Our supplies were packed in heavy canvas bags by the porters who were to carry them up the mountain on their heads; one porter per traveler. We set out in the early afternoon on a smooth path along a cool lush beautiful forest. The landscape gradually turned to rain forest with thick brush and tall wet trees, our feet squishing on slushy mud. The ground was covered with button ferns, little purple and white flowers and wild begonias all the way up to the conifer region. Suddenly the forest cleared; pines, fir trees and brushes took over; grey moss was hanging from every branch. The juxtaposition of many different greens is striking. Here in the middle of dark Africa, the afternoon was sunless; the air was cold and damp as we walked in the clouds in a thick fog unable to see anything beyond 100 feet.
We reached the first hut a few short hours later, elevation 9000 feet, before our bags and waited shivering for the porters, our sweaters and hot tea. The huts were built in the 1900s when Germany had control of the area. There are three huts in all: the Mandara hut at 9000 feet, the Hrombo hut at 12000 feet and the Kibo hut (same name as the lodge) at 15000 feet. They are all wooden A- frame chalets with tables, benches and a stove on the ground floor and sleeping bunks on the first floor. At each location, there is a separate poorly ventilated hut with a wood cooking stove where the porters spend most of their time preparing complete, balanced and elaborate meals three times a day using local ingredients including an abundance of avocados
A remarkable change happened in the evening as soon as it got dark. The clouds, thick pea soup at dusk, gave way to a moonless clear sky full of stars. The absolute silence was interrupted by the occasional chirp from the forest. In the morning the sky was again clear blue until about 7:30 when the pea soup returned and never quite left us.
On the second day, we walked through low conifer bushes and thick brush, an unchanging landscape for six hours. The air was now damp and cold and we quickly put on parkas, hats and gloves. The path would still qualify as an easy uphill walk rather than a climb but the air became thinner by the hour and we huffed and puffed and stopped to catch our breath every few minutes. Except for rare moments when the sun broke through we walked in the clouds all day. The absolutely quiet landscape was hazy and eerie with scattered yellow wildflowers, a few birds and chipmunks stirring about. It was a beautiful serene feeling for about one hour, followed by the drudgery of putting one foot in front of the other slowly to conserve energy with eyes on the path ahead. Joe and I were bearing the altitude without symptoms except for air hunger; it took much deeper heavier breathing to get enough air in. I remember thinking “How beautiful can the top be to make another two days worse than this worth while? “ On the way up we kept meeting people returning from the top. They uniformly described vivid horrors of nausea, vertigo, vomiting, cold and misery but they all insisted “You should go it was worth it”.
The third morning dawned crisp and cold with a clear sky; I could see the top of the mountain from the hut but had serious doubts about my resolve. I was not finding the challenge enjoyable, a nasty cold and stuffy nose made the shortness of breath even worse. Unwilling to quit and to leave Joe alone, I was less willing to keep going; I decided to return to base camp and let the others scale the top without me. I walked down the mountain alone for 5 hours of complete solitude, in the quiet woods, the landscape reversing from fir trees to lush tropical forest as I got lower. It was remarkable to stand at the equator and experience the change of landscape from tropical to almost arctic changing the altitude rather than the latitude.In my memory, this day was exceptionally pleasurable though surreal. I was completely alone with no human reminders except for toilet paper and cigarette butts strewn on the trail. The sun would come out once in a while then the thick clouds would move back in. I reached the gate of the national park feeling well except for soreness in my knees and lower back. Then I made the mistake of sitting down to rest; hard as I tried, I could barely get up after a few minutes. By the time I reached the lodge an hour later, my hips were throbbing and my knees would not bend. I did not so much care about cleaning my muddy hands and face as I could not face lowering my body to the ground and to the sleeping bag. I made the decision to splurge, booked a room in the hotel and tucked into a real bed after a hot shower.
The next morning was again cold and cloudy day, but a bright warm sun came out in the afternoon and I nursed my cold on the beautiful green grass waiting for Joe’s return. He arrived on the following day dirty and tired but triumphant holding his Mt Kilimanjaro certificate. I experienced the last leg of the climb vicariously through his telling; this is what he wrote in our diary:
"Why climb Kilimanjaro? One climbs to get to the top; the view is extra. It involves striving for a goal, which we are familiar with in an intellectual sense but rarely meet in a physical sense. When the guides came in at midnight I took a practice walk and managed the hundred yards without difficulty and decided to go ahead. The guides carried lanterns and flashlights. The crest of Kili was looming ahead in the star lit sky. The final climb from 15000 feet to 19000 feet is gravel and scree; steady plodding and gasping for air. Each stop allows my pulse to slow to 120 but it quickly accelerates as I start moving again. We leave the gravel and begin to climb over rocks. The silhouette of Kili is close as the sky begins to lighten. We move as quickly as we can and reach Gilman’s point just as the eastern horizon turns orange and the sun rises; it is a good sunrise as we look down upon the clouds.
Going down was a disaster; my shoes had no traction, no ankle support, I tumbled down the scree, tore my pants and scraped my left knee. Further down where the rain had turned the trail to mud, I could barely keep my footing and literally had to be hand held by the guide to make it down. Blisters formed on both feet, my knees tightened the abrasion hurt; by the time I got down I felt like one of the walking wounded. However Rena’s ministrations revived me”
I can clearly vouch for that last one; when Joe crawled into our room he could hardly move, he could not bend his knees or reach them with his hands to wash off the grime. I was so happy and relieved to see him; I sponged his aching body with soapy warm water and lowered him into our bed; then climbed next to him and held him all night. Youth is resilient and by the next day he was ready to move on.
For thirty years, we have recalled that whole trip and the Kili climb especially in conversation and reminiscence of a younger, more care-free time of our lives. The beauty and the grime of those five days have faded into sepia-toned, romantic memory. All the while, however, we have remembered the cold, the breathlessness and the frozen joints. Certainly, returning to the journal reinforces that climbing Mt Kilimanjaro was an almost foolish expedition that we enjoyed despite our better judgment. We have seen much more beautiful sunrises lounging on a comfortable chair in the mountains, on the beach and even in an airplane. Yet, we still have fondness and nostalgia. To this day, the Mt. Kilimanjaro certificate remains the only diploma in Joe’s office. “It was the hardest one to get” he likes to say.
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