Kilimanjaro. Fighting my ego, fighting for breath.
A cave diver from Mexico goes up the tallest mountain in Africa carrying a flamingo and something to prove.
No sleeping on this flight. I am watching the ground morph as I fly over the African continent. Mostly flat, open plain. I’m scoping out a jeep or camel crossing the desert. Customs is a breeze, easier than I thought it would be here in Tanzania. I am smuggling four boxes of wine, me and the climbing team can enjoy the first night or two. It’s a gentleman’s climb. Porters to set up and break down camp. Kilimanjaro is supposed to be a big hike, not like Everest.
Passing customs I see Macon through the glass. He’s the guide for the climb from North Carolina. How nice for him to meet me at the airport at this hour of the night. A car and driver are waiting. The driver grabs my bags, tossing them in the back. We are scrambling out of the parking lot. Why are we rushing? The resort I am staying at is 10 to 15 minutes from the Airport. We pull into a hotel just on the other side of the tarmac. Following Macon, I am standing in a dimly lit, open air hotel bar overlooking the runway. A bottle of red is breathing. Macon walks toward me with two wine glasses in hand. The last flight of the night takes off, and like flipping a switch, the runways lights go out. I sip my wine in the dark at the edge of East Africa and think. Black and white, like a Bogart film. You read about nights like this. I am in it.
Springlands Hotel is a nice basecamp considering where I am. Nur, a guide, leads me to my room. No energy to unpack. A good night of sleep is what I need.
Today the others arrive. A day to rest, floating in the pool. One thing I don’t have floating is ice in my gin and tonic. I say hello to my team mates. I overhear someone in a hushed voice, the guy sitting across the garden had to be brought down the mountain in a makeshift wheelbarrow.
I am the only woman on the team. My ego is telling me I have something to prove. Hell, I am a cave explorer, a diving hall of famer. Full of bravado. I lead the charge hoofing up the dusty trail. The men and sherpas behind. On to Rongai Cave sitting at 2,600m or 8,530 feet above sea level. Not a bad first day.
There is a little less pep in my step today. Before lunch a few of the guys pass me on the trail. Then two more. The guy with a bit of a gut passes me. I picked him out on day one as the weak one. He doesn’t even look at me. Five miles to trek, following behind. The camp sits at 3,450 meters or 11,319 feet.
Arriving at camp, big yawns, my head aches.
I blow up a plastic flamingo I packed, mounting it on the top of my tent. My head swims. A little humor for the trail. The joke may be on me.
Macon is making popcorn, tonight’s appetizer to go along with the boxed merlot.
The sleep does me some good, but this dull headache is still gnawing at me. Wow these guys, the sherpas schlep our gear like it is nothing. Watching them head up the trail.
I am at the back of the pack today. Seven and a half hours. Florian is my designated porter to carry my WATER. Embarrassing. A porter to carry my day pack. Florian takes my pack, grinning, always grinning. The trail keeps going up. “Pole pole” in Swahili, slowly slowly. The altitude is catching up with me.
Looking around it looks like a desert. Desert plants. Big boulders. I take a mental note, a perfect place to hide and pee. Just planning ahead. Being at the back of the line, with Florian, gives me time to think. I park on a rock to rest. I am not the “mas macha” I was a couple days ago. The woman who disappears into darkness and returns. Being a big underwater explorer means nothing here.
The afternoon is long. The trail in front of me and behind me. No one in sight. I keep putting one foot in front of the other. I am not rushing now. The competition is with myself, not any one of these gray-haired guys. Florian keeps step. No banter. In Mexico, where I live, “chupi” is the nickname for a baby’s pacifier. I yell out “chupi”, Florian is quick to pass me the drink tube to suck. My babysitter. It’s 4pm, marching into camp. Tents up. The guys are in the mess tent. Dropping my jacket in the tent I join them. One of the porters is making cream of celery soup. Ugh. With minimal ingredients, no kitchen to speak of, it’s really good. Or maybe I am really hungry.
Two more sleeps until the summit. Full belly, a Ibuprofen, Diamox for altitude sickness and burrowing into my sleeping bag.
My knuckles are raw and bleeding from repacking, stuffing my gear bag each morning. Thank god this is a six-day climb. I am the last to arrive at the final camp before our summit attempt later that night.
Porters have carried two two-liter bottles of Coca-Cola for the guys who oversee the Kibo Hut. It’s liquid gold to these guys. Kibo is kinda like a base camp for the summit at 4,720 m (15,485 ft). Several teams are set up including us. The sun is bright and the winds are picking up. The plan is to head for the summit at 11 PM. Barring any clouds it will be a full moon. Before we break from dinner, Macon tells us to wear clean socks. What an odd thing to say. I am five days without a shower. Clean socks? Hunkered into my mummy bag, downing my sleep cocktail of Ibuprofen and Diamox the wind starts to howl. It’s hard to sleep with the wind ripping against the side of the tent. They say with the windchill it will be -20F on the climb. Yet I am snug in my cocoon.
I wake at 10:15 pm. I don’t feel rested. I dress. Outside, the windchill is below zero. I look at my socks and pick my favorites. They are not clean. Like some sports fanatic who thinks socks bring luck. I lace up my boots, hit the latrine tent, and don my headlamp. Another hit of diamox.
Balaclava up over my nose. The sky is clear. The moon, full. I’m at the end of the pack.
No snow yet. Scree under my feet. Slow going. Step and breathe.
Step.
Stop, leaning on my climbing poles.
Gasp.
I feel like a fish out of water. With each step, I stop to pull in a breath.
My feet are freezing. Moisture-wicking socks hold moisture. My favorite dirty socks, forming ice crystals. Why didn’t I listen?
My head is pounding. I grab only a glance to see where I am. The stars. Far below, the lights of Moshi.
Step.
Lean.
My long gasps are so loud I swear the whole mountain can hear me.
The team is stopping, waiting for me. I sit on a snow-covered rock and Macon asks if I want to turn back. Through my tears, “No!”
I don’t quit. Anything. I am not quitting a mountain.
A new porter joined us at Kibo. She is on all fours in the snow, vomiting.
I keep going. I don’t know how far the summit is. The goal is the sunrise.
One foot.
Gasp.
The other foot.
Another gasp.
FULL STOP.
The cave diver in me surfaces. In exploration, one body is better than two. If my body gives out up here, I risk not only myself but all of us at altitude.
I think of the wheelbarrow. Being hauled down like the guy at the resort. Going home, telling everyone who thinks of me as “mas macha” that I couldn’t do it.
I can see the crest in the moonlight. Six hundred forty-two feet below the summit. 19,341’. I want it.
My head drops.
I’m calling it.
Eddie, accompanies me down, elbows lock. One slow step at a time. I am on autopilot. I slip in the loose gravel, Eddie catches me. Over and over. No thoughts, except step, inhale, down.
I plop myself in my tent, exhausted. My feet in dirty boots hanging just outside. Eddie unlaces them. I wrestle out of my jacket and snow pants. Suddenly, a hand passes a coffee cup of Coca-Cola through my tent door. The elixir.
Sleep.
It’s still dark. I have to pee. Wind gusting. I hate the thought of going out to the latrine. Feeling around for my headlamp, I find the elixir coffee cup instead. No pride, nor energy. Squatting, I pee in the cup. And a bit on my sleeping bag. I unzip the tent door, my bare hand shoots out into the biting cold to dump it. I refill the coffee cup again and again. Feeling better, I can only imagine the view from outside the tent. It’s kinda funny.
If you missed my previous adventures check out:
A Guy Riding Shotgun with a Shotgun
Out of a swarm of people with the sun beginning to rise, I stepped onto a bus with a partially shattered windshield. A guy riding shotgun with a shotgun.
Kudos to you, Kay, for listening to your body. You made it to the top in my eyes.
I admire your ability to stop peeing mid stream. I’ve lost that ability. So I forego peeing in my tent any longer because it’s too risky for my sleeping bag.