Pushed to the limit, part two

“Don’t worry. It will be dark [during the trek to the summit], you can’t see the steep parts,” Mohammed had told us the day before, attempting to reassure us. His words didn’t exactly have the desired effect, but he was right.

I’d expected it to be pitch black, but the aforementioned awesome starscape provided a surprising amount of light in one’s immediate vicinity. Beyond that, however, all you could see was a couple clusters of LED lights floating above and below signaling other groups of climbers.

The first 30-40 minutes weren’t bad. Not too cold, not too steep. And the initial burst of adrenaline was enough to offset the extra strength required to subdue my illness.

As we continued to ascend, the cold intensified, the air thinned, breaths became shorter, and the adrenaline waned. About 50 minutes in, my weakness caught up to me. “Mohammed (pant)…I’ve got to stop (pant),” I uttered as I collapsed on the closest non-jagged rock I could spot. “Ok..no problem, no problem,” he replied.

That was Mohammed’s favorite English phrase – “no problem.” If only that were true. Actually, I might have a problem, I thought. I’m short of breath, very tired, and getting cold – and we’re not even one-third of the way up yet.

Pondering this, I rested for a good 4 or 5 minutes before being prodded by Greg, who was eager to keep moving. While he hadn’t been able to sleep at all the previous night (common at high altitude), he had managed to avoid illness. Slowly, but still ungrudgingly, I rose and continued on; at this juncture the thought of turning back hadn’t really crossed my mind.

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Twenty minutes later, I again collapsed on the nearest viable slab of earth. Mohammed noticed I was struggling. “You ok? Let me take your pack. Drink water.” I took a gulp out of my lone 1-liter bottle and handed him my bag. It wasn’t heavy – I’d made sure of that – but at that point I knew that every little thing would count.

Another twenty minutes. Same story. The amount of strength required by each step seemed to be increasing at an increasing rate and the length of each breath was decreasing at the same pace. As I laid back on the cold earth, trying to catch my breath, all sorts of thoughts began crossing my mind.

What the fuck. Why am I so short of breath? Should I turn back? Why am I doing this? If only I wasn’t sick, and weak. But I am. Do I have altitude sickness? How do I know if I’m nearing a cerebral edema? (Fresh in my mind was the story I’d recently heard from a very experienced Scottish climber who experienced this potentially fatal condition on his first ascent up Kilimanjaro.) How much colder is it going to get? Do I have enough layers? Maybe I should turn back. Even that would be a long way though. I can’t wait to climb in my sleeping bag.

Finally: This is fucking intense. Can I make it, physically? I might be at my limit here.

Realizing my situation was not going to improve, I looked over to Greg. ”I’m weak. I need to go slow. I can’t go as fast as you. Can you catch up with that other group.” I asked. “Ok. Go at your own pace.” With that, he was off, and I laid there, my mind racing, for another 5 minutes.

Eventually, I managed to regain my wits, get up, and continue on. Despite all the warnings I’d seen over the past few days while reading up on climbing – always descend or at least pause your ascent if you feel the effects of altitude sickness (e.g. shortness of breath, fatigue, headache) – I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t give up, couldn’t be that guy. Regret would be a certainty. I needed to reach the summit, and I wanted to make it by sunrise, as planned.

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We must not have been going as slow as I thought, because we caught up with Greg and the other group (Steve, the embassy employees, and the Christian ropes course posse) at the next break point. I did not bother saying hi to anyone - air was at a premium and words used too much. I was somewhat comforted when I heard another climber discussing a possible descent with his guide. OK, It’s not just me. (He continued on as well.)

From that point, it continued to be a struggle. Oxygen grew sparser and sparser and the temperature colder and colder. Soon my toes were numb from the cold (how long does it take to get frostbite?) and I was attempting to double-up my gloves as my fingers neared the same state. (The gloves were not meant for layering, which left the second layer – mittens – half hanging off my hand and my dexterity near nil. The alternative was worse.) But I’d made a decision – not necessarily consciously, but I realized it nonetheless. I was going to reach the peak. I put away thoughts of turning back, took it slow, concentrated my strength, and pushed.

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An hour later, Mohammed spoke: “We’re almost there. We will stop by a cave before top.” I felt a pang of relief – almost there. At the same time, however, I wondered where the sun was. It was bitterly cold at this point – all my digits had in fact gone stiff – and the wind was picking up mightily. If the sun didn’t come up, this would be unbearable. I asked Mohammed. “20, 25 minutes” he said. “25 minutes!” Greg exclaimed. “We’re going to freeze.” That is seriously a possibility, I thought.

The “cave” turned out to be little more than a curved indentation near the summit but it did indeed offer great protection from the wind. As I huddled in the dark, knees to my chest and double-gloved hands under my armpits, I realized I had never been in a situation where I lacked control to such a degree. If the sun decided to take its time rising today (or, more likely, it was cloudy), I could get hypothermia. If I slip at the wrong moment, I’d tumble down indefinitely. If I suddenly started feeling the potential effects of altitude even more acutely, I’d be at the mercy of Mohammed (the guide, not the prophet, though I might take all the help I could get at that point) to get me back down the mountain. It was a weird, unusual, and scary feeling.

Meanwhile, Mohammed was smoking a cigarette (he did this every time we stopped, how he still managed to climb every day – very quickly, and never tiring – perplexed me) and a porter was serving the Arcterx-clad Danish couple cups of hot tea.

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I couldn’t even take my camera out at the summit. Nor could I stay up there for more than a few minutes to enjoy the view. (Later, I’d ask if Kilimanjaro was visible. It was.) I was spent, and despite being only a few meters higher than the cave, the cold was far more intense due to the bitter sting of incredible winds. Fortunately, Greg was able to take a few snaps. And I forced a smile for a few seconds:

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The sun rose hastily and the temperature rose accordingly. Conditions were far better on the way down and the views were spectacular. A vast, complex, rugged, beautiful landscape – hidden by darkness on the way up – revealed itself: glaciers, lakes, the other peaks, canyons, valleys, and the pure vastness of it all. I managed to get my camera out.

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Mohammed’s opening quote rang true on the trek down. It was unbelievably steep, leaving everyone dumfounded that we’d navigated it in the dark. Within the first half hour, every single person had exclaimed “I can’t believe we actually climbed up this.” The descent wasn’t as hard as the trip up, but it was more annoying. To avoid tumbling down the dirt and rock, you had to continually turn, slide, and balance yourself. It reminded me somewhat of skiing moguls when you don’t really know how. Every few minutes someone would fall, and 20% of the time this would result in a prolonged, uncontrolled slide on one’s ass.

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Two hours later, we were back at the lodge. Sitting on a hard picnic table in a small, dirty shack never felt so good. I’d been dreaming of my sleeping bag but mustering the strength to climb up to the top bunk seemed like too great a task. Tea was served within minutes, and then breakfast.

Everyone ate, and then headed for their sleeping bags. I was about to do the same when Mohammed came by: “20 minutes, we leave.” Fuuuck. We’d opted for the 3 day trek, which meant we’d now have to head all the way back down the mountain. It was another 6-7 hours at least; we had to get a move on in order to make it to town for the last matatu back to Nairobi.

I seriously contemplated staying with the other group and making my way down the next day – this would mean I could nap – but in the end, spending the night back in my bed, with a hot shower and real toilet nearby, sounded a lot better than one more day in the hut. I washed my face, hit the bathroom, packed up, and 45 minutes after returning from the summit we set off again.

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The combination of the sun shining warmly, relatively abundant oxygen, and my recent trip to the outhouse, reenergized me a bit. I pulled out my iPod and scrolled to Notorious B.I.G. A little Biggie seemed like the perfect soundtrack for the moment. On came “Going back to Cali.” Nairobi would do just fine.

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The terrain was relatively easy and we hiked with haste. We crossed the entire valley – about 3 hours – without any stops longer than a 30 second water break. And I kept those at a minimum – I was down to the last of my supply and did not want to refill at the river given the uncertainty regarding the source of my stomach bug.

Finally we stopped at the same overlook that had captivated us a day earlier. I scarfed down half a Cliff bar, stole some of Greg’s water, watched Mohammed smoke a cigarette and then we set off again.

Once Old Moses Hut came into view, Greg picked up his pace, eager for lunch and a bench I suppose, but my steps started to grow heavier. The effects of about 5.5 hours of near-nonstop walking, in my improving-but-still-not-100% state, finally started to hit. Soon Greg was out of view. By the time I reached the camp, I was literally on my last ounce of strength. The long gazes I received from energized groups about to head in the opposite direction confirmed this

Luckily – miraculously, it seemed at the time – Mohammed managed to secure us a ride for the last leg of the journey down to the park gate. It was the easiest part, but I gladly agreed to pay the $20 to ride on the back of a pick-up truck. Ten minutes later we were at the gate.

It was over. Finally.

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Am I glad I did it? Definitely. I was certainly pushed to my limit physically. There were certainly periods I wasn’t sure if I would make it – not that I would die though serious conditions did cross my mind, but that I would turn back. But I didn’t, and I was rewarded with a great story, amazing views, and newfound knowledge of what that limit feels like.

However, I don’t think I’ll be climbing any other mountains anytime soon. I still think its a cool idea, but I’ve learned a few things that indicate once is probably enough:

1. “Roughing it” is not my style (some of you could probably have guessed this…)
2. “Endurance” sports are not my specialty (e.g. distance running, hiking 17,000 foot mountains, soccer) – I’m more of a “sprint” sports player (e.g. basketball, tennis)
3. Always pack pepto-bismol

I’ll wait for that cable car on Everest.

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Note: Full picture album to be posted on facebook.