Most people come to the Virunga Mountains to see the gorillas. As of right now, a permit to capture this magnificent experience costs an eye-popping $750—and that doesn’t include all of the logistics associated with actually getting to the Volcanoes National Park entrance. We didn’t choose this option while visiting Rwanda—I’m just not a super (and rich) gorilla enthusiast. My travel companion and I opted to pay $75 and climb a mountain instead, and here’s the glamorous write-up in our travel book that helped us to seal the deal:

“Far more demanding is the day hike to the rim of the 3,711m Mount Bisoke. It’s only 2km from [Dian Fossey’s tomb] to the rim, but the path is very steep (it gains about 650m in altitude from the resting place).  Muddy at the best of times, and outright treacherous after heavy rain, when you’ll be sinking to your knees in the bog with every other step).” 

Swimming in mud? Well why the heck not?

First off, here’s a bit of packing advice if you are contemplating this excellent one-day adventure. It’s not a super hard climb, but I always think that it’s helpful to start your trek off with a bit of preparation. Off the top of my head, here’s advice on stuff you should bring:

Long pants and a long sleeve shirt (the stinging nettles will go right through your synthetic hiking gear, so you may want to wear natural fibers. You might also want to bring a pair of gardening gloves to protect your hands).

Good boots or hiking shoes that will withstand the clutches of this 3711-meter mud trap. Depending on the time of year (the rainy season goes from mid-September to June), you might find yourself at least mid-calf deep in mud. Oh yeah, make sure you can tuck your hiking socks into your pants. Not only will you look super great for the photo op at the top of the mountain, but this will protect your legs from fire ants and mud pits. Did I mention there’s mud on this mountain?

For summit celebration snacks, we scored provisions before leaving Kigali at the 24 hour Nakumatt superstore. The night before the climb, we sat in our hotel and filled our camelbacks with water and constructed gourmet peanut butter and banana whole wheat roll sandwiches. Delicious.

Volcanoes National Park is a protected land in the northwestern corner of Rwanda, just along the border of the DRC. The nearest town is Kinigi, but we stayed about 20 minutes from there in Ruhengeri (and happily we booked two nights). On the morning of our climb, we gathered at the same spot as the high rolling gorilla gawkers at the Rwanda Development Board site in Kinigi.

Here is where you check in, show your permit and passport, and enjoy the free coffee, tea and proper toilets that you will miss should you find yourself using the bush toilet.

There was early morning entertainment before we left!  Nineteen of us were signed up to do the Bisoke climb, and we were briefed by Olivier, a guide that’s been doing this for fifteen years. He had us get into our respective cars and caravan out to the Park entrance located about 15 minutes away from RDB Kinigi.

The road out to the park looks like something that the Mars Rover would traverse, and lucky for us we had rented the lousiest RAV4 we could find from a good dude names Bosco. Our chariot started smoking from under the hood before we even left Kigali, and we eventually discovered that the horn (really a must when driving in Africa), nor did that pesky fuel gauge work. No matter! We were happy to go with what we paid for (which wasn’t much) and instead learned to limit the car’s turning radius as much as possible on our voyage to the northwest border. But I digress.

We rambled and banged our way to the park entrance before joining the others who were smart enough to rent more sturdy 4x4s. Guess which car is ours in the parking lot?

Before setting out, Olivier rounded us up and offered a clutch of walking sticks that we could take if we wanted. These are free, and you are stupid if you don’t take him up on the offer. Incidentally, don’t be like me and select a smooth stick—the fancy carved ones will rip up your hand as you haul yourself up the mountain. You can tell that I am not an experienced mountain person thing.

Olivier (the guy here in green) also directed our attention to a group of men in blue uniforms that were standing off to the side. These guys are porters who are available to carry your bag for the tiny sum of 10 US Dollars. We opted to take advantage of this service—one, because we believe it to be a good way to support the local economy and two, I personally did not want to carry my bag up the steep ascent. While I have no doubt that I could have carried my own crap, I will tell you that my porter, Boniface, was so much more than just a nice guy sporting a pink backpack. More on that later.

So we set off through pristine farming fields that felt vaguely reminiscent of the ones I saw in the foothills of the French Alps. Rwanda is an incredibly beautiful country. Once we entered the rainforest of the mountain slope, we were quickly acquainted with the Park’s second most notable resident (after the gorillas), the mud. Mud, mud, everywhere and there’s more to come as you vault yourself into the mist.

Upon entering the thicket, we suddenly heard a loud bellowing that sounded to my untrained ear like a gorilla. My porter Boniface quickly turned to me and whispered, “Gorilla!” to confirm my suspicion—they were clearly very close to us, but our group was so big and loud that we never got to catch a glimpse of them.

Trekking on, I quickly learned about the aforementioned stinging nettle and discovered what it felt like when you brushed up against these harmless-looking fronds. They spike into your skin with even the briefest of touch, and there’s not a lot you can do once they are in there. Boniface was quick to point out their existence to me, but because I have outstanding command of my body, I managed to sway in and out of the mud like a drunken sailor and coat my arms and hands with loads of little nettles that lined the sides of our trail

On our first rest stop near the grave of Dian Fossey, Boniface took one look at my hand, saw the white bumps forming around each nettle, and went into the woods to snap off a branch from a thick but bendy tree. I have no idea what it was, but the core of the branch oozed something milky white. He applied it to my hands and rubbed it in. In no time at all, the nettles where gone and my skin was completely fine. It was about that time that I started referring to my porter as Saint Boniface.

 

We found that we didn’t really like stopping for a rest because it always took a couple of the minutes before you’d rediscover your groove as you made your way up the slippery path. The altitude wasn’t a problem for us, and although the mud was a pain in the ass, I really didn’t mind it. I find that hiking like this is quite similar to meditation. You are constantly in the moment and have virtually no other distractions as you continually strive to keep your balance.  Call me crazy, but there is something satisfying about this kind of activity.

We set off again and went up, up, up as the mist slowly grew more cottony and cool. For much of the time, it was simply one foot in front of the other, and for the parts that were extra slippery, Boniface’s hand was there to ensure that I didn’t do a full and complete face plant. I told you he was more than a porter.

I should mention that in addition to the porters and our guide, also travelling with us was a group of Rwandan military escorts with walkie-talkies and AK-47s. They were good guys- quiet, professional and fast moving up the mountain in their rubber boots. The Rwandan Development Board has the logistics of their outings down pat.

 

Stairway to Heaven. Without the stairway. Photos of the ascent and decent, by the way, are courtesy of my Swahili-speaking and intrepid friend in the photo below who could both manage her footing and to snap photos along the way.

At the top of Bisoke is a crater lake, but when we finally got to the summit (about three hours later), all we saw was a sign and a bunch of clouds. The sign announced that we had reached the crater—and the Congo was just on the other side—but there was nothing to be seen.

It reminded me of the time I took a cogwheel train up to Mount Pilatus in 1996, and was not rewarded with views of 73 other Swiss mountain peaks, but instead only a bunch of clouds. Still, it was cool to suddenly be standing on the top of a mountain.

Regardless of the lack of view, we ditched our walking sticks and sat down in order to tear into our gourmet snacks. Nothing tastes bad when you are famished, and this particular instance was no different. We stayed up there for about a half hour, and as luck would have it the clouds tend to move quickly, and we did finally get a few good glimpses of the Crater Lake. It seemed to magically appear just below where we were dining.

After about thirty minutes, Olivier rounded us back up so that we could “experience going down the mountain,” as he explained. Already a veteran of experiencing the suck that is Kilimanjaro on the way down, I knew that his would not be fun. Indeed, while I was pitching my way up Bisoke, I had already decided that the only possibly way back down this mountain would be on my ass as the mud became nature’s Slip and Slide. I was ready.

It took about two hours to make it back down again, and I truly must credit Boniface for helping me negotiate much of the descent. Down we all went, plop after plop into the mud as we fought to keep the mud from snatching the shoes off from our feet. I neglected to mention that on the way up, five climbers had called it quits early on and had gone back to the park’s entrance. I think that this was on account of the mostly mud-paved trail (if you can call it a trail).

Me, I got better at negotiating my way down once I made peace with plunging my shoes as far as possible into the mud in order to find the softest and most stable landing space. The great suction noise that accompanied the continuous retracting my feet from the ground was truly impressive.

Have I sold Bisoke to you yet?

It wasn’t long before we were down again and tracing our way back through the fields of Kinigi farmland. We tipped our porters and guide, and bid them farewell. We were excited to have finished the hike, but our day of white-knuckled drama was not yet over. We still had to try and get our no-turning-radius-no-car-horn-how-much-gas-is-left-anyway vehicle over the craggy road and out of the park. The drive out there had produced many a grimace and scrunched face, and the return trip was sure to be no different.

Luckily for me, my muzungu travel companion has spent half of her life in Kenya and was a cool customer in terms of minimizing the times that we would bottom out on the unforgiving rocks and ditches. Me, I served as navigator and wisecracker as we banged our way over the twisting road until we finally reached a smooth pavement that felt like butter.

We had done it. We were tired, but absolutely thrilled at the adventure. It was time to strip ourselves of our muddy vestments and seek out some quality Rwandan beer before collapsing into a fantastic sleep.

So if you’re flush with cash and are super keen to see the gorillas, I’d highly recommend you go and do that when you come to Rwanda. That at least is what I’ve heard form everyone who has opted for that tourist route. But if you’re looking for a bit more exercise and want something that offers a killer payoff, I’d recommend the the Crater Lake hike that we found to be a steal at $75.

As they say in Kinyarwanda, “Tegende!”—let’s go!