The Journey To Kilimanjaro  

Separated by some eighteen miles of rough walking, and steeped in a bitter cold weather, Mount Kilimanjaro (Kibo) rises majestically above the African plains, some 20,000 feet.

The currently inactive strato-volcano in northern Tanzania is the tallest standing mountain on the Africana continent and the highest free standing mountain in the world.

Kilimanjaro has become a major destination for mountaineers and trekkers from around the world with almost two thirds of the climbers making it to the summit.

Muntaka Chasant, a travel writer and mountaineer challenged himself and successfully made it to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, this is his story.

With shortness of breath at over nineteen thousand feet above sea level on Kibo's crater rim, I worked my way up between loosely distributed rocks and frigid winds to the summit of Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa, at around 8:30 AM on April 2, 2012.

I made it to the summit after seven days of strenuous hike and steep climb through varying range of vegetation zones including tropical jungle, moorland, plateaus, alpine desert, sedimentary rocks and snow in a severe cold weather.

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro was a personal challenge that meant so much to me. It was an adventure of daring and suffering.

The Journey
I climbed the mountain through the Machame route. This route begins at the northern edge of the Machame village, on the southwestern slope of Kilimanjaro in northern Tanzania.

The route forms a half ring around the southern circuit of the mountain, approaching the summit from the east and climbing-down through the Mweka trail. The lush rainforest drizzle constantly, splattering the rainwater against the thick foliage in a pitter-patter sound.

Stanley, who is my mountain guide, three porters and I arrived at the Machame route gate almost noon and began our ascent by entering the Machame rainforest.

Stanley's job with me on the mountain was to guide me through the terrain to make an attempt to the summit.

The porters also carried all our needs for the climb along with us, mainly tents and food. Usually the porters will hike faster, if they could, to the camp ahead to make preparations for our arrival. We made a great team.

We followed a footpath that meanders north through the misty tropical jungle to where the forest meets a wide-open heath.

After close to six hours of climb, we emerged suddenly onto moorland just as one goes through a small door into the open street, whereupon we pitched our tents at an elevation of 9,840 feet above mean sea level (AMSL).

As twilight passed into darkness, stars speckled the sky, and as the night grew, I laid in my tent gazing up at the glow of the Milky Way. Cold wind blew, rattling the trees against each other with a big whoosh of air, and as the night got colder, I wriggled inside my sleeping bag and slept under the stars.

Stanley and I broke camp around 8:00 AM on the second day and started north again, ascending steep rocky ridges and hiking over streams through the moorland towards the west of Kibo, the highest peak of Kilimanjaro.

We settled into the camp (12,470' AMLS) after about five hours of hike and steep climb just when the sunset was flaming. Golden light streaked across the horizon with strips of dark clouds floating above Mt. Meru in the east. The view was magnificent.

Over the next three days, we tramped for close to twenty hours over plateaus, alpine desert, gorges, deep valleys and scrambled up a steep lava cliff to an ice field in the south of the mountain, were we encamped at the elevation 15,420' AMSL.

This camp, Barafu, sits on a pile of fragmented rocks on a large rock shelf that jutted away from the Kibo crater; it is the Base Camp of Kilimanjaro, our final resting place before the summit attempt.

It had been five days since we started climbing and we were already lying at the foot of the mountain.

The Summit
Our summit attempt began around 11:40 PM on the fifth day, approaching from the east in the cold and dark, shouldering my backpack, we strode right up the crater, plodding on steep scree crouching, climbing and sliding into the cold thin air.

For hours, I marched in silence, putting one foot in front of the other, huffing and puffing in the freezing winds looking for anything at all to grab onto when there is none, and my lungs gasping for oxygen where there is so little.

I looked across the mountain in the dark cover and knew how alone we were now. All we had has been the mountain, cold and the trailing veil of blackness in our unquiet desperation.

The only sound was our own labored breathing and the chuck of our trekking poles jabbing into the scree. We crept inch by inch through the dreary routine, and as time passed, six hours or so, we watched the sun come up over the horizon with unusual beauty.

The sunrise drove away the darkness of the night and brought us some warmth, which we most needed.

Wreathed in cloud, the jagged cone of Mawenzi, a sister peak of Kibo and the third highest peak in Africa, hanged in the east like an island in the sky; rooted to the cloud as we work our way up on the last scree before Stella Point, the last landmark before the summit.

The Arrival
My fitness had completely deteriorated by the time we came to Stella Point.

I was only getting about half of the level of oxygen my body is used to at sea level, but for another hour and half, I plodded in a prolonged labor walking on snow and past glaciers in the crater rim until a sign that reads 'Congratulations! You are now at Uhuru Peak, Africa's Highest Point' started to appear about 1500 feet away.

I fell upon my knees at the sight of the sign as if I was showing reverence saying a prayer to the mountain. My heart melted as I looked upon the summit with great admiration and fondness.

Now I know why more than half of the people who attempt this mountain fail, I thought to myself. Then, a low, feeble sound slipped from my lips and hot tears started trickling down my frozen cheeks. It was triumphantly joyful to see the summit at last. A sense of victory had settled over me.

I was in pain. My knees twisted and snagged. My legs ceased altogether, asserting themselves with restless movements.

They hurt badly from the cold of the night and the many hours of climbing. Don't tease with me Kilimanjaro; I know I'm in pain, I said aloud to the mountain.

I knew my legs were not dead, so I remained kneeled for a moment and then I lifted myself slightly with my eyes tightly closed gripping the trekking poles gently, I dragged my heavy body up in agony and off the snow-covered floor.

Stanley was standing there staring at me. He had no time for sympathy. 'Hurry, the weather is getting bad,' he announced, with grains of snow on his face.

A sudden spike in my energy propelled me forward, and almost without noticing, I padded sluggishly along giant glacial crevasse to the summit, the highest point on the African continent at around 8:30 AM on April 2, 2012.

I threw down my trekking poles and backpack upon reaching the summit and hugged Stanley exultantly. I was filled with a sense of great accomplishment. It felt wonderful standing on the summit and looking down from the roof of Africa. It was the toughest night of my life, and truly, it was also one of the best days of my life.

The Descent
After twenty minutes on the summit, we saw our way back through the same route by which we had come.

We descended through Barafu camp to Mweka Camp around late afternoon.

After more than sixteen hours of climb and descent together, we made it to a resting camp just above the Mweka forest canopy at around 5:30 PM on the sixth day.

I received a rousing welcome from my porters and fellow climbers that I had come to know on the trail. After close to thirty-six hours of being awake, I had the most restful sleep that night.

I crawled out of my tent quite very early on the seventh day, looking cramped and cold. After breakfast, we descended further for five hours to the Mweka gate, where a Kilimanjaro National Park official awarded me a summit certificate with my name written on it.

We were proud of our achievement. After our celebration, we rode back to Arusha whence we had come.

Back in Arusha, I tried with painful difficulty to adjust to the normal life in East Africa, but everything had lost its enchantment after Kilimanjaro.

Mountain life has changed me. In spite of the pain and hardships I endured, I became restless in the days that followed, longing for the cold and desolate nights I spent on the mountain, and wished I were back on its' slopes once more. I left my heart on Kilimanjaro.

The writer, Muntaka Chansa, is a travel writer and mountaineer.