Mt. Kilimanjaro, or How I Climbed Partway Up a Mountain (Barely)

I have long suspected I am not the athletic mountaineering type. For instance, here's an important clue: I avoid walking up hills.

But, given an opportunity to climb on Mount Kilimanjaro this past holiday in Tanzania, I was willing to give it a try. Turns out I was right about my mountain-scaling abilities, but what better way for a rank amateur to find out the humbling truth than to attempt to scale the highest free-standing mountain on the African continent?

Oh, I'd love to say I charged all the way to the top of Kilimanjaro on my summer vacation, but all I was trying to do was make it to the Base Camp at Mandara with some dignity. That leg of the climb is just eight kilometres if one is speaking of a flat path, but there's a vertical kilometre in there somewhere which makes it more challenging than it sounds.

After some grumbling and bargaining unpleasantness at the check-in station at the bottom of the mountain, we managed to hire our guides at nearly double their originally stated rate. Aside from that, it was a beautiful morning.

We set off in the September sunshine up a wide trail of red earth through the rainforest on the lower slopes of Kili.

The first hour or so was pretty easy.

It reminded me strongly of a steeper hike up a path at Seal Bay Park in my own British Columbian part of the world. The fern gullies, the little waterfalls, and tiny violets in the undergrowth added to the illusion that I was in the forest back home. The trees even dripped with familiar moisture. Of course there are no monkeys where I live, but other than that...well, I was all ready to pat myself on the back.

But somewhere along the route (well before the two hour mark if I'm honest) I started to get a little winded.

Hmmm, I'll just stop and drink from my water bottle. (pant pant)

I walked a little further. Hmmm, maybe I'll just stop and admire the hanging moss on this tree. (puff gasp)

Uh, I'll just stop a sec and..

Hmmmm...maybe I'll just stop.

The trail would level out reassuringly for a short while, but then we'd go around a bend and a steep disheartening stretch would be there ,looming like a ladder, only with lots of rocks and skinny drainage ditches to trip in.

I go for long periods of time in my life when I forget that I have asthma, and I'm just fine with forgetting. But that day I became acutely aware that my lungs were definitely most displeased with me: the nerve! striding briskly up mountainsides in thinning air!

Oh well. So I meandered. It WAS very beautiful, and aren't you SUPPOSED to stop and smell the flowers?

Jeff claimed he wouldn't want to hike much faster anyway, but he is a gallant gent with legs much longer than mine, so I'm quite sure he was politely lying.

The most embarrassing thing about not being a good climber on this mountain was the steady stream of African porters carrying heavy loads on their backs and heads that would breeze on by us. Well, they breezed by ALL the foreign hikers, not just me I want to add.

Those guys were in fabulous shape. One fellow had a propane tank balanced on his head as he strode up the steep incline. It must've weighed a lot. Sweat was actively running down his forehead. There's no way they are getting paid enough for doing that kind of work. I couldn't really complain after seeing him, loaded down as I was by my waterbottle and a sweater tied around my waist.

One porter smiled as he went by and teasingly shook a finger at me. "Pol-ee Pol-ee!", he grinned. I believe that literally means "slowly, slowly" in Kiswahili. Sigh.



But I made it.