Kilimanjaro Day 7 – Friday August 22
Surprisingly enough, I managed a few hours’ sleep despite the early bed-time, and managed to be reasonably awake and alert at 11pm. It was a clear night with the lights of Moshi twinkling away beneath us, reminding us that civilisation was close at hand, with beer, beds and showers. There was only one thing between us and comfort.
We’re fed, watered, checked for health, and prepared for ascent. The drinking water we were provided with was hot to prevent it from freezing, and I’d insulated the hose of my hydrapak with a micro towel to prevent it from freezing, with the help of some electrical tape, borrowed from Callum, who else. We may have taken the mick out of him for carrying so much stuff, but when something as all-purpose as electrical tape was required, it was Callum who produced the goods from the depths of his Mary Poppins bag.
And then we were off.
An estimated 20,000 people climb Kilimanjaro every year. Average that out over the year, allow for seasonal variations, i.e. two peak periods from January to March and June to October, and there were probably around 100 people climbing that same night. There was a steady procession of headlamps weaving their way up the mountain. Headlamps on, heads bowed, like a chain gang being marched off to an unspeakable penance.
And right from an early stage there were people being brought down, having succumbed to the altitude, the cold or simply exhaustion. I missed it at the time – mentally somewhere else – but unfortunately one of those was Kevin whom we encountered about an hour and a half into our ascent. Although he was upright and walking he was not able to sustain a pace which would allow him to reach the summit in reasonable time, so had no choice but to return to camp.
By that time I had stuck the headphones on and was plodding on through the darkness with Aretha, Stevie, Marvin and Otis, although the irony of listening to the Isley Brothers’ Summer Breeze whilst freezing half to death was not lost. But the sweet soul music made a huge difference. Toby reported one of the greatest challenges he faced was being left with nothing but your own thoughts for five hours as the physical challenge became more and more demanding. At the very time you needed some banter to sustain you, the well was dry as people struggled with the thin air, the cold and the relentless plodding.
The mouthpiece of my hydrapak froze regularly but with a little sucking and chewing it was fine – the home-made insulation seemed to be helping. I’d some power-bars in my pocket so aside from nearly losing a tooth on the virtually solid bars, I was sufficiently nourished. Getting my gloves off and on in order to eat the power-bars was another issue but one of the guides was invariably on hand to help.
So I was fine for a few hours and even began to think that this Kili lark was quite easy. At some stage however, probably around 4am, as the tiredness and the altitude kicked in, it suddenly went from being a challenging but enjoyable experience to a brutal one. The last two hours or so to Stella Point were absolutely draining.
You’d see lights ahead and wonder if they were headlamps or stars. And just when you’d convinced yourself they’re stars and the summit therefore within reach, the bloody things moved. You’d get a sore neck from constantly looking at the ground one metre in front of you and just walking a few steps with your head erect was a relief.
By the time we’d got close to Stella Point my targets had shrunk to around five metres. I’d look ahead to the next switchback and think only about getting to that point. 5 metres, 10 metres. 10 steps, 20 steps. Just get to that point. Plod. Plod. Plod. Reach switchback. Turn. Pause. Focus on next turn. Think only about getting to that point. And on. And on.
It is brutal.
Stella Point came into sight but I couldn’t summon the strength to make a final triumphant burst to the top – Callum had previously vowed to dance his way to the top – and it remained the same slow plod for every last step to that goddamn sign. And then, bingo, there we were, slumping exhausted into the snow.
It took just a few moments to get our breath back, slow our heart rates down, and then everything seemed normal again. The porters provided a sustaining cup of tea, photos were taken, backs slapped and all was well. For five minutes…
Because then we were on the move again. To have reached Stella Point at 5,735 metres (18,800 feet) is to have climbed Kilimanjaro. It is the point by which the climbing companies judge their summit rate. The point at which you get a certificate. But there is another point, the highest point, Uhuru, at 5,895 metres (19,340 feet), another 160 metres, and 45 minutes, up.
So on we went. Past the big ice fields. Past the smiling faces coming down – in contrast to grimacing faces going up. Aussie Matt had been struggling all night, needing regular breaks, occasional vomits, and guide’s assistance. He was ready to call it quits and go back down. But the guides were confident he could make it and pushed him on.
And then it was there. Uhuru Peak. And a sign that says “Congratulations. Mug. Now turn around and go back down.”
Obviously it doesn’t. It says “Congratulations. You are now at Uhuru Peak, Tanzania, 5,895 AMSL. Africa’s highest point. World’s highest free standing mountain. One of the world’s largest mountains. Welcome.”
And we came all this way for that?
There was a considerable sense of achievement, back-slapping, hugging and lots of pictures taken. Myself, Callum, Cormac, Toby, Matt, Linus, Jarrod, Aussie Matt, Aussie Andrew. Callum, the bastard, whipped out a Scottish saltire. If I’d known that I’d’ve brought a George Cross.
But let’s be real. The real sense of achievement would come in the days and weeks to come. At that moment, the real sense was relief. Relief that we’d made it. Relief that we’d not died. Relief that the brutality of the past few hours was over. Relief that this entire ordeal was nearly over.
Below us lay the 2.5 km wide caldera, looking exactly as a volcanic crater should; the perfectly round inner Reusch crater like a valve just waiting to be released. Kibo is dormant, not extinct, and although it hasn’t erupted for some 150,000 to 200,000 years, it could do so again. In 2014 a bunch of cricketers set a new world record for the highest-ever cricket match by playing a game inside the crater, managing the minimum five overs per side to have it officially recognised as a T20 match. Bonkers.
On the outer slopes of the crater are the ice fields, looking somewhat out of place. You usually see glaciers nestled deep in the valleys they have gouged out of the earth. Here there are walls of ice rising twenty feet out of nothing – like a wedge of cheesecake on an empty plate. And below that is a sea of cloud stretching fluffily out into the distance. Our pace must have been off a little as I think we were supposed to reach Stella Point in time for sunrise, but the sun rose about half an hour beforehand when no one was of a mind to appreciate it.
Then it was time to go. After just ten minutes or so at the top it was time to go all the way back down again. This time at least there was no pole pole. This time it was go as fast as you like. Despite being some way behind the rest of us, Terry and Martin had also made it to Stella Point but opted against pressing on to Uhuru.
And there were many more casualties on the way down, in particular an Indian kid who was all over the place. He could barely stand, fought to get away from the two guides assisting him, and nearly took them down with him. His father was demanding oxygen, while the guides struggled with his son, a porter struggled with three bags, and he carried nothing. Their own guides were reluctant to give the kid oxygen, as were our guides, the sense being that the kid was just being lazy. Besides which, descending would be a far more effective solution to fighting the altitude sickness than oxygen.
Our own descent took a couple of hours, slipping, sliding, half running, half walking, down the scree, which as always seemed to drag on interminably. I walked most of it alone; some of our party too far ahead for me to catch up and a few others way behind. And then we were back in Barafu Camp, where we were allowed to sleep for a while until the last of our group completed their descent.
There was a slight hailstorm while we were snatching forty winks, but fortunately most of us were in our tents at the time. No one had actually mentioned it, possibly for fear of jinxing things, but we had been exceptionally fortunate with the weather. There had been not one drop of rain, thank God. Being cold is one thing. But being cold and wet, and inevitably therefore miserable, is something else altogether. A friend of Terry’s unsuccessfully attempted Kilimanjaro a few years ago and it rained incessantly. That would have changed the dynamic, and the experience, entirely. I honestly think I might have gone home early.
We then had to pack up, and endure a further 2-3 hour descent from Barafu Camp to Millennium Bivouac, which was a bit of drag but generally made in good humour. The same Indian kid incidentally had to be helped not just down to Barafu Camp, but even beyond that. I somehow don’t think they’ll remember this family holiday with great relish. “Can you remember that time we went to Tanzania and you and your sister almost died? How we laughed all the way to the respiratory unit.”
Millennium Bivouac, our final camp and final night on the mountain. Being amongst some trees the camp actually felt nicer than the previous exposed few, but quite frankly, such comforts made little difference at this stage. There was a lengthy discussion over dinner about the amount to give as tips, as Christopher had subtly mentioned that the rate card provided by Paolo was a bit low. However Paolo also advised us not to bring any cash, so there was limited scope for an increase. Fortunately not everyone does what they’re told, and we muster up enough cash to increase our contributions from USD 150 per head to USD 180 per head, a total pool of USD 2,160, which everyone was happy to do given the fantastic level of service and care we had received from these guys (and gals – there were some female porters too).
After which everyone was happy to go to bed as soon as they possibly could, to sleep the sleep of the dead.
Go to Chapter 12: Beer, shower and a proper bed