was excruciating. I felt vulnerable because I was exhausted and in so much pain. I was climbing down dry and dusty rocky river beds, that I supposed had dehydrated due to the glaciers diminishing over time, and had no choice but to put complete trust in my porter who spoke no english. But unlike the porter who guided me to Lava Tower, this porter I thought was only staying with me because he wanted a tip. I did not feel like he understood how painful the descent was for me. He seemed frustrated by me and I felt bad.
It was a descent-only route and the porters from other groups were blazing past us carrying their loads, laughing and speaking Swahili. They had not bathed in God- knows-how-long, and the stench made me nauseous. They wore American t-shirts, including a few from home that said FBI and Washington Nationals. One said Dan’s Bachelor Party, Atlantic City and it made me laugh. I thought it was ironic that we donate clothing and goods to Africans, then come to Africa and buy theirs.
After fourteen long hours of hiking, I joined my fellow teammates at Mweka Camp. It felt wonderful to remove my boots and even the dirty warm bowl of water outside of my tent seemed refreshing. I was blistered, sunburned, and my knee was swollen, but I had made it. We were happy to all be together and those of us who did reach the summit tried to temper our elation in the company of those who did not. Plus we were just exhausted. The summit came at a price. We knew it was the journey and not the destination, but we also knew how defeated the others felt in not summiting.
We were all anxious for a good night’s sleep so we could begin our final descent to Mweka Gate the next day and be back to the Springlands Hotel for dinner.
