Kilimanjaro

September 17th and 18th , 2008
6 pm. We're ready to sleep after having arrived at Kibo camp, elevation 14,700 ft. We are to get up by 11 pm and attempt the summit, climb back down to camp 3, and after an hour of sleep, return to base camp 2. All of this to be done “sowly-sowly”. Slow steps. Our group is bonding well. Thank you, Lord. I’m steeling myself for this cold while my head aches, I’m dizzy and a little nauseated, but other than being this little impaired, I’m fine.
11 pm. Group gets up for tea and crackers. We line up back of other groups ahead of us. Others start out and a little row of head-lamps stretches up at a strikingly vertical angle toward the summit at 19,890 ft. we go in little switch back trail angles, following our 61 year old native leader, Fataelli, and his four sons who are assistant guides. The one assigned to me is Harrod. He paces alongside me.
The climb itself is extremely rigorous. The symptoms of hypoxia kicked in for me at about 16,000 feet—slurred speech, hallucinations, tingling, dizziness, headache, nausea. And on top of that my head was thumping out of my chest. I would walk a few steps and then long to stop and rest. The guides encouraged me to keep going. After awhile I would stop, in spite of their encouragement, and take a short break. The rest of the group moved ahead of me and Harrod stayed with me as I rested a few minutes longer than they did at one stop. I hated to hold them up, but hated even more not listening to my rag-tag body yammering at me to slow down. I still arrived at one of the two Kibo peaks only 20 minutes behind the others, just as the dawn was breaking in the eastern sky over Mawezi, the smaller peak of the two volcano’s that form Mt Killi.

I don’t think I could have planned a better rite of passage for Dima. He did very well. I’m proud of him. He made it to the top, smiled at Fatelli, and then promptly threw up close to the guide’s boots. Others in the group had bouts of nausea and vomiting as well as hallucinations, parasthesias, dizziness, jackhammers going off in their heads while steel bands tightened back of their eyes. Anyway, dramatics aside, Cate told me later that Dima would stand at the summit and look down as each climber rounded the visual bend below, asking, “Is that my dad, is this one my dad?” His eager anticipation touched her heart, touches my heart as I remember her words now. When I got there to Gilman’s Summit I looked for him, found him, we hugged, took the required pix, and hung out for awhile before starting the climb back down. We were both too spent to hike another hour and a half to the slightly higher summit (200 meters higher) of Uhuru.
A unique experience of the climb down: slaloming thru a volcanic ash scree field of about a mile’s distance at a 60 degree angle down. Harrod took my arm in his arm and together we launched ourselves down, heels out, bent backwards against the mountain, and careened down through layers of ash and lava chunks. Fun! I had to stop often with trembling muscles, raw toes, and sheer exhaustion. By the time I made it back to Kibo base camp at 8 am, I was totally spent, crashed for a few hours, and then we set off for Horombo, another 4 hour hike winding through the mountain moorlands. This was by far the most demanding 24 hrs physically and mentally of my life. Thank you, Lord, for the "get up and go" to get up and go.
September 19, 2008
I’m laying in bed here at the Marango Hotel; 2250 hours; Dima in the bar with the other mates from our journey, laughing and living it up. Earlier in the day we sat in a circle with our porters and guides, a total of 19 support people. It was tradition for the climbers to buy these men a beer, perhaps two, before giving them their tips (the primary income from the trip), and then allowing them to return to their home. Now that they are gone, dinner is done, and I am returned to the room, I’m concerned that they are buying him beers in spite of his being under age. And he’s saying yes to that. I went in once and asked Charles not to do that; if he would like to drink more, fine; just not to buy for my family. He said ok. We’ll see. My first shower effort before dinner was short lived and lukewarm.
It’s 11:34. Dima has come back to the room. Didn’t drink further. Glad I let it go without tromping back to the bar and making an embarrassing scene. Thanks for hearing my prayer for safekeeping for my son, Father. All for tonight. I love you, El-oise, Sarayu, and Yeshua. I know you are particularly fond of me, for allowing such a splendidly rigorous experience during the past few days. A severe grace. A wonderful stress. A painful pleasure. Thanks again.