Kilimanjaro, Tanzania: Climbing The Mountain of God (cont.)

I had read that any reasonably fit person who enjoyed walking could reach the summit of Kilimanjaro. It had buoyed my spirits, until a fellow climber then told me on average only one in three make it to the top.

Leaving Horombo behind the next morning, a weather-beaten sign comes into focus ominously stating, ‘Last Water Point.’ For the next five hours we must survive off what we have left in our water bottles. The landscape here has turned to alpine desert and vegetation is sparse.

It’s an odd feeling walking above the clouds. From this height the view is just sky and horizon, so I look down to make sure my feet are still on the ground. The base of the mountain looks like it’s covered in cotton balls.

Between the two main peaks the landscape opens out into a stunning ‘U’ shape known as ‘the Saddle.’ The ground is fine lava dust and hiking across it becomes incredibly exhausting in the thin air.

As we break for lunch, I slump down and notice the work of previous hikers. Small rock formations and signs have been created here from loose rubble, with people spelling out their names, and those of loved ones, for future hikers to see.

The last hut finally appears at the bottom of the Kibo crater after nearly seven hours of solid hiking. At an inhospitable altitude of 15,430 feet there is nothing here but sand, rock and two concrete buildings. One is the main sleeping and eating area, the other, a reception for validating climbers and selling supplies.

As much as I want to, I can’t sleep. The dormitory is freezing and there is little air for resting comfortably. I fade in and out of tormented consciousness for the next four hours. Eventually Auguste arrives with a hot drink and biscuits. It’s midnight. He says it’s best to leave at this hour: “The climb is less frightening when you can’t see what’s ahead of you.”

He starts reciting his mantra: “Pole, pole.” It’s an inspired choice of words meaning ‘take it easy.’

Outside the night is still and bitingly cold. The ground is frozen and so are my water bottles. As we are not the first to leave, our path is lit. Above us, flashlight beams cling to the mountain like drunken fireflies, weaving their way skyward to the peak.

From the crater base the path consists of sand and for every three step we make we slide back two. This torturous routine continues for the next four hours, with minimal stops for fear of freezing. At the halfway point some climbers are returning down with injuries or nausea.

‘Pole, pole,’ I think to myself, but desperation is starting to creep in. My flashlight is frozen dead. The sand torture has given way to a rock climb with frozen fingers. My body is fatiguing and the simple act of climbing and breathing in unison is becoming more than I can handle. From here, it is three hours until we reach Gillman’s Point, the official roof of Africa.

I barely notice the sunrise. At this height oxygen is half that of sea level. The sun feels wonderfully warm though, bringing life back to my fingers and toes, but I am still on the verge of collapse. Auguste is unsure if I should go any further. 

It takes twenty minutes before I feel confident enough to continue. From here the peak is deceptively close, a mere 650 feet away, but the rock path follows the crater rim and is partly coated in ice.

We start out, but within half an hour things begin to deteriorate. Just placing one foot in front of the other is taking monumental concentration, and after three steps I have to stop for breath. At this altitude my brain and body are disconnecting and I’m experiencing an almost complete motor skill malfunction.

It takes me two hours to stumble 650 feet, bracing myself on hands and knees. I can see Auguste, he seems an eternity away, and gathered with him are fellow climbers urging the likes of me on. On the peak stands a sign encrusted in ice.  It reads: 'Uhuru Peak, Mt Kilimanjaro, 5,895m, The World’s Highest Free Standing Mountain.’

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