Climbing Kili the Hard Way

My lungs were screaming, my mind fading, my body evaporating. Blinking was an almost impossible task for my fatigued body, and inflating my sleeping pad was unthinkable. Lying lifeless in my tent because my muscles had gone on strike, I concentrated on my slow, shallow breathing. Red blood cells were on the hunt for oxygen.

Ten hours earlier I stared wide-eyed at the steepest, rockiest, most dangerous section of the Lemosho Route: The Western Breach.

“If we’re going to climb Kili, we’re taking the hardest route,” Cyrus explained to us. Being the hardcore, adventurous Aries that he is, I was not surprised by his need to do one of longest, most challenging routes. The six of us sat in a small café in Newark, Delaware, more than 7,000 miles northwest of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Reading from a guidebook, Alicia said aloud “The Lemosho route is one of the most beautiful routes, but is also referred to by many travelers as the torture route.”

Christmas day 2005 we boarded the plane, flying to Arusha via Amsterdam. Packed in our bags sitting in the belly of plane were sleeping bags, sleeping pads, hiking boots, bug repellent, rain gear, water bottles, trekking poles, sunglasses, thermals, gloves, and maps. The tallest mountain in Africa, and the tallest freestanding mountain in the world, was awaiting our arrival.

Two days later in Tanzania, we were driving to the base of the 19,340 ft. mountain. We hadn’t even seen the top before beginning the ascent. A rainy day prevented us from beginning at the official starting point, and we were forced to get out and walk after bumping along the rocky, muddy road.

Up and down the dirt trail, under and over logs, we trekked through the rainforest. Broad leaves dripped rain, and rolling clouds floated above as the sun set and the sky burned.

Each day we gained more elevation. Each day we were closer to the clouds. Trees got shorter, shrubs became more abundant, and eventually the grass disappeared and we were surrounded by glaciers.

“Pole pole (POH-lee POH-lee),” Slowly. Guides, porters, and other climbers were reminding us not to overexert ourselves.

“It’s all about attitude, not altitude,” was the advice our guide Bruce gave us.

It was evening. At camp 18,000 feet above sea level, I looked up at the Western Breach, mentally preparing myself for the 2,500 ft. ascent to the inner crater; the next day was to be the longest and hardest. Looking out over sleeping Africa, a few small sparkles of light from homes twinkled through the clouds as if to wish me luck. How strange to be in the middle of the world so high above everyone, and all alone. Stars overhead, clouds below. A rock escarpment loomed behind me as I looked out over the cliff. There was nowhere to go but up; my head was spinning. The wind howled a wicked tone that night, and the faint sound of rocks cracking and falling haunted me all night.

“Doesn’t it sound like they are going to come rolling down on our tent?” It was Kristin’s voice coming from the sleeping bag next to me. “I can’t believe we are sleeping under the Western Breach.” Suddenly a gust of wind blew. Outside, ice crystals were already building a cocoon around our tent.

We emerged the next morning; ice and snow covered every exposed surface. To this day, that seven-hour climb was the hardest thing I have ever done.

“Let’s go! We need to leave now!” Bruce was urging us to get started because in a couple of hours the sun’s rays would begin to melt the ice and frozen dirt that was holding the side of the mountain together. “If we wait too long, the rocks will get loose and fall.”

The ascent was a combination of walking and climbing. Clear skies in the morning were replaced with minatory clouds by early afternoon. A breath marked each second. There were times when I had to throw myself against the mountain so I would not be blown off the side. I was speechless when the steep slope of the Western Breach diminished, and out of the clouds emerged a flat, rocky field. I made it.

When I reached my tent I stared into space and was motionless for a long time. My lungs were screaming, my mind fading, my body evaporating. I was so close to the top, but I didn’t know if I would be able to make it. A part of me was floating a couple of inches above my body. I was relaxed and at peace. I remember thinking to myself, if I die right now, it would all be okay. But I did not die, and I summited early the next morning. Seeing the sunrise made me grateful for the new year.

Oxygen filled my lungs and I could breathe again!  Seven days up, one day down. I made it, we all made it. Driving away from Mt. Kilimanjaro, I looked back, nostalgic for a giant mound of earth that now holds a small piece of my heart.