Summit day should actually be called summit days. We arrived at Kosovo Camp in the late afternoon. Camp was dreary and cold when we arrived, but the porters sang and danced us into the warmth of their hospitality. Dinner was early, about 5:30, then we went to bed, theoretically to sleep. As I lay in my tent, hunkered down in my zero degree rated sleeping bag, I rested. The patter of rain, then the louder smatter of sleet serenaded my attempt to sleep.
The wake-up call came at 11:00 PM, with “breakfast” at 11:30, and we were on the trail at midnight. In that thirty minute window between rousing and breakfast, I donned four layers of clothing, a good pair of insulated gloves and waterproof mittens. My head was adorned with a fleece balaclava, a wool beanie, and the hoods from my puffer coat and rain jacket. And a headlamp. I emerged onto a bleak landscape of charcoal sky, rocks, and a dusting of snow. Even though I was bundled up, I could tell it was frigid, though I wasn’t cold. There was no way to know what the temperature was, though, without internet.
The trail was narrow and consisted of numerous small switchbacks snaking three miles and 3000 feet of elevation up the mountain. I noticed that our group was being accompanied by more than the usual number of guides, but I didn’t pay it much attention as all my concentration was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, my headlamp illuminating each slow, short step. I certainly tried to employ all three of the techniques I’ve previously outlined—the mountaineer’s rest step, pole pole pace, and the pressure breath. But nothing could alleviate the fatigue and windedness that set in pretty quickly for me.
We had scheduled breaks of five to ten minute every forty-five or sixty minutes. These breaks were for sipping water and eating a snack—difficult tasks when heavily clothed and gloved, so the porters helped us take off our packs and gloves to access what we needed. As we climbed higher and the temperature fell, the water in the tubing of our water bladder systems froze. We had been told this would happen, so we also carried Nalgene bottles of water. These were stored upside down so that ice would form on the surface nearer the bottom. Turning the bottle right side up broke up the thin layer of ice and created a crunchy, slushy, icy drink of water.
At our very first break, Nazareth, one of the porters who had joined us, came up to me and quietly offered, “Let me take your pack, Mama.” I looked up at him and replied, “Thank you, but I’ve got it. It’s not that heavy.” He replied, “You are struggling, Mama. If I carry your pack, it will be easier for you.” I gave him my backpack.
Nazareth periodically would place a hand lightly in the center of my back and murmur, “You are strong, Mama. You can do this. We will do it together, Mama.” Just when I felt that I was too tired to continue, his reassuring words would call me back to the task.
As we continued up the mountain, I noticed each person in our group had their backpacks shouldered by other porters. They gave us our water, holding the containers to our lips if necessary. They unwrapped our snacks or helped us take off our gloves for us to to do it ourselves. They massaged our shoulders. And incredibly, they called to each other in song, singing all the way up. I even took a cue from that and sang songs to myself that reminded me of my family in order to buoy my spirits.
I remember someone calling out that it was 4:00 AM. We had been admonished not to
look up to the summit as it might deflate us to see how far we had yet to go. However, hearing that we were more than halfway there made me realize the goal was possible.
When we reached Stella Point at 6:00 AM, sunrise, I was spent. I sat down and tried to catch my breath. Everyone else in our group was jubilant and hugging and laughing, but I was in a dazed fog for a long minute until the hot tea that magically appeared in my hands revived me enough to join in the celebrations. Once revived, I took in the harsh, arctic, otherworldly landscape of snow topping barren rocks. In contrast, the sun now peeked through layers of grey clouds to shine a brilliant orange.
But this was not the summit. Stella point was the end of the long steep climb, reaching the rim of the crater of the volcano that is Kilimanjaro. It took another hour to reach Uhuru Peak, the true summit. Along the way were massive glaciers and strange ice formations. My head was still exhausted, and my breaths still came fast, but the end was in my sights now.
At Uhuru Peak I surprised myself by crying joyful tears and hugging all our group members, Nazareth, Jon, Samson, and the other support team. We took photos, then quickly departed. Some in our group had started to experience signs of altitude sickness, and only a descent would reverse that. My breathlessness was a result of the altitude, but I had no other symptoms, and that left me pretty quickly as I made my way down.
This was the hardest, most physically challenging thing I have ever done in my life. I am proud of myself and of our group. It doesn’t take anything away from our individual achievements to acknowledge that we couldn’t have done it without all of the support of each member of our group, our leaders, our guides, and the army of porters. What a reminder that no “(wo)man is an island.” We need each other. We thrive in the company of others. We can reach new heights when we work to support one another. Mountains can be conquered when we rely on our fellow life-travelers.