Mountain Masochism

The last time I posted, I was on the neurotic side of a bi-polar rollercoaster that had gripped me since arriving in Tanzania. I was constantly flipping between abject despair and hopeful confidence. My state at any point was generally determined by the last climber I'd talked to. If they'd done well, I was up. It they had a horror story to tell, I was down. I now find myself on the other side, drinking a beer in the hotel bar and passing on sage advice to nervous new arrivals. So did I make it? The existence of this post tells you that I survived, which is a good start. But you'll have to slog through the rest of this to find out.

Once the wheels rolled on the bus out of the hotel, the nervousness passed. Nothing left to worry about, just time to do it. One of the most amazing parts about this climb is the variety of climactic zones that you experience. The drive started in the red, arid savannah around Moshi and ended in the lush, green rainforest of Marangu, on the lower slopes of the mountain. Our first day was spent climbing slowly through this rainforest to Mandara Huts at 2700m. In the dining hall and on the trail, I met some wonderful people from many countries. One of the great joys of travel. Our next day saw us climbing out of the rainforest and into the "moorlands", the vast expanse of short shrubs that lay between us and Horombo Huts at 3700 m.

Now, I had been concerned by my plan leading up to the climb, but my plan for the climb itself was actually well thought out. I'd taken several precautions, including being certain to go very slow on the trail, and I managed to make it to Horombo and through our acclimatization day without any symptoms of High Altitude Sickness (HAS). This was quite a feat considering I was very sick by this point in Nepal. Strange but, contrary to form, I just might be getting smarter.

The next jump up to Kibo Huts at 4700 m is a huge one. The generally accepted rule of thumb is no more than 300 m per day. So we were breaking all the rules. I had honestly not exerted myself at all on the way up and felt great as I crossed the high alpine desert towards Kibo. Then, on the last hill, up to the hut, it hit me.

My old friend HAS. My pace slowed to a crawl and I barely eked my way up to the hut. I got there around lunch time, and as the others arrived, we spent the next few hours before dinner complaining about the altitude or resting. I had my dinner around 4 and went to bed at 5:30. The few hours of fitful sleep did little to help. We were woken at 11 pm. Lying in bed, I had a headache, a fever, and a resting heart rate of 110. At home, it's usually 50. Not a good sign.

Walking out of the hut, I was greeted by the most perfect of nights. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the stars were out in force. The moon was bright and the air was still. Better conditions could not have been asked for.

It was into this night that I set out with my guide Frank. Many others were doing the same and, looking back, I could see a long line of headlamps snaking their way up behind us. Frank and I, along with our friend Anne and her guide, ended up at the front of this line. As we climbed, our guides started to sing songs in Swahili. Frank sang Silent Night, which was very fitting in the still night with the moon as our guide. He continued, singing other hymns, all in Swahili. It was incredible to hear these familiar songs stripped of their words. Bereft of all specific religious significance, all that was left was the beautiful melody. The universal language of music.

As we climbed higher, the songs became less frequent and eventually ended all together. It was an absolute slog and for that time, there was nothing in the world but the stars, the moon, and Frank's feet in front of me. I just struggled to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Just doing that became harder and harder as the altitude sucked away more and more of my will and strength. After what seemed like an eternity, we stumbled over a rise and found a wooden sign leaning against the rocks. Frank gave me a hug and said congratulations. It was about 5:30 am and we'd made it to Gillman's point at 5685m.

But that wasn't it. The actual highest point, Uhuru peak, was still 300 m higher and some distance around the crater rim. It was along this stretch, somewhere near Stella Point, that the sun rose through the distant clouds to the east. Looking out at this sunrise, with the lower peak of Mawensi in the foreground, it brought me to tears. Now that may have had something to do with the the strain of the climb up, the hours of fighting mountain sickness, and the extremely thin oxygen that was dulling my cognitive abilities. But looking out at the beauty of that sunrise, it was more than I could bear.

Frank and I made our way the last bit around to Uhuru peak. I thought it would never come, but eventually we got there. Snapped a few pictures in front of the sign and said "let's get the $!@# off of this mountain". The descent was also long and arduous, draining every last ounce of strength I had. Back at Kibo Hut, I had half an hour of sleep then woke up to see that the symptoms were not abating. So I quickly packed up and we rushed to make the descent all the way down to Mandara Huts, rather than the usual destination of Horombo.

I arrived at Mandara still feeling ill and quite tired from the day. We'd started at 4700m and climbed 1.2 km up over 7 km of distance. We'd then undertaken a 3.2 km descent over 29 km to Mandara Huts. More than enough to cause a bit of knee pain.

After a good night of sleep in the thick air, I felt much better. Had an easy walk out and now find myself sitting at the hotel, like the ancient mariner passing my story on to others. So I guess it all worked out well in the end. Am I glad I did it? Absolutely. Would I ever do it again? Not a chance. Such masochism, along with such experiences, should come once in a lifetime.