I'm having a conversation about mid-life crises over coffee with a friend. We both feel that we've reached the pinnacle of our careers, but we're not fond of the company we're keeping at the top. 'Why not conquer a real peak?' my friend proposes. We decide on climbing Kilimanjaro. It's a place of extreme superlatives: the highest mountain in Africa, one of the world's largest volcanoes, and the tallest free-standing mountain on Earth. We've prepared meticulously: we've trained, collected all the necessary gear over several weeks, and started taking medication to prevent altitude sickness. The irony is that the side effects of these pills mimic the symptoms of the sickness itself, and we couldn't start taking them early as recommended because they were in my lost luggage—a common issue, it turns out.
As we begin our ascent through the rainforest, I feel part of a procession of mostly white hikers led by African guides. We move in a single file, like ants, and are often reminded to go 'Pole! Pole!'—slowly, slowly—to allow our bodies to acclimate. The only ones deviating from the line are the experienced porters. We hear stories about Hans Meyer, the first to summit Kilimanjaro during Tanzania's German colonial period. I wonder about the pioneering spirit of Kinyala Lauwo, the true first climber, which is now nearly extinct in today's world.
Instead of feeling the thrill of exploration, I'm plagued by a relentless headache from the medication. At our camp at 2,835 meters, it's bitterly cold, and I worry about being adequately dressed for the summit. Our guides check our oxygen levels, signaling the seriousness of our endeavor. After days of walking through dense clouds in the Heather-Moorland zone, we emerge into sunlight. At 3,750 meters, I'm physically struggling, but the thought of a helicopter ride down tempts me.
On summit day, we start at 23 minutes past midnight from basecamp at 4,700 meters. We pass a warning sign about the dangers of altitude sickness. Wearing seven layers, I join a line of hikers illuminated by headlamps, resembling a pilgrimage. I see a hiker who's clearly suffering from altitude sickness but presses on. The guides sing, but can't drown out the sounds of sickness around us. The final stretch to Stella Point at 5,756 meters is grueling. We cry with relief, but the last part is arduous. The thin air makes me feel like a fish out of water.
Descending, I feel the promise of relief with every meter. I meet a hiker who's spent twice as long as I did to reach Stella Point. Her determination shows it's mental strength, not physical, that matters. Our porters, who carried everything, pass us one last time. They were our support, our guides. As we descend, I'm inspired not by summit jackets or energy bars, but by the resilience of our group—true heroes without whom we wouldn't have succeeded, just as Meyer wouldn't have without Lauwo.
