The End.
Before I left for the final leg of my trip to Kilimanjaro, a close friend sent me the following words from Victor Hugo: “The mountains, the forest, and the sea, render men savage; they develop the fierce, but do not destroy the human.” He then reminded me, “you’ve run through the forests, you’ve swum in the oceans, you’ve even scaled some mountains. But this is it, the final mountain. Go be fierce.”
All in all, my dad and I were gone from July 4 (happy birthday, USA) to July 15. These 11 days felt so short, a quick flash of energy, a final output of effort, all to celebrate and commemorate the other nine months that I traveled this year. It’s funny: I’ve gone on a few weekend trips to visit friends and it’s all so fast. I went to the East Coast for five days to pack in a legal conference, a visit to my old office, meals with countless friends, and a few nights out. That’s less time than I was in most of the 14 countries I visited this year.
Getting back to Tanzania was no easy task. We flew for over 24 hours on July 4 and 5, and the only thing of note during this journey was the five-week-old bulldog puppy and his papa that we met in the lobby of the Detroit airport gym. Some of you know this but I consider bulldogs to be good omens. Sure, I seek them out (stalk them when I see them) but they always mark momentous occasions. Playing with this pup made me more confident than the miles of training under my belt.
Anyway, we were picked up in the tiny Kilimanjaro airport the evening of July 5 by a Mountain Madness representative who prides himself on his resemblance to Don Cheadle. We shared our safari truck with “The Toms”, an uncle-nephew pair from Washington who go on adventure travel together every summer. They are more sarcastic than Tom Sr.’s mustache is prolific.
The terrain, the smells, the bumpy roads all felt so familiar. I wonder if I will always feel more comfortable on the road after the year I’ve had. It’s comforting to think that if I visit one of these 14 countries again, I’ll recognize myself and who I was this year.
We arrived at Itikoni, a private camp in Arusha National Park. Back in September, I spent two weeks camping in Tanzania with an Intrepid Travel tour group. This luxury private camp blew my understanding of Tanzanian camping away. We were led through the dark to our respective tents, which were decked out with full beds with mattresses, toilets, wash basins, solar-powered lights, and bucket showers.
July 6 dawned with a knock on my tent flap. A porter had brought me coffee and a bucket of hot water for my shower. After a refreshing rinse, I trundled through the park to the mess tent, where the rest of our hiking group was gathered. There were 14 of us total: the Kieschnicks and the Toms were joined by a group of four from Connecticut, a group of five from La Jolla, and Donna from LA. The Connecticut family (two parents who had founded an outdoor sports store and their adult son and daughter-in-law) were distracted by the absence of their luggage, still stuck in Nairobi. Apparently, this is a pretty common problem.
Our guides Samia and Isaack took the group for a short, acclimatizing hike through the park, where we saw a giraffe and many monkeys and got a chance to suss out each other’s hiking styles. I’d say we were looking pretty good. Two of the boys from La Jolla, childhood friends Trent and Sam, and I played a couple of hours of gin rummy that afternoon. Let’s just say this became a common pastime once on the mountain. Turns out I’m pretty good at climbing mountains and pretty bad at winning gin rummy.
At the end of the day, we hiked to the top of another hill (where we had seen giraffes and kep buffalo roaming throughout the day) where the porters had brought up beer and wine for a sunset toast. Clearly, Mountain Madness operates on a different level of travel than I grew accustomed to this year. I’ll cheers to that.
July 7 marked our first actual day of hiking towards (but not on) Kilimanjaro. We arrived at the forest edge of the National Park after a very bumpy ride (bad for full bladders!) and were treated to the first of our epic trail lunches. Mountain Madness takes its food very seriously (fuel for the “furnace” - our bellies - on the cold mountain) and we were provided with fresh fruits, veggies, lunch meats, handmade pizza, breads, and desserts with fresh juice and coffee. We also had the opportunity to meet and greet the porters who would carry our personal items on the mountain.
Let me explain a bit about why we chose Mountain Madness and the implications of that choice for the porters. Mountain Madness offers the highest wages of any company on the mountain and ensures that every employee, and specifically every porter, is properly outfitted and fed. Mountain Madness is a member of the HEC Porter Project and respects weight limits for porters. We quickly discovered that Kili porters aspire to work for Mountain Madness, and its local partner, African Adventures, because of this treatment.
We witnessed this commitment firsthand. I was astounded to discover that our group of 14 clients would be led by 5 professional guides and supported by 80 porters. Why did we need so many porters? Well, 14 people plus their support crew need a lot of gear, but more importantly, Mountain Madness ensures that its porters do not carry more than the recommended weight limits. This way, our porters were not overburdened, and could still carry sufficient food and gear for their personal use.
I was partnered with John, a very quiet guy with more muscle power than his slight frame let on. John and my dad’s porter, Stefano, were a hilarious pair. In the video I posted a few days ago, you can see Stefano rocking out as the porters gather to sing and dance, celebrating the start of our trip. John and Stefano took great pride in always claiming the tent spots closest to the best bathroom at the campsite.
That’s right, our campsites had bathrooms. There were a few pleasant surprises about our campsites. First, we always had three “bathrooms”, sort of like port a potties but without the holes in the ground.
Second, we had a gigantic dining tent that was magically warm (or at least warmer than the sub-freezing temperatures as we got up the mountain) and filled with popcorn and tea every afternoon.
And third, dad and I had separate tents. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad and fully expected to share a tent with him throughout the trip but for some reason, Samia decided we should have our own tents. This made getting ready at morning and night very easy, and using my pee funnel (don’t worry, I won't go into detail but let’s just say this was crucial when the temps dropped below freezing at night) less complicated.
Our first night was at 9,000 feet. The weather was nice and balmy (we were still in the forest after all) and we were able to hang out in the hammocks Trent and Sam had packed. While still in the Montane forest, we had yet to even see Kilimanjaro. As you can tell from the map below, we started pretty far out from the mountain and it took us around three days to be convinced Samia and Isaack weren’t playing a huge prank on us and that we weren’t close to Kilimanjaro at all.
July 8 began with a longer hike to the Shira Plateau. At the end of the day, we reached 11,400 feet. At the end of the day, we broke out of the jungle and into the Hagenia Zone.
A funny thing about hiking Kilimanjaro. Mountain Madness intentionally follows a less-popular route and we barely saw any other climbing groups while going up. Every once in a while, we would pass back and forth with a Tusker climbing group, and a German family with a small child (12 maybe) who Hallie and I were determined to beat up the mountain. There’s a more popular, and faster, route nicknamed the “Coca Cola Route” but we had opted for the finer, “Whiskey” route. Thus, most of the people we saw were porters. The funny thing about some of those porters? They’re high. Isaack told us that a lot of the porters smoke pot while hiking up the mountain to combat altitude sickness. While we happily took our Diamox meds, the porters were lighting up along the trail. It was pretty funny to walk along the trail and catch a little whiff.
July 9 led us across the Shira Plateau up into the Heath Zone to the Moir Camp. We were finally getting to higher altitudes, and we hit 13,500 feet. We usually took an afternoon acclimatization hike after arriving at our campsite and getting settled. These hikes lasted around an hour and were meant to bring us a couple hundred feet higher in anticipation of the next day’s elevation gains. Other than these hikes, we were free to mill around the campsites. As I wrote earlier, we played a lot of gin rummy and Bananagrams. We also feasted on popcorn during afternoon “teatime” and explored on our own. I usually rolled out my back using a tennis ball and read in my tent.
July 10 brought us to the infamous Lava Tower in the Alpine Zone. We camped below the Lava Tower at 15,000 feet. Trent, Sam, and I scrambled up the tower to check out expansive views of Kili, Mt. Meru, and the surrounding valleys, all bathed in clouds. From the top of the Tower, we could see our final route of ascent up the Western Breach, which seemed pretty darn impossible from that vantage point.
The next day, July 11, was a short day of hiking. We climbed from the Lava Tower to Arrow Glacier, at around 16,000 feet, my highest elevation yet. We took an afternoon hike to aid with acclimatization and I played a few hours of gin rummy while waiting for the sun to go down. The temperatures had definitely dropped by this altitude and we were all ready to turn in by the time the sun and the warmth had left.
We woke up 3:30 on July 12 to prepare for Summit Day. After a quick and hearty breakfast of porridge (have to feed the furnace!) and toast, we hooked up our headlamps, strapped on our helmets, and started the long, slow slog up the Western Breach. This was my favorite day of hiking, but it certainly wasn’t for everyone. We hiked for around 7 hours through fabulously named paths like The Death Zone and The Bowling Alley. The climbing was hard, but invigorating. I found it exhilarating to pick my way through the rocks and scramble over boulders in the dark. And as the sun rose, it was incredible to see what we had come through (and what we still had to climb). The Western Breach was definitely the most technical part of our climb, and we often had to resort to pulling our way up on hands and feet.
After hours of hiking, we could see the crest of the summit crater camp but it was hard to see how we would pass through. “Spidering” our way up the Locamotive, a steep rock formation with intimidating drops on either side, we crested and were treated to an expansive view of the summit crater at the top of Kilimanjaro. At 18,700 feet, we were surrounded by glaciers, some of which had clearly receded in recent years due to climate change. As invigorating as it was to reach the crater, I think many of us were distracted by the sandy gusts of wind tearing at our clothes.
All of us were pretty wrecked. We cowered in our tents, seeking shelter from the biting sand, wind, and cold. I rolled out my back, which was starting to bother me again. At this altitude, it was pretty hard to work up an appetite despite the physical exhaustion that accompanies a seven hour, almost vertical scramble. Eventually, we cowered in the mess tent, sipping on our chicken noodle soup.
The night before, Samia had given us two options. We could either attempt to summit upon reaching the crater camp, a day earlier than planned, or stick with the itinerary and camp at the crater before summiting the following morning. My dad had told me that if I was up for it, he would prefer to summit the same day to avoid camping at 18,700, where it was sure to drop below zero and the winds were sure to pick up even more.
When the group arrived at crater camp, more of us were convinced that it was best to try to summit and get down faster. The wind was intense but the cold was even more so. In the mess tent, cowering over our bowls of soup, and shivering in all of our technical layers, our guide told us that while right now, it was “cold”, it would get to be “cold cold cold” come nightfall. Given that I was cold to my soul, I knew summiting would be worth the attempt.
Not everyone agreed and so the group agreed to split. The family from Connecticut and my gin rummy partner decided to rest up before trying to summit in the morning. When the porters were told of the split, the ones who would descend with us actually cheered for joy. Turns out, they didn’t like the wind and cold much either.
The hour-long hike up to the summit was actually pretty easy compared to the epic scramble of the morning. We moved “pole pole” (“slowly slowly” in Swahili) and picked our way up to the sign post of Uhuru Summit. Again, we were flanked by glaciers and expansive views on either side. At 19,340 feet, the air was predictably thin but I think all of us were invigorated by the triumph of summiting that we had plenty of energy to snap pictures and celebrate. I even ran to touch the sign and take a few requisite jumping picks.
And of course, Sam and I had to try the America-themed beers we had been carrying since the beginning. Sam had brought five Buds, but we hadn’t been sure if the cans could withstand the cold and pressure. Draped in an American flag, we cracked open the cans, avoided the foamy spray, and sipped for America. I could only handle a few sips (I had to make it down the mountain after all) and gladly handed off the beer to the waiting guides.
After such a high of summiting came the worst part of the trip: the descent. Descending sucks, no doubt about it. It hurts your knees, you fall on your butt, and it takes longer than it should. We “skied” our way down to 15,000 feet where we joined up with the Coca Cola route. We could see the campsite from above, and it looked like a total cluster fuck of a village. Our guide kept telling us we were “almost there” but the campsite just wasn’t getting closer. I’ve never wanted to just get anywhere more in my life. After hiking since 4 am, I was ready to pass out. We finally got to the edge of the campsite but had to weave our way through the shoddy tents and hundreds of people roaming around. This was another example of how good Mountain Madness is and how low-quality some of the other outfitters are.
One more example? Samia informed us that two porters from another company had died while we were on the mountain. They were underfed, underdressed, and overworked. It was devastating and disturbing, and a very important reminder that our incredible experience was not the norm.
That night at “Ice Camp” was my least favorite night of the trip. I was so exhausted I couldn’t sleep, and the cold didn’t help. I had expected the camp to be toasty compared to the crater camp and had not dressed for the weather. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep up with the cold come 3 am and passed the rest of the night shivering in my sleeping bag and waiting for the sun to rise.
But the sun did rise on July 13 and we descended to our celebratory lunch spot where we reunited with the group that had camped at crater camp before summiting. We all feasted, dusty but happy, and continued our trek down to 10,500 feet. Again, we followed the Coca Cola Route down the mountain and again, were grateful that we had not taken this route up. The terrain was pretty uninspiring and the terrain was so crowded that we spent half the time standing on the side of the path allowing porters to pass.
We got to Mweka Camp, another low-altitude, overpopulated camp and were treated to little bucket showers. We tried to wash off some of the dirt of the downhill but really focused our energies on tracking down a TV or radio to catch the World Cup finals. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a working radio but settled on some Bananagrams and popcorn to keep us entertained. And then it was time for our celebratory, five course meal. We were all pretty tired but picked our way through dish after dish of traditional food, all topped off with champaign. My only regret was that I didn’t squirrel away some of the champaign for morning mimosas at breakfast time.
July 14 was our final day of hiking. After another day of frustrating downhill, we found ourselves once more in the jungle. We descended a final 4,500 feet to an entry gate to the National Park, where we waited in line to receive our certificates. The German child was nowhere in sight so I will forever assume that we beat him up and down the mountain. And after a quick lunch, we were back on the road, racing to the Moivaro Hotel where we would grab showers, a glass of wine, and a quick dinner before heading to the airport. Most of our group was staying in Tanzania to either go to Zanzibar or head on a safari but dad and I were heading home.
After the best shower of my life (sorry for using all the hot water, Dad), I downed a glass of wine and shared goodbyes with the rest of our group. And with that, we were off.
And now I am back. I have officially completed all of my goals for the summer: climb Kilimanjaro, PR in the San Francisco half marathon (which was tough after not running for two weeks due to the climb), and make it up and down Page Mill Road on my bike. Since coming back, and especially since ticking off these last two items off my list, I’ve been restless.
I miss the road. I miss the daily adventure. I miss the physical challenges. I miss the unexpected conversations and new friends and surprising insights that come from travel. I miss the literal ups and downs of mountain climbing and the emotional ups and downs of travel. Yesterday, my photo book from the year (it’s a big photo album) arrived in the mail. As much as I already miss the year that’s coming to a close, I’m ready for the next step, the classroom, the intellectual challenges, the unexpected conversations and friends and insights that come from school.
I know I’ll open up my photo book and long for the mountains, the forest, and the sea from time to time this year. This year, I’ve been a lot of things: sometimes savage, sometimes fierce. Remember what I wrote in one of my first posts? I wanted to remember how to be human, how to be kind and compassionate and understanding. As Victor Hugo said, and my friend reminded me, mountains (and for me, travel) “do not destroy the human.” They rebuilt me.