I’m going to do something that I don’t normally like to do
and break chronological order in my blog posts. I had begun to write a post
regarding my last weeks at Kijabe Hospital but was unable to finish before I
left for Tanzania last week. I’ll certainly post about those final weeks at a
later time, but an experience I recently had with a large hill compels me to
write about it while the experiences are still fresh on my mind.
Mt.
Kilimanjaro stands at 19, 341 ft. (5895 m) above sea level, making it the
tallest mountain on the continent of Africa and the tallest freestanding
mountain in the world. When my sister asked me several months ago if I would be
interested in climbing it during the months I would be in Africa, the
“abso-freakin-lutely” was out of my mouth before she had finished her sentence.
The compulsion to stand on top of something simply because it’s really tall is
a human trait that, though irrational to the point of defying any semblance of pragmatism,
apparently still holds sway in my decision-making centers. One of our
housemates, Lauren Allgood, my sister, and I began our journey on the morning
of March 14th, and once we crossed the Tanzanian border, all eyes
strained to push back the bounds of the horizon to catch our first glimpse of
the beast. It wasn’t until we passed Mt. Meru near Arusha that I thought we had
found our query. As it turns out, Meru still cracks the top 10 tallest
mountains in Africa at 14, 977 ft. (4565 m), but falls short of Kili by a
little less than 5,000 ft. The first time we actually saw our adversary was
after we had reached our hotel in Moshi and the clouds cleared just before
sunset. I’ll admit, part of me had expected to be flabbergasted by some tidal
wave of earth that reached into the sky in awesome glory, but my first view of
Kili evoked a word which I had not expected: “unassuming.” Though its
snow-covered peak reached above the clouds, somehow it seemed hard to believe
that it would take us several days to reach the top.
Kili as seen from our van as we drove to the base
Part of
Kili’s deception comes from its massive circumferential size. Its rise above
the clouds is so gradual that it can make you forget you are looking at a peak
that could be 20 kilometers (over 12 miles) away even while you are standing at its base. Part of our reasoning for
choosing the Machame Route among several options stemmed from the reports we
had gathered that it offered the most scenic views, and it definitely did not
disappoint. Our first day saw us travel through what seemed like a rainforest
with thick vegetation, waterfalls, and monkeys chattering in the branches above
us. As we moved into Day 2, the landscape morphed into what very well could
have been Middle Earth with jutting, moss-covered boulders hunching in the fog
like Bilbo’s trolls, patches of surly vegetation hiding flame-colored blooms,
and plants that by all accounts seemed like they should glow in the dark. From
that point forward, almost all of our time was spent above the clouds. Much
like a moleperson might feel upon breaking through his soil ceiling, I felt
that we had entered a world that is kept secret from all those who live below. Despite
the tens of thousands that climb Kilimanjaro each year, I couldn’t shake the
feeling that we had been granted passage into a sacred, untouched land.
Especially during the middle days of our climb, I was entranced by the secret
life of clouds. From morning to evening, we would watch the clouds from below
slowly rise like a cottony tide before they broke on the side of the mountain
in slow-motion waves. We were often on the trail when we became submerged
beneath their persistent march, and I remember a specific moment when I looked
down at my fleece pullover and watched small beads of condensation form on the
fibers like a fine diamond powder. Perhaps most fascinating for me, however,
was when we reached Karanga Camp on Day 4 and sipped our tea as we watched new
clouds being born on the side of the mountain. Conceptually, I know clouds have to come from somewhere and don’t simply appear all at once, but to see them form
seemingly from nothing right in front of my eyes made me feel like a little kid
again. There we sat in the space between old clouds breaking and dispersing on
the rocks below while their replacements formed above. It was in moments like
these that the word “sacred” became more than an expression of language and
more of a state of being that makes time and space around you quiet and soft.
Clouds forming out of thin air
Waves of clouds rising from below
Similar
moments occurred each time the clouds parted at night. I’ve probably seen as many night
skies as the next guy, and I especially enjoy getting away from the city every
so often to better see the expanses. Even when I can only see the brightest
stars through the varying levels of light pollution, I still feel as though I
could stare at them for hours. The clarity on these nights, however, first gave
me the unexpected impression, not of looking up into the cosmos, but of leaning
over a mine that reached impossible depths with gems sparkling and winking in
fierce whites, sharp blues, and pale reds against absolute blackness. The sight
was almost frightening in the magnitude of its beauty, but it was one from
which I could hardly look away. In fact, many a rock may have gone
un-tripped-upon if I hadn’t been so hopelessly addicted to the view. Unfortunately,
either my camera was not good enough or I was not a good enough photographer to
capture a picture of this scene, so I can only suggest you go for yourself to
see what I’m talking about.
Once we
reached Barafu Camp, our base camp, on Day 5, we had time enough to eat and
rest until about 11:30 pm, at which time we were woken up to begin our final
ascent. We had two guides, Mndeme and Salim, leading us for the duration of our
trip (not including the embarrassing number of porters that sped past us on the
trail while carrying our belongings on their heads). Mndeme, a soft-spoken and
straightforward fellow, has been leading groups up Kilimanjaro for 12 years and
has reached the summit over 300 times. When he came to our meal tent the
night/morning we were meant to begin our final climb, we asked him about the wind
that had been relentlessly abrading us through the night and showed no signs of
stopping. Our discussion went something like this:
Us: Mndeme, what do you think about
this wind?
Mndeme: Oh, this is too much. Too much.
Us: Have you ever seen it this bad?
Mndeme: No, no. This is too much.
[No
one speaks as the tent whips about wildly, threatening to tear
itself to shreds
at any moment]
Mndeme: Let’s go.
The assurance of our safety now skyrocketing through the
roof, we began what would be a 6 hour climb in the freezing, howling dark with
nothing but headlamps to light our way. By the second hour, we could no longer
drink out of our Camelbak packs because the tubes were frozen. It was also
about that time that my toes went completely numb despite the 3 pairs of socks
I was wearing. Another hour or so later, just about anything that could freeze
had done so, including backpacks, gloves, gators/buffs, energy bars, hiking
poles, and hair. Luckily enough for us, once you reach a certain elevation, you
no longer feel the compulsion to eat or drink, so our frozen water and food
didn’t bother us too much. Jordyn contends that those 6 hours were the longest
of her life, though in my memory, that final ascent seems altogether removed from
time. Admittedly, I became more aware of how long we had been climbing in the
last couple of hours, but before then, I wasn’t consciously thinking of much
else other than putting one foot in front of the other (when I wasn’t staring
up at the night sky and tripping over rocks). I think all three of us had resolved
from the beginning that it was just a matter of when we would reach the top,
not if, so each step felt more like a predetermined fact rather than a concerted
force of will.
As you
might know from pictures, the top of Kili is very long and relatively flat. As
such, when we first reached the “top,” we came to what is called Stella Point,
which reaches 18,888 ft. (5757 m) above sea level. Upon first seeing the sign
that denotes this spot, we, or at least I, thought we had reached the summit.
As it turns out, the highest point in Africa is actually an additional
45-minute walk from there. After a short break, we began to chip away at that
final distance between us and the top of the continent. As we shuffled forward,
something that will remain in my mind as one of the most spectacular sights
human eyes can behold occurred: the sun rose. Scientifically speaking, I
understand how biological life depends on the sun, as most people on this
planet probably do. What I don’t recognize as often, however, is the simple
wonder of its existence, and the role it plays in vivifying those things within
us we may call “life” separate from our biology. When I turned back and saw the
eastern horizon glowing with what I imagine was the deepest red my retinas
would be able to perceive, both my external sensory experience and inward
interpretation of those experiences changed.
The dawn was coming, and the
entire weight of darkness, wind, and cold from the night we had just walked
through couldn’t stop it. Time had meaning again. The world around us emerged
in familiar shapes from formlessness, and where our headlamps had provided
functional illumination, the sun now provided light in its most essential, elemental, and elegant form. Had I had
any breath remaining at that point to be taken away, I’m sure it would have
been. Trying to describe what we saw as the sun rose that day feels a bit like
trying to summarize a Dostoevsky novel in a single sentence. Yes, a general
picture can be created with accurate observations and even insights, but an
entire world of subtlety, intricacy, and brilliant, perhaps inarticulate
minutia would remain confined to thing itself. To our left rose a glacier covered
in unmoving ripples and layers like an albino younger sibling of the Grand
Canyon: a historian of the mountaintop and testament to the passage of time. To
our right, the crater of Kilimanjaro yawned in the morning light while thin
veils of cloud clung to its rocky contours. Ahead, a modest sign consisting of
five wooden planks and support beams marked the place we could finally stand
and say, “We made it.”
I feel as
though I could spend ages talking about the things I’ve learned and the
expanded perspectives I feel that this trip (and really, the whole of my time
here in East Africa) have provided me, and I hope to continue to explore and
express these as I come to a better understanding of them myself. There is a
certain kind of quiet knowledge, however, that comes with these lessons. A
knowledge that spreads, not through a storyteller’s lips or an author’s pen,
but through the hand that points back and says, “Go, see for yourself,” not out
of unwillingness to share, but from the understanding that experience is,
itself, knowledge that exceeds the depths of words alone. I’m not entirely sure
why climbing mountains seems to be so interconnected with philosophical
musings, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say a lot of it has to do with
the simplicity. While you’re climbing, there’s not much to distract you from
either your surroundings or your thoughts. The mountain is being a mountain,
and you are being you. I mentioned previously that Kilimajaro seemed unassuming
when I first saw it, and now, having spent a week with the thing, it feels even
more personified in my mind. I now realize that it was unassuming because it
didn’t give a crap about what I thought about it; it was still going to be just
as beautiful, raw, and magnificent with or without me.
