Editor’s note: This is part two of a two-part feature. Click here to read Part 1.
Day Five: Hitting the Wall
It was a nightmarish scene when Brian roused us; crawling out of my sleeping bag without having slept and forcing myself to eat biscuits and tea even though I wasn’t hungry; pulling on long underwear before hiking pants, shirt, sweater, and coat before inserting foot warmers in boots and mittens.
It was cold but not bitter at basecamp and the path was clear of snow. Despite a sense of foreboding, I was exhilarated as we started walking under a sliver of moon that provided precious little light. In the distance we could see dozens of tiny headlamps dotting a trail that snaked upwards, marking the trajectory of climbers who’d left before us.
Like a mirage, the mound we were attempting to scale never seemed to get any closer as we walked single file around endless switchbacks and up sets of steps. The thin air was hard to breathe and I was quickly winded, stopping every few minutes to let my heart rate normalize.
Two hours into the climb, Loren and Cecille said they wanted to go ahead without taking so many breaks since they were having less trouble breathing than the rest of us. Brian decided he’d lead them, and he directed Clements to stay with Jane and me as we stopped at every switchback to rest. Irene struggled to keep up with us while Patty and Sally fell farther behind, plodding up the mountain at a snail’s pace with other guides.
Faced with a choice between walking with Jane and me or forging ahead with Cecille and Loren, Kaija randomly decided to go with the faster group. She said she felt okay, although she may not have been thinking clearly at that point; and Brian didn’t question her or try to assess her condition before taking her with them.
It was the steepest and hardest climb I’d ever attempted at an altitude I never expected to reach. By the time our trio got to the halfway point at Hans Meyer Cave, I was already exhausted and desperately short of breath. With the cold air bothering her sinuses, Irene could no longer keep up with us and one of the other guides said he’d continue walking with her.
Jane and I plodded on, struggling for breath but not stopping for long in the bitter cold. The hand and foot warmers in gloves and boots kept our extremities warm, but my heart pounded furiously while my eyes were glued to the narrow path as we snaked our way up and around endless switchbacks. The thought of taking a wrong step on that sheer slope terrified me as I imagined tumbling down the slippery scree all the way back to basecamp. I urged myself to keep going by saying, “Put one foot in front of the other,” and “ten more steps and you can take a break.”
Dawn at the Summit
After four hours of grueling effort—concentrating on my breath and taking ten steps before pausing to rest—I started to think dark thoughts about turning around and going back down. When I discovered that the water in my bottle had frozen, it discouraged me even more.
Jane offered to share her Camelback with me and I sipped it gratefully, though neither of us could drink much on queasy stomachs. Fear of descending the hairpin switchbacks in the dark on that slippery slope was the main reason I didn’t give up and head back down; not to mention the difficulty of getting around other hikers who were coming up behind us.
Shifting my focus, I imagined light and energy entering my body from some inner source and my mantra became, “You have everything inside that you need to do this.” Meanwhile Jane kept muttering behind me, “This is ten times harder than any marathon I’ve run.” With aching muscles and shortness of breath, I promised myself that if we made it to Gillman’s Point, I wouldn’t force myself to push on to the ultimate summit at Uhuru.
The most uplifting sight I saw that night was a red rim of light on the horizon as dawn approached. At five am, the earth finally began to take shape around us and the path ahead was visible while the jagged silhouette of Mawenzi Peak stood like a beacon in the distance. Then Clements surprised us by announcing, “Look, you are only ten minutes from the top!”
We struggled up a series of steep rocky steps and scrambled over some boulders to reach Gillman’s Point at 5:45am, in time to see the sun rise behind Mawenzi. It was bitter cold at 18,600 feet as Jane and I hugged each other and took photos. Clements poured tea from a thermos and handed each of us a cup. When he held out some chocolate, Jane accepted a piece but I refused on account of my queasy stomach.
“What do you think,” Jane asked as we sipped the hot drink. “Should we try to go on?” I looked at her dubiously. “Uhuru is another mile and seven hundred feet higher. I don’t know if I can push myself that far.”
Jane turned to Clements and asked, “How long would it take us to get to Uhuru?”
“Two or three hours out and back,” he said carefully, “And another three hours down to basecamp. Then you will have to walk ten miles to the huts where you will spend the night.”
The thought of another long hike ahead of us was daunting, as was the sight of the snowy path to Uhuru that snaked along a precipitous ridge above the caldera. In tallying up the hours we’d already spent hiking across the Saddle plus the five to Gillman’s Point, it would mean we’d walk more than fifteen hours without sleep.
“I don’t think it’s wise to push myself further,” I said to Jane. “My hip is already complaining and I’m exhausted. What about you?”
Before she could respond, Jane’s face grew pale and she bent over to retch. “I feel awful,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have eaten that chocolate.”
“I think we better go down,” I said quietly. Jane nodded before she vomited again.
A Treacherous Descent Begins
With Loren and Kaija nowhere in sight, we figured that they were well on their way to Uhuru by then. Kaija would tell us later that she too had started vomiting on the trail. With a headache and labored breathing, she’d wanted to wait for us at Gillman’s instead of going on to Uhuru. But Brian told her he couldn’t leave her alone to wait for another guide.
Freezing in the sub-zero wind, Loren and Cecille were ready to push on to Uhuru, and Kaija had no choice but to go with them. The wind had pummeled them on the frigid crest, biting their hands and faces as they made for the ultimate summit. Kaija lagged behind the others with a ringing headache, stopping frequently on the narrow trail to vomit. These were classic signs of AMS that could have progressed to pulmonary edema at any time.
Trailing after Loren and Cecille all the way to Uhuru, Kaija lingered to take pictures and tried sending a message to her husband. By that point the others were eager to head back and get out of the bitter cold, and Kaija followed.
Meanwhile, Jane and I had started down the mountain and found that the steep descent was more punishing on our knees than the ascent had been. Walking the narrow path, I soon discovered that the sandy scree was thick as snow and not at all slippery. Exhilarated, I hopped and boot-skied straight down instead of walking slowly around the endless switchbacks, kicking myself for being so afraid of the narrow path on the way up.
We passed Irene along the way and later Patty and Sally trudging slowly up switchbacks on the arms of their guides. They were determined to make it to Gillman’s even though all of them were having trouble breathing.
Jane and I reached Kibo basecamp at 9 am, early enough to rest in our tents for a couple of hours before the others trickled back. Kaija was pale and still vomiting when she staggered in, followed by Patty and Sally an hour later. They had no time to rest since the porters needed to pack up the tents, and we still had to walk ten miles to reach the camp where we’d spend a last night on the mountain.
We descended by a more direct route than the one we’d taken on the way up. Though utterly exhausted and sleep-deprived, all of us were elated to have made it at least to Gillman’s Point. We talked nonstop about our experiences the previous night as we trooped out of the alpine desert and into moorlands again; all except Kaija who seemed dazed and subdued after her frightening experience at the top.
Her symptoms were mostly gone since AMS dissipates as one descends to lower altitudes. With Kaija again the exception, the rest of us were grateful to our guides who’d been solicitous and watchful throughout the tough night. Patty and Sally were particularly touched that their guides let them lean on them all the way up to Gillman’s and back, and even wiped their noses from time to time.
We made it to a cluster of huts by late afternoon after four hours of hiking. As always, the porters had our tents up and snacks waiting for us. It was a thrill to rinse sweat and dust off my tired body in the portable shower one more time. Beyond that minor thrill, I was numb with exhaustion and simply wanted to sleep. After an early dinner, all of us collapsed in our tents and slept like stones.
Day Six: A Weary State of Wonder
The sun rose clear and strong as it had every day that week, spotlighting the austere spires of Mawenzi Peak and the massive cone of Kibo Dome. We could see part of a glacier clinging to one side of balding Kibo, although the guides told us that the snow mass was only a fraction of what it once had been.
That sixth day was bittersweet, and I was already filled with nostalgia as we hiked out of Kilimanjaro National Park in a state of euphoria, still trying to absorb the enormity of my undertaking. Gazing at the majestic outline of Kili with new eyes, I recalled Hemingway’s description of the mountain from the perspective of his dying protagonist: “There, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro.”
The moorlands grew lusher as we passed through groves of Giant Lobelia again. Though subdued and no longer bounding down the path beside Clements, Kaija stopped to photograph every towering cactus. The shifting terrain grew even more astounding as we left the moorlands and entered a tropical rainforest. It was crisp and dry instead of humid as one would expect a rainforest to be, the ground covered with white and pink impatiens, mutant ferns, and strands of Spanish moss that clung to the trees. Black and white Colobus monkeys cavorted overhead and watched us playfully, venturing close to see if we’d offer something to eat.
The twelve-mile hike to the park gate was challenging at times as we had to step carefully over tree roots and rocks and descend numerous sets of stairs with aching calves and thigh muscles. It would be days before any of us could walk down steps without wincing in pain.
When we finally reached the park gate, we sat down to a very late lunch that we ate in record time. After we finished eating, the tour organizer called us outside and handed out certificates with our names printed on them certifying that every one of us had reached the summit. With gratitude to our porters and guides, we took a few last photos and shook hands with the men before saying final goodbyes.
At the same bare-bones hotel in Marangu where we’d stayed before the climb, our dinner celebration was muted that night even though all of us had summitted at least on Gillman’s Point and returned in good shape. In hindsight I would wonder if fear kept me from reaching the ultimate summit at Uhuru or if I’d been wise to head down while I could walk without pain.
It had surprised me that Patty and Jane—exercise addicts who’d trained diligently—hadn’t made it all the way to Uhuru. Like me, they’d had trouble breathing at high altitudes and didn’t want to push themselves further. It wasn’t a lack of motivation or focus that kept us from reaching the goal. Rather, it was external elements beyond our control—like altitude sickness and exhaustion—that stopped us. But you can’t know in advance how your body will perform at such high altitudes, nor can you always end up with a genial group and mend rifts between friends.
I fell in love with Kilimanjaro somewhere along the way; an infatuation that has deepened in time. With eyes open wide and steady steps over six long days, I walked its slopes, slept on its flanks, and marveled at its shifting landscapes in the stark light of high altitudes. Despite aching muscles and labored breathing, there were a thousand things that intrigued me each day; and in the vast reaches of that park, it was a privilege to walk in a state of wonder for a time.
Planning a mountain climbing adventure? Consider SafetyWing travel insurance.
———————
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
