Pushed to the limit

I never thought it would be easy. But I never thought the ascent up Mt. Kenya, the second highest mountain in Africa, would push me, almost, to the absolute limits of my strength and endurance. Or at least the closest I’ve ever come. It was intense.

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I’d pondered climbing* Kilimanjaro (the one that has Kenya beat) before I came here. At first, I’d thought some experience would be required to scale a 20,000 foot peak. But after reading up a bit and talking to some people who’d done it, I learned that it’s actually possible for any reasonably fit person to complete. However I didn’t think I’d actually get around to committing to a 5 or 6 day journey, and I decided against bringing the heavy gear such a trek would entail (boots, jacket, gloves/hat, etc).

Fast forward to my second day here. I’m out to lunch with another volunteer consultant, Greg from Poland, and he asks if I’d like to climb Mt. Kenya. Yeah, I’d be interested, I say in a non-committal fashion, eager to make the first of many exotic excursions to come in East Africa. But, I mention, I’d have to get my hiking gear sent over first.

Couple emails and two and a half weeks later, I’m on the phone negotiating equipment rental arrangements with our guide, Mohammed.

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Our journey began on Friday around 6:45 AM. Greg picked me up in a taxi and we headed to the city center to catch the matatu (small bus) to Nayuki, the staging town for excursions to Mt Kenya. Two and half hours and a sore ass later (the seats in the matatu were marginally more comfortable than a rock), we arrived. Within seconds of stepping out of the vehicle, multiple hands were extended with business cards and inquiries as to whether we needed a guide. No, we’re all set, asanti. “Call Mohammed,” Greg says. “Ok.” “I know Mohammed, I know Mohammed” several people quickly exclaim as I dial.

We were escorted  down a few blocks of muddy streets to Mohammed’s office. “You have shillings or dollars?” he asks. “Dollars.” “Huh…you will need to pay in shillings.” “Really?…Well, that’s all we have.” I respond, hoping my sore ass didn’t wake up at 615 for nothing. “Ok..I will go exchange. Give me the dollars. I will go to bank.” Greg and I look at each other, obviously both wondering whether we’re really gonna give this guy hundreds of dollars and let him walk away. Hesitantly, we hand over the cash – no choice, I surmise. “I’ll also get your boots” he says. (Largest size he had in shop was a 9.5, I’m 11.5)

15 minutes pass by. 20. Not that long, I suppose, but in this situation it felt like it. Is he coming back? How far can the bank be? After about 30 minutes: “I see him” Greg says. Disaster 1 averted. I pack up the bag for the porter with some of the stuff I brought as well as all my rented gear: sleeping bag, down jacket, “wind pants” – but no boots. Mohammed did indeed return with size 11.5 boots, but after putting my foot half way into one and getting a whiff of one of the worst foot odors I’ve ever smelled, I decided my hiking/cross trainers would do. As we walked out, I saw one of Mohammed’s friends putting his boots back on.

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We arrived at the park gate around noon, after a lunch of goat nyama choma which made me re-pledge to reduce my meat intake. Here, we ran into one of the other groups we would spend the weekend with – our coworker Steve, some US and Canadian embassy staffers, and a few Georgians (the state, not nation) here to lend their expertise in building Christian ropes courses (yeah, I’d never heard of a ropes course either). Greg and I had thought about joining this group from the get go, but decided we wanted to make the trip in 3 days instead of the recommended 4. (I found out on the day before we left that this didn’t actually mean we would ascend any quicker, just that we would have to hike all the way down from the summit on the last day.) Soon we hit the trail, leaving Mohammed, with our passports, at the gate to sort out the entrance fees.

Day 1 was pretty easy. The trail was soft dirt, which is very dusty but relatively easy to walk on, and wide – cars use this road too.  We hiked for about 3 hours to Old Moses Camp, the hut where we would spend night 1. My shoulders were a little sore from carrying my pack for a lot longer than I usually do to/from work, but that’s it. This won’t be so bad, I thought.

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I’m a city (and suburban, I must admit) boy. And Indians don’t really camp much – at least not my family. So this was a new experience for me. And technically, I guess, we weren’t really camping since we were staying in huts not tents. But close enough, for me at least. The Westin this was not. No electricity, save a single solar-powered light centered in the dining room, no hot water, no showers, and no real toilets. Just a few picnic tables in the dining room, grimey beds uniformly sagging in the middle, one sink, and some outhouses. Quite basic I thought, especially considering the $150 park entrance fee and $10 rent. Indeed, Greg confirmed that in Europe the facilities on similar mountains are far nicer.

Basic though the facilities might have been, the service was surprisingly excellent. Within two minutes of arriving, we were given freshly cooked popcorn, biscuits, and hot tea. This trend would continue all weekend. In fact, the food was very plentiful - at times I felt like I was better fed on the trail than in Nairobi – and quite good. A typical dinner would consist of soup, bread, meat (fish, chicken), greens/vegetables, beans, rice or noodles, fresh fruit for desert (mangoes, passion fruit, banana, papaya), and a few cups of tea. Lunch and breakfast were similarly extravagant.

That night, as I laid in my sleeping bag wearing basketball shorts, wool dress pants (best thing I could find), t-shirt, sweatshirt, and a fleece, I pondered whether I brought enough cold weather gear. I was warm enough at the moment, but we were going a lot higher still.

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Day 2 started at 7 am. It was significantly more tiring than day 1, not just longer (~6.5 hours, plus breaks) and higher, but on rougher terrain and a lot of up-down through valleys. But the scenery really started to get great about half way through. After crossing the final valley, we were greeted with a clear view of Mt. Kenya gaping over a deep, immense valley. This picture can’t nearly do it justice:

We paused here for a while taking in the scenery, trekked for another hour or so and ate lunch by a stream. Mohammed insisted the water was drinkable, and I thought it must be given how high we were, so I filled up my water bottles (“bottled at the source”). By the stream, we relaxed for a bit and enjoyed a lunch that included guacamole – yes, guac at around 12,000 feet in central Kenya – blue curant juice, and the essential mangoes, passion fruit, and banana.

It was only a couple hours to Shipton’s Camp from there, but by the time we reached we were both quite exhausted. Luckily, we were again treated to tea and biscuits within minutes and relaxed. Rejecting Mohammed’s friend’s boots the day before seemed like a bad idea at this point as I was confined to my sweaty, dirty, hiking shoes at the end of the day while I watched others comfortably strolling around in crocs, slippers, or fresh sneakers.
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It started to hit shortly after arriving at Shipton’s. My stomach. I was sick. Is this really happening, I wondered. The afternoon before the summit. Maybe it will pass quickly, I hoped, as I took some medicine. Dinner rolled around and it was still there. I ate about three spoonfuls of vegetables, and a few sips of soup, and gave up.

Seeing me hand my full plate back to the cook, Mohammed inquired: “You ok? Is it altitude?” “No, not feeling well, my stomach.” “Drink hot water,” he recommended. I did; it didn’t help. I sat there for a bit longer, wondering what caused this. The food tasted good, and I’d been eating it for almost 2 days already, but it certainly was not the cleanest or most hygienic “kitchen”. In fact, it was very dirty, but you ignored it because you had no choice. Or, perhaps it was the water from the river. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away.

I got into bed and hoped sleep would help. It was fairly early, but given our 3am departure time for the summit, I didn’t have much to recover. I slept in fits, simultaneously trying to ignore and fight off the discomfort. Both attempts proved quite futile.

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A few hours and a trip to the outhouse later, the pain had subsided –somewhat. But I was left weak and tired. Still, I had to attempt the summit or this would all be for naught.

I layered on two pairs of socks, basketball shorts, sweatpants, a long sleeve dri-fit shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, a decent-but-not-great borrowed EMS fleece, and my light rain/wind coat. Layered as such, and with a torch in hand (no headlamp), I headed out into the night, under quite possibly the most amazing starscape I’ve ever seen.

Here it goes, I said to Greg meekly, hoping the worst was over. I was wrong.

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TO BE CONTINUED

*Note: I’m using the word “climbing” in its colloquial definition. Technically, I think, climbing means using ropes etc; and walking up a mountain (what I did) is “trekking”.