Editor’s note: This is the first of a two-part story. Read part two here.
I was bitten by the Kili bug soon after we moved to Tanzania. The infatuation deepened when I hiked neighboring Mount Meru with my friend Loren’s family, my eyes riveted to the haunting massif looming on the horizon. It felt as if Kilimanjaro were drawing me inexorably towards it.
One year after that trip, Loren and I were preparing to climb Kili with a handful of women friends. My son had raved about his Kili climb earlier that year, and he coached me on which exercise machines to use at the embassy gym. I started walking three to five miles a day—often with Loren—and swimming regularly.
I didn’t give much thought to the danger, such as that more than half of all Kili climbers suffer from Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) and just 40 percent reach the summit. I wasn’t doing it for bragging rights, although it is the highest free-standing mountain in the world at 19,360 feet. I simply wanted to hike up Kilimanjaro as my son had done, and it was a trek that didn’t require technical skills.
Filling out the Team
As a Type-A personality and the daughter of a former marine, Loren was a natural at endurance training. She carried weights in her hands and sprinted several times a week to increase her lung capacity while I was hard-pressed to keep up with her when we walked together. She was also super-organized and took on the arrangements for our trip. If anyone could get me up the mountain, it was Loren.
Two of my Atlanta friends had already signed on to join us, along with two friends of Loren’s from Washington, DC. An Irish friend who lived in Dar es Salaam, Irene, became the seventh member of our group, and told us about a Finnish woman who wished to join us.
Kaija waffled until two weeks before our start date, when she paid her deposit and confirmed her husband would stay with their three kids. Loren and I met her at a coffee shop where she told us she had no hiking poles or gaiters and had bought a pair of used hiking boots in Dar es Salaam the week before. Her training consisted of a few long walks.
“Hiking boots from Kariakoo Market and a few neighborhood walks?” Loren said after we left the cafe. “She thinks that’s going to get her to the top?”
“She’s fifteen years younger than we are,” I shrugged. “That ought to give her a big advantage.”
I was hardly one to judge another woman’s ability to climb Kilimanjaro since I had nagging doubts about my own chances of making it to the top. I was able to keep my hip bursitis in check by doing daily stretches; but there was a possibility that the stress of hiking up steep slopes every day might cause it to flare-up. Endurance hadn’t been an issue when we hiked Mount Meru or on a more recent four-day trek in the Ngorongoro Crater.
Anxious Arrival at Kili
Three days before our group was to assemble, I said goodbye to my kids and boarded my flight to Arusha, the closest city to Kilimanjaro. I met my Atlanta friends, Patty and Jane, at their gate and we hopped in a taxi to our mountain lodge, where we’d spend three days doing conditioning hikes at high altitude.
Overlooking the Ngorongoro Highlands, five-star Gibb’s Farm provided a total immersion for the senses. Stella and Cana Lilies, geraniums and salvia grew waist-high in rich volcanic soil while fragrant fruit trees and Arabica coffee thrived on its slopes. Coffee beans were roasted on site, and organic vegetables from the garden were served at every meal.
At night we slept in the most luxurious suites I’d seen in Tanzania and by day we hiked in the surrounding forest and up ridge trails. The effort it took to breathe while hiking at six thousand feet was alarming, given that all of us had been training for months. We’d have to work extra hard to get our middle-aged bodies up a mountain that rose over 19,000 feet.
The night before we were to start the climb, we met the rest of the group at a small hotel outside the gates of Kilimanjaro National Park. The dorm-style rooms were like nun’s chambers compared to the suites at Gibb’s, with a table and single bed in each room and bare walls speckled with squashed mosquitos. Yet the setting more than made up for it.
Read More on The Less Traveled Path
In the late afternoon, all eight of us hiked up to the park gate for a glimpse of Kilimanjaro in all its glory. We could easily distinguish the jagged spires of Mawenzi Peak to the east and the long sleek saddle connecting it to Kibo Dome, the highest and most prominent of Kili’s three cones. It was mesmerizing in the tangerine twilight.
That night in the hotel restaurant, some of us voiced concerns about the challenges we might face on the trek. Irene, who happened to be a nurse, admitted that she’d caught a cold and was taking antibiotics to ward off strep. Sally, Loren’s friend from D.C., worried that her cranky knees might prevent her from getting to the top.
Her Chilean friend Cecille promised to stay by her side and help her up the mountain. Without mentioning the pulled muscle in my lower back, I told the group about my hip bursitis. “What a crew,” Loren sighed, listening to us vent.
Kaija seemed surprised at the amount of training the rest of us had done and puzzled as we aired our concerns. What struck me that evening was the disparity in our ages, physical condition, and motivations. Two women—Kaija and Cecille—were in their late thirties, while the rest of us were in our fifties, in varying levels of fitness.
Day One: The Ascent Begins
The next morning, two vans ferried us to the Rongai Route trailhead where the head of the tour company introduced us to five Tanzanian guides. Brian was to lead us even though his English wasn’t as strong as two other guides who both happened to be named Clements.
Aside from five guides, we’d have a cook, two camp attendants and two cleaners, plus twenty-five porters carrying tents, bottled water, food, a shower tent and a toilet tent. Thirty-five men attending eight women seemed like overkill, but none could carry more than 40 pounds. We only had to carry small backpacks with cameras and a day’s worth of water and snacks. Our fleet of porters shook hands with us before loading gear on their heads and backs and sprinting ahead.
At 1pm, we set off in high spirits on a bright November day. We passed through farmland and pine groves. Juniper and scrub-brush obstructed our views until we came upon rolling hills with sparse foliage. Sweeping views of the surrounding countryside were so captivating that I was surprised to reach the first campground after only three hours of hiking.
The porters had our tents set up and the cook was already preparing a hot chicken dinner as we shrugged off our daypacks and sat at a picnic table set with popcorn and lemonade. Everyone seemed to be in good moods, and no one complained about aching muscles or joints. The setting contributed to the upbeat atmosphere as we gazed down on Kenya’s Rift Valley, its dappled green-beige fields rimmed by low mountains on the far side.
None of us drank alcohol that night since we’d started taking Diamox every day as most climbers do. The drug tricks the brain into helping the body adjust to higher altitudes, but it also makes beer smell and taste like cat pee.
Day Two: Finding Our Stride
We settled into our natural rhythms and paces on the second day. Irene was far from her usual lively self, as if it were taking all her strength to hike with a stuffy head at ten thousand feet. She and I were quiet hikers and walked solo at times while Patty and Jane and Loren’s D.C. friends never seemed to run out of things to say. Loren walked alongside her friends or strode ahead, using the early hikes to prepare for the final push to the summit.
Kaija ambled between the groups or on her own, taking photos and sometimes chatting with the guides. With her white-blond hair and eyes the color of tanzanite, a violet-blue mineral, she was a standout and a blithe spirit. She had a lilting voice and a proper British accent despite being from Finland. Her coquettish mannerisms—constantly tossing her head to bob her wispy bangs into place—were a curious contrast to her stocky trunk and legs.
The guides vied to walk beside her while porters bearing heavy loads would turn and ogle her as they passed. Kaija walked with her camera in hand instead of hiking poles and insisted on carrying three liters of water in her day pack instead of one like the rest of us.
She drank so much that she had to request frequent pit stops along the trail. Most of us welcomed any excuse for a break; all except Loren, who would continue walking before doubling back to rejoin the group.
It was a relief when we reached the second camp after hiking eight miles and gaining three thousand feet. Kikelewa campground was set in a broad open space that overlooked the distant valley where we’d started the trek two days earlier. Everyone’s muscles and joints ached, although they were mostly minor complaints: sore hips and knees, stiff shoulders and calves. Thankfully, my hip bursitis hadn’t posed a problem as yet.
Kaija had developed hot spots on her feet and asked to borrow my medical tape to keep them from turning into blisters. She still bounded around the campground with a buoyancy that amazed me as the rest of us collapsed in our tents. She was forever taking pictures of inanimate objects and searching for cell phone signals to check in with her family. I couldn’t help envying her, having energy to spare and young kids at home who still wanted to hear from their mother.
It was crisp and clear that night at zero degrees centigrade with a billion stars speckling the sky. On a last visit to the toilet tent, I was bowled over by the realization of what a tiny figure I was, tiptoeing across the highest mountain on the continent in the inky night. It was already enough to experience this even if I never reached the summit.
Day Three: Nearing the Sun
At dawn on our third day, the sun’s rays bathed Kibo Dome and Mawenzi Peak in burnt amber tones. The outlines of both peaks were so stark that they appeared to be only a short stroll from our campsite. But such was not the case, as we would soon find out.
After sharing sunscreen and foot tape with each other and handing out spare nuts and energy bars, we started walking in brilliant sunshine over rough and rocky terrain. The steady climb was tedious and exhausting as I tried to keep up with Loren, who set a brisk pace.
Bothered by her knees, Sally lagged behind the rest of us with Cecille at her side, urging her on. Kaija took endless pictures of wildflowers and weeds, porters and guides. At times Patty broke into song and the rest of us would try to join in even though it was hard to sing at high altitude while walking. Despite the hard work, everyone was in good spirits and kept encouraging each other to maintain the pace if someone’s energy flagged.
The trek that morning intensified as we approached the base of Mawenzi Peak, gaining two thousand feet in three hours. We reached the third campsite by lunchtime, giddy with relief when Brian announced that we’d have the afternoon off to rest and acclimate to a higher altitude.
As we sat down to lunch, we barely had time to finish our sandwiches before a hailstorm broke overhead and forced us to retreat to our tents. Loren and I made compatible tentmates since we were close friends by then, and she had a deaf ear and didn’t hear my snoring. As ice balls pelted the tent flaps, we dove into our sleeping bags to keep warm and picked up our books.
As absurd as it might seem, huddling at the base of Mawenzi Peak with hailstones littering our tent made me feel acutely alive. It was thrilling to be lying on the shoulders of the iconic mountain and feeling like an integral part of it. The stark beauty of that place would be emblazoned in my mind for years to come: the dense array of stars in the night sky, and the magenta clouds that drifted around Mawenzi’s spires at sunrise.
Day Four: Whipping Winds and No Appetite
Though the temperature fell below freezing in the night, the sun lured us out early in the morning after the camp attendant delivered hot tea to our tents. Simple touches like that helped us jump-start each day—with hot drinks warming our insides before we had to crawl out of warm sleeping bags into the frigid air.
Kibo Dome loomed before us like a forbidding hulk as we crossed the Saddle—a narrow plain between Mawenzi Peak and Kibo Dome that resembled a moonscape. The wind gusted at times and whipped dust in our faces, yet a gentle sun and temperatures in the 60s made for pleasant hiking. In that alpine desert, it felt like we were walking on air as we traversed the eight miles to Kibo basecamp. With the smell and taste of the wind saturating my senses, I was high as a kite, having reached such heights on my own.
We walked into basecamp with plenty of time to rest before dinner, all of us relieved to have arrived without debilitating pain. My hip bursitis hadn’t been a problem, and Sally’s knees weren’t bothering her too badly. Kaija had full-blown blisters that she had to keep taping, though she said they didn’t hurt much. Irene told us that her cold was better even though she appeared to be having trouble breathing; but then all of us were panting at sixteen thousand feet.
Nobody had an appetite when we were presented with instant soup and pasta for the third night in a row, yet we had to force ourselves to down enough carbs to have strength for the hard work ahead. But we couldn’t force ourselves to sleep when Brian suggested we go to bed early since he had to wake us at 11:00 pm for the final ascent.
Sleep evaded me as rapture from the day’s hike morphed into dread. My mind swirled with worries about the arduous work ahead, having to climb three thousand five hundred feet in four miles starting at midnight.
Planning a mountain climbing adventure? Consider SafetyWing travel insurance.
Click here to read the conclusion.
———————
Terry Repak is a Seattle-based writer and author. This article is an excerpt from her memoir, Circling Home: What I Learned By Living Elsewhere, published in 2023. Learn more on her website.
Terry Repak
