“Hey guys, (unintelligible…unintelligible) between two and four AM you are really going to have to encourage yourselves in order to (unintelligible…unintelligible)….so see you at eleven.”
-Jonas, our almost incomprehensible soft-spoken fearless leader
We wake at 23:03 on day five so we can be ready to start our day six summit climb. It’s about a 5.5 kilometer journey to the mountain top. A few hours earlier, we had been given a rundown of what to expect for the climb, but Jonas was rather tight-lipped on when we would actually get to the summit. To his credit, he’s been up and down this mountain a few hundred times, so he knows better than to promise the future; he’s only ever concerned with the immediate task at hand. At this stage, his task is to make sure that we get out of camp and are on our way without any ailments that would detract from our pleasant midnight stroll.
We all convene in the mess tent for one last go at food before departing. It’s cold outside and I haven’t worn this many layers since I was playing in snow banks as a kid. I show up looking like the world’s most unappetizing layer cake: I’m wearing thermal underwear, hiking pants, rain paints (which are now wind pants), three shirts, a fleece, a rented Triple Fat Goose-esque summit jacket, a beanie, neck warmer, head lamp, gloves and gaiters. This might sound like a lot, but it pales in comparison to attire of Lachlan, our Aussie benefactor. He’s shown up in the mess tent sporting electric tube socks that require a size D battery to power each sock. Over the course of this night I would always know when I was behind Lachlan because I’d see two ridiculous D-size bumps sticking out of his calves as we trudged along.
As we start the ascent, our overhead is a rich black canopy that is scarred with hundreds of pin-pricked holes that can be identified as the southern hemisphere. Looking below the stars and down into the valley, you can see an almost blood red crescent moon rising just above the cloud layer. It’s all incredibly beautiful, but I need to keep my head lamp on the ground in order to keep track of my footing choices over the next six hours. Besides, any interest in aesthetic appeal went out the window the moment I dressed myself in this ridiculous getup. It was time to be on our way.
Between the hours of midnight and five o’clock, our group talks sparely as we set our concentration on battling the constant incline. The lot of us are skidding on the annoyingly sand-frosted rock surfaces that coat switchback after endless switchback. At about 1:30, the trail finally links up with the main route, and we get our first glimpse of other crazy ass people climbers. Like some kind of bizarre midnight traffic merge, we are no longer alone, and now find ourselves just one of many little illuminated caterpillar trains that are slowly inching up the mountain.
The going continues to be slow and tedious, but soon we start to hear people hooting and hollering to one another in the pitch black night- a sort of communication system that guides from different groups have worked out. As the noises build, we white people trudge on silently. Soon enough, we start to hear the voices of our guides, and they are singing. They are looping through a couple of Swahili songs that we had heard on our first day out on the mountain with them.
Kilimanjaro….hakuna matata….
The hours are wearing on, and I start to pick up a pattern that says our guides sing louder and with more spirit as soon as we get to an increasingly difficult spot. Me, I’m just trying to ensure that I get enough air into my lungs, and this fact makes me absolutely amazed how our guides can warble from the top of their lungs and walk alongside us wearing a full pack of gear. Amazing. Humbling. Their singing does help to me keep my mind from a constant thought loop of ‘this sucks’, but as I continue along I really stay motivated by thinking of those who have inspired me up to this point: my family, the friends who made this climb before me, a dear friend who is battling brain cancer….all of these people are on my mind and they help me to continue on this course now known as the World’s Worst Reverse Slip N’Slide.
“Ten more minutes to Gilman’s Point!” yells Jonas.
I’m impressed at how animated this man has become over the course of four and half hours. I don’t know what he is talking about, since I know that the summit is not named Gilman’s Point. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not even close to being there yet, and I’m tired. Still, the singing and whoops of encouragement are mounting as we suddenly see ourselves approach a big boulder-y area just over our heads. I am absolutely exhausted from my new activity of pulling my body weight up onto big rocks, but I keep my head down and stab northward.
And then, there it is: Gilman’s Point.
Our guides are at the entrance to the point, and are cheering loudly and giving us big hugs as we all make it up on to this precipice. I smile but find it all a bit odd since we aren’t there yet. Why are we celebrating? It must mean we did something right- or maybe it means that the sucky part is over- I don’t know- but I manage to fish my camera out of my pack to take what would be my only nighttime photo. I do this all while gasping for air and trying to draw any liquid out of my now frozen CamelBak.
Click. Yay. Now we Keep Calm and Carry On.
I told you that day six was long, and now we are getting closer to Uhuru Peak, aka, The End. The sky is brightening- it’s now about five in the morning- and our now not-so-merry group is slowly unraveling as everyone starts to move at their own pace. Our guides are still synchronized and are operating like a well-oiled machine as they peel off and assign themselves to our now broken down sub-groups. We are tired, but are motivated each time we are told that Uhuru is just a “little bit further”.
The “D” size batteries in Lachlan’s socks, by the way, have long-since stopped working.
Sunrise. It’s cold and indescribably beautiful. All I can think as I look around in my half-oxygenated state is that God certainly lives up here.
The last push to Uhuru Peak seems to stretch out long in front of us, but it is at stage that I somehow transition to autopilot. I find a misplaced reserve of energy that is cashed in as soon as I look into the distance and spy the sign telling me that I am almost there. I cruise off without any guide to help me and arrive rather unceremoniously at the summit. I’m the first person there, and am kind of surprised that I am alone. ‘Where is everyone?’ I wonder. It’s just me and a group of Spanish people posing in front of the coveted sign.
I look around and snap some quick photos. Remember how I told you back on Day Two that I got my first glimpse of the mountain, and thought someone had pitched big white tents on top? Well, now on Day Six, I finally got a photo of those things closer up:
In fact they are “HUGE….tracts of….ice”. Nothing gets by me, I tell you. Nothing.
Here is our group, all coming in shortly after my arrival. We are all one tired bunch.
Here I am, at last obtaining my coveted Michelin Man photo. Throughout this summit climb I had this yellow and purple towel wrapped around my neck. I wanted to pay tribute to the strongest woman that I know, and bring her up the mountain with me.
There’s a trash box up here, and I wanna know the poor bastard who is charged with coming up here to empty it.
So, this was going to be my last blog entry on Kilimanjaro, but I find that I have been far too verbose, and still have a lot of ground to cover. Literally. I will also point out that when discussing mountain climbing, not enough people go into detail about how tough the descent still is. So I’ll cover the rest of Day Six and Day Seven in a final installment.
Believe me, it’s been fun reliving this whole experience, but my mind is ready to get off of this mountain for good. I’ll try to post the rest of the story tomorrow.
Nothing like summit day. This memory will be close in my mind for a long time to come.
(Photo courtesy of Team Australia’s Julia)
