Part four of Gerald Finley’s assault on Mount Kilimanjaro:
Day 5
A strange and restless night – get up into the cold to traipse to the bucket tent, or
ignore the rumblings and try to sleep? The sleep needs wins. Eventually sleep is had
in the hour between light and Thomas’ “hello… how are you…? Did you sleep well?
Water for washing is here.” The filter of unconsciousness gives way to the
realization that today is THE DAY. I heard hard coughing in the night, as if to remind
that there are more vulnerable souls here among the hundreds. Breakfast is a big
carbohydrate event today – extra toast, and chapattis, along with the usual porridge
(millet) and fried eggs. I am very aware that my lack of sleep has been partly due to
the internal combination of the chicken cacciatore from last night’s supper. Not ideal
preparation for a long day ahead. We have a sense of how big a day it is. The walking
will be mechanical today and not too far thank goodness. The sun begins to warm
the tent and we open the flap of the tent. The HD clarity of the mountain and its
brilliant white and dark contrasts serves to clear the mind and the cool brisk air fills
the throat with a sterile pack of energy. The sooner we go, the sooner we can rest.
The deep blue above the snow and towering rock mass is vibrant and invigorating. I
plunge back into the tent to finish the packing. It is frustrating. Bits here and there,
choice of socks needing to stay out of dust and clean. Filex has told us that our walk
will be easier, a few hard scrambles will generate a few slower moments, but we will
be in camp not long before lunch, then a few hours of rest before dinner. Then sleep
until 23.00, when tea and biscuits will punctuate the moment we begin our climb.
He has mentioned to me that he thinks he will take another strong porter so that we
will have three helpers for three of us. That seems extravagant to me, but I say it is
up to him. My awareness of the challenge is focused only on my sense of
vulnerability and my slight concern for my heart rate. It seems to be strong – the
beating firm and steady. I am encouraged that after rest, the body seems ready to
plough on. In preparing the Camelbak water bag for drinking water, I pull the tube
out of the bag to enable it to go into my rucksack and the contents of the tube leak
all over the floor of the tent, and drain onto my sock. “Curses” – a wet sock with
everything else packed! I pull the tube out of the bag to enable it to go into my sack
and the contents of the tube leak all over the floor of the tent, and drain onto my
sock. “Curses” – a wet sock with everything else packed! I don’t hide my frustration
as things start to be grabbed out of my big bag, stuffed ready to close. Then a
realization that this is wasted energy, needed for later. Finally a bit calmer, bag is
closed. A very slow and frustrating start, when I know that getting to and setting up
at Barafu is important. I feel I am holding everyone and am very frustrated. Sticks
are extended, and finally I get out of the tent and say I am ready. Filex calmly turns
and begins to lead out of the camp, upwards of course, toward the ridge behind
camp. Below us, the blanket of cloud covers the lowlands, and the mountain looms
over us, with the sun in our faces, and a cool wind at our backs. Within 100 metres I
am hot; too hot for the fleece, so I strip down to my double layer of long sleeved
underwear. As I pack my fleece, the strap on the backpack snaps, and I have to take
another few minutes sorting out the flexi string so that it can hold my fleece. One of
those mornings. Once the rhythm of the trekking begins I am immediately happier.
“Pole, pole, eh, baba?” Yes, definitely, pole, pole!
The trek is very dusty. Thankfully, the wind is behind us. It is very cool, the radiant
sun very warm, a half cold, half warmed body is a bit confused. I pull the buff onto
my head, a sort of wind/sun break against my neck. My thoughts drift into areas of
Falstaff, and phrases tend to become repetitive with the rhythm of the walking, and
my tussle between wanting to leave the mind free and open, and the hope that my
memory is hanging on to the music results in a win for anxiety. The dust swirls, and
we plod on, over unstable flat rocks, occasionally on pumice-like boulders. The
surrounding landscape is barren of plant life, we comment on how moonlike it
seems, or a scene from Mordor. Onwards and upwards, the mountain seems to be
leaving us on our left hand, although we continue upwards across the scree. We
encounter “singing” rock, which rings out as our “tap, tap” of poles hits their surface,
like iron bars. The stream of porters, and banter between them and Filex is
incessant. The feeling is like a grand trade route with precious cargo being hauled to
its next market. Filex seems to know them all, and if not, it is clear by the laughter at
the end of the conversation that they won’t forget him. Little by little, the sun climbs
higher; our shadows shorten, and eventually, the mountain peak of Mawenzi
appears to our right, shrouded in clouds – Filex says, “not long to Barafu, then lunch,
then rest!” He times this well, because soon, we meet some people coming the
opposite way, those who have summited that morning, and who are heading down
the mountain to the lower camp. Barafu, at 4600 m, is certainly very high and
although we are not exhausted, it is time to stop soon. The camp appears behind a
ridge ahead, and it seems utter chaos, with hundreds and hundreds of people: tents
being put up, and tents coming down. We find our two tents and loo shelter at the
higher end. The ropes are secured by rocks of ironstone, which clink underfoot,
different to the crunch, crunch of previous camps. We gladly tumble into our tent,
and immediately get our sleeping quarters arranged. This is the highest camp, and
only one more night. We try to comprehend that within 24 hours, we will have been
to the top and back, and will be on our way down to our final camp. The mountain
time seems to have curiously vanished. After a quick lunch, I drift into semi-
consciousness, not really sleeping, and into a dream-like world full of dreams and
strange scenes. Excitement, thin air and “afternoon” napping not really allowing for
deep sleep. The sun through the fabric is still very hot and only by balancing my sun
hat over my head, with a bit of the tent flap open, is the balance of temperature
achieved. After a period of suspended time, the “knock-knock, flap-flap” of the tent
signals from Thomas that dinner is ready. It seems incredible to think of eating
again, but I am ready and so the boys also appear. Into the confined mess-tent again,
where a further carbo-rich platter is served with more fruit. We are not ravenous,
but we do eat most of what is there. Chapatti, rice, and chips! All excellent and
happily devoured. My cup of honey water is refilled twice, and we finish our
mouthfuls, anxious, in my case, to get on with the clothes preparation for the
evening. As we leave the meal tent, the sight of the rising moon over Mawenzi peak
stops us all in admiration. It becomes a magical scene with light of all hues
surrounding us. The sun starts to dip behind the looming peak in a half-sunset,
although still quite bright. And the coolness, stripped of radiant heat, immediately
pervades. The impending cold becomes reality – what will this chill become? Layers
may not keep it out! In final preparation, I lay out everything ready. It seems to take
ages. I look at the phone and consider whether to write a pre-summit text, then
decide it would be better to write the success now, and just press “send” when at the
top. Given my previous anxiety, I realise this could be a risky presupposition and
decide to word it as if it has been very difficult: “We have made it somehow, but all
is well”. At least, if I send it within 24 hours, it will cover all eventualities. I look at
the phone as I turn it off and it is already 8 pm – less sleep time than would be
preferred, but everything else is ready to go. The glow of the full moon means it is
not completely dark, but I wriggle half-layered into the warmth of the sleeping bag.
The drift into sleep is very slow, and eyes closed seems to heighten the nagging
anxiety of feeling tired, not quite warm, and a full bladder. But drifting happens.
The conversations in the camp begin to lull, then quiet, as if everyone knows that
silence and a bit of prayer is the best option. The semi-conscious awareness of
voices increases again and it seems that the wake-up call is not long in coming.
“Hello – it is time for tea now”, the gentle voice of Thomas invades the half-darkness.
I begin dressing. Each layer over the long underwear seems to get tighter and in the
confines of the tent, my heart and breathing rate increase. My heart begins to work
hard and a bit of sweat breaks out, along with a sense of frustration at the labour of
dressing. I really want tea, but the effort of getting boots on begins to overwhelm
me, so I leave the laces half-done. Only one pair of socks because the boots are
warm, and I like the room to wiggle my toes as in skates and ski boots. I haul myself
to the tea tent and decide on honey water, and stuff four biscuits.
My rucksack seems big, but is clearly heavy with water solutions. I decide to wear
all my layers because the air is very cold and breath is freely seen in the headtorch
light. My mood is determined now, but I feel very wrapped up with friction between
every later of clothing. Pulling on the gaiters and finally gloves within mitts
seems very arduous. I am aware that my waterproof trousers being restrictive in
movement as the outer layer seems to be hampering my leg action. The crotch is too
low for lifting the leg over small rocks. I will have to deal with it – a suggestion of
removing the outer layer is rejected. But suddenly, the awareness of light all around,
in support of the piercing beams from headtorches, makes me look up and see a
brilliant moon, and the Hunter Orion in the sky. This immediately raises my spirits
and I say a bit too loudly, “Let’s get on with this!” when actually my heart is full of
peace and joy.
We begin to set off, more slowly than ever, with Filex in the lead, and me behind
him. “Pole, pole”. We say how cold it is, and early on, the chill is already in the
fingers. I adjust my sticks lower, to keep my hands low, and suck on the water tube.
Already the water is very cold. My walking is hindered over small upward steps
by the waterproofs, and quite soon, the effort and the heat seem to build to hard
hindrance – the heart is beating, the breathing is very deep and the heat is rising
centrally, but the arms are being chilled; altogether I am feeling very uncomfortable.
I find, maybe due to contact lenses, that the headtorch does not help the definition
of the ground, and I turn it off. The moonlight is sufficient for depth perception and
seeing where Filex puts his feet. It is slow – parts of Falstaff begin to circle in my
head, phrases repeating with the slow steps, from different parts of the opera. But
the chill invades and the wind on the back of my neck is annoying. Balaclava back
on, hoodie up. Filex brings out the tea and energy tablets, both welcome! Adjust
trousers and plod on, hands now very cold; walking now very difficult on sliding
granules and shifting stones. We seem to be zigzagging every ten paces. Pole, pole.
“Ok, baba?” Feeling very steadily worse. Another tea stop. Need to rest, watch folk
go by, not looking at faces, just at feet. Begin again, foot upon foot, step upon step
and another step. Tablet. Try to suck water; frozen…Blow back into tube. Breath
vanishes, suddenly gasping, heaving for desperate satisfaction; stop; Filex says,
“Pack off –Johnson will take”. Off my back, lightness and energy suddenly. But feet
not quite steady – overbalancing, corners not quite secure, little higher steps need
thinking, then two attempts. Filex says something. Two hands on my hips from
behind, steering me! Holding me on each step, but firmly moving me ahead. Not sure
what is going on, losing sense of location; we stop. My head swirls and I sit down.
Walking better than stopping. Keep going. Going. Hands firm, guiding, poles finding
great weight on them, slow effortful rhythm. Pole, pole. Pole, pole…
“Hey, baba” Hmm? “Look up there.” Filex points up the slope. A trail of people stops
about 100m above. What? “That is Stella Point.” How long? “Ten minutes, baba!”
A surge of energy, disbelief, wonderment. We are going to make it! Personal sense
of urgency; limbs respond, arms, legs, feet. Balaclava frozen around mouth. And
the light around is brighter. “Sun will be up in 20 minutes,” says Filex. It seems
incredible – we are nearly there. Still the hands gripping my hips, assuring my
forward motion and restraining the toppling over. The sticks slam into the dust
and gravel. And then suddenly, we are there. Ground levels off, the troop of people
begins to disperse as wobbly bodies search for places to sit down. The grand vista
opens out – the sky is perceptibly light and the bed of clouds is silvered from below
along the horizon. The Stella Point sign is there, but we immediately head to a rock,
where I am steadied and eased onto. Johnson is in full vision, his Tanzanian hat
silhouetted by the increasing light from behind. “Ok, baba, you can rest now…” My
heart is full and the moment overwhelms me. I blub. “Don’t cry, baba, you have
made it! Don’t cry.” Asante sana, sana! Steve and Dan also sit, legs akimbo on the
ground, facing the ever-brightening sunrise. Filex offers tea, warm and lovely
sweetness, and another tablet. “Ok, we will continue, yes, baba?” Light, energy and
drunken joy surge through me. We stand, and after steadying with poles, we start
again, heading away from the intensifying light, blue, red and orange hues on the
cliffs of snow that we see ahead. But each step is very difficult. No hands to guide,
just determined stick plants and equally determined steps. This time alone!
“How are you, baba?” “Mzuka!!” but I stagger to one side briefly, before planting
sticks firmly. My feet don’t quite go where my mind wants, and the poles become
lifelines – slower, steadier. Pole, pole, pole, pole, unending plodding, breathing ice-
air in the intensifying brilliance of light. The cliffs suddenly gain amber, and behind
us, the sun breaks over the clouds below. The light is intense even with sunglasses.
Thankfully, we are walking away from the incandescence. Pole. Pole. “OK, baba?”
Yes, but very tired. “Not long now.” And awareness dawns that we are within sight.
The black soil and the white snow on the surrounding expanse give way to the
wooden structure, now illuminated by the whitening light from behind. It is there,
and we make our every step in that direction. Within ten metres, there are rocks.
“Here, baba, sit.” I place myself to turn and sit, and the world whirls away. Hands
grab me but I am on the ground, at least not bruised, just resting. My balaclava is
tugged off and the cold air hits my face and plunges into my lungs. Better; cold,
but energized. My head clears a bit. The noise from the wooden structure becomes
tangible – people clamouring to have photos, small shouts of glee and triumph, but
mostly organization for photographs. Somehow, focus and energy become part of
me. Photo time, must have shirt.
“Ok, time to go now,” says Filex. Curiously revived, now the radiant low sun
is warming me up, giving renewed impetus. Bear hugs then photos with boys,
celebrating in front of snow cliffs, glacier. I search and ask for the “ash pit”. “It is
here, but we won’t stop,” says Filex. I think it is ok not to demand more – it is a
miracle that I am here at all. But a photo at Stella Point, please, with Johnson and
Thomas, if we can. We trudge back into the light – I cannot look up, it is too bright.
We are on top of the world for now, the immense dome of charcoal grey giving
way to blue shade in the increasing brightness. Clouds far below – “How far can
we see?” asks Steve. Hundreds of miles probably. Oh dear, lack of concentration
and a big wobble brings Johnson to my side – “Ok, baba?” Poa, just. Every step is
thoughtful and effortful. Dust rising in the gravel – buff ready around mouth. We are
going down. Really down. My knees can feel it and each feels the weight –just of me-
Johnson has my pack. There is Stella Point. We place our things by the first rest rock.
Camera out – not too crowded – total group shot. Now – Dan, please, take video,
with me and guides. We line up, I sing: “Verachtet mir die Meister nicht, und ehrt
mir Ihre Kunst!” Do not disparage the Masters, but honour their Art! It seems right
to sing, to honour the guides who have skillfully brought us up. We could not have
done it without them. They are baffled at the singing; others look at us but no-one
comments. At the top, all behavior is forgiven; each is only there by determination
and grit, celebration in all forms permitted. “Ok, baba, we must go.”
We leave and head down over the bank, onto the sliding gravel, seeing the endless
line of climbers continuing to arrive at the top. The sun is warm, the air still cold
and dusty. We take big steps as the gravel gives way under each step. My sticks are
thrust into braking mode, and immediately, I am grateful for the tape around my
knees. Each step carries the relief and weight of burden of body and soul. It is very
hard going. Johnson has grasped my left arm and locked it in an embrace with his
right arm as if we are a couple on a red carpet, sliding down the dusty gravel. Clouds
of dust from others become our breathing space. I am giddy, my balance faltering
with every other step. My big strides allow me to think how small our steps up
must have been. Pole, pole, indeed. Rhythm adjustments every step, down, down,
ow, down. Scree, dust, rocks, gravel, dust, hot sun, dust. On and on. Finally a site to
stop. The water in my silver bottle has a frozen ring around the top but it is good to
drink cold, cold. Consciousness returning but definitely not equilibrium. I want to
shake Johnson off, but in the few moments he lets go, I am a tossing ship, looking
for handholds that the sticks cannot quite handle. Hard, juddering, clouds of dust,
sliding, slipping, ow, wrists now hurting, on and on. Filex keeps us going. I want to
think that the camp is just over that next mound, but onwards we plunge.
My heart is beating strongly, victoriously almost, but each lungful of air is like
London traffic smog. It begins to flatten out, and the downward vista is now
more horizontal, the clouds below defining the scene. A stumble here and there,
Johnson holds me steady. Down through the view of the “Kosovo” camp and a long
flattish trail ahead offers no reassurance. Where is Barafu? Finally, the round huts
and tented features appear, but from a high vantage point. Down gingerly and
protectively, slower than I would like. Just to sit and rest and stop. It is more like
hobbling as we enter the top of the camp. It is ideal that our tents are at this end,
I can make them out and they are beautiful to see. As we reach them, the sun is
warm and the light is brilliant. Legs, limbs and body stay upright. I can’t seem to
consider sitting. Then a porter called Peter appears out of the meal tent with one
of the chairs and places it on the stones, making sure it is steady. The feeling of
letting go, relaxing into the chair seems to let all the energy drain away. Then I am
aware that Peter is untying one of my boots, then easing it off, and he finds a flat
rock to rest my foot upon. I want to hug him, but he does not notice my emotion and
proceeds to take off the sock, which feels amazing. Then the other boot and sock.
I am overwhelmed, like at Stella Point. Peter then goes and finds my bottle of cold
water, which he hands over with a smile. “Ok, now?” oh yes, yes, asante sana, asante
sana! Filex appears and says I have about an hour and a half to rest, then lunch. My
spirit is very revived and calm. He then says we should make it to Mweka Camp,
since we will have about 5 hours to reach it. “No problem” I say whatever he thinks.
5 hours does not seem like too much, considering we have just come down the same
distance in about 3 hours, it should be easier. He nods, “Now rest, baba – you made
it to the top!” Asante sana, Filex. “Karibu, baba!” My God, we actually did it.
Waking from sleep, which was just one long opera dream, was a bit of a relief.
We got ourselves into the meal tent where we agreed the next bit would be hard
since all our knees were hurting. Lunch was perfunctory: some fruit and bread.
“Better food at Mweka,” said Filex, where there were supposedly fresh supplies. “A
traditional Chagga stew of green bananas.” We all felt better, concentration back,
limbs a little sore, but ready for the next stage. We packed as best we could, and
changing socks was a blissful process. Same familiar and easier routine- everything
for the summit now packed, everything else was not much – just water and a few
bits. We needed all out strength for the dusty downward slope.
We set off, and the scamper of porters began again, along with hasty trekkers.
Initially, ironstone pieces, small everlastings and then into heathland. I just couldn’t
quite believe we were starting at 4600 metres, and would finish at 3100 metres.
The slow pace of previous days was abandoned now as both health and camping
situation depended on getting down quickly. We trod through scattered rocks, then
dusty heathland, eventually encountering almost a dry stream or riverbed, with
rocks and boulders to scramble over. Downwards we hauled ourselves, treating
ourselves to unused sweets and biscuits. It was the reward journey, but hard going.
Eventually down through high forest, winding dry streams. Each step was more
difficult as thighs and knees joined with ankles in the protests from joints
and
muscles. The last part of the journey down to Mweka was on a slightly improved
path. Stories of rescues and other adventures gave us distraction as we descended
further into the lush forest and the hubbub and singing of the Kilimanjaro song
through the trees guided us into our very wooded, damp and cozy campsite, as
the light of the day fell. Our bodies ached, the mind was clear but drained, and our
appetite was enormous. The Chagga stew of green bananas and rice was scraped
out of the bowl, and watermelon and mango crowned the meal. Our sleeping
arrangements allowed the boys to share the tent, as Dan said he found me bulk and
snoring a little constricting! And so, finally, to bed.
