by Rachael Sage

Crossing the saddle at 14,000 feet. Uhuru Peak is blanketed in clouds. Photos courtesy of Rachael Sage.

I’m no Sir Edmund Hilary, but reaching the snows of Kilimanjaro in this modern era is still all about determination. Oh, and not freezing to death. Luckily the Coastside summers prepared me well for the sub-zero temperatures.

The decision to climb Mount Kilimanjaro was an easy one. I wanted to celebrate graduating from college after what seemed like a lifetime of schooling. What better way to celebrate than scaling the tallest free-standing mountain in the world: a 19,385-foot snow-capped volcano set on the equator in the heart of  East Africa. As with every African adventure it began with an impossibly long flight, and an unendurable movie selection. I think it was a   retired-wrestler-turned-actor movie marathon or something. At least there was the flight-deck radio station.  

The first night on the mountain after hiking for about five hours to 9,022 feet was what one would expect from an African vacation: monkeys in the trees, the deafening roar of bugs, reptiles, and birds interrupting our slumber, and warm humid breezes. But after that first night, and a 3,200-foot elevation gain, tropical Tanzania was quickly transformed into an unearthly moonlike world of rocks, sparse vegetation and animal life that was pretty much limited to tiny birds, called chats, that fluffed themselves up into little balls of feathers to keep warm. The weather was predictable, clear and crisp in the morning, clouded over by about 11 a.m. and the clearing again around 6 or 7 p.m. So there was no insulating effect at night, and it was cold.

Sleeping at 15,000 feet was nearly impossible. Something about the headache, the frigid temperature,  and hearing people succumb to the nauseating effects of altitude kept  me up all night. The unnecessary wakeup call came at 4 a.m. Eating was impossible too, so we gave up  on breakfast.

Bob and I at the summit. We’re trying to smile.

The morning was clear and cold. We began our climb, zigzagging up the mountain, trying to keep altitude sickness from triumphing over our  attempt to reach the peak. Then, as if the frigid, near-vertical slope and lack of oxygen wasn’t enough, the solid ground we stood upon gave way to  a loose scree field. Scree is basically  a thick blanket of loose dust, gravel, and rocky debris. Walking up a steep incline of scree is maddening; for every foot of elevation you gain, you slide back six inches. But, on we went; I concentrated on the porter’s feet in front of me because not only did my head hurt, but it was also spinning, and if I even tried to look up I ran the risk of falling off the mountain completely.

I looked at my watch. We had been at this for four hours! By this point we had lost the Irish girls in our group. They were slowly “heaving” their way up the mountain. The elder Brit spoke infrequently and when he did it was mostly a curse directed towards his son who had planned the adventure. The smoker lost all hope of actually smoking at the peak, and simply hoped to make it to the peak. Only our individual determination would get each of us to the top. The last 100 feet required some nimble scrambling over a vertical field of rocks and boulders.

But we made it to Gilman’s Peak, at 18,638 feet. We were rewarded by a breathtaking view over the few remaining glaciers and a massive crater. We also got to sit — even more rewarding. But this wasn’t our final destination. We had another jaunt ahead of us — the mere 500-foot elevation gain to Uhuru Peak. Doing anything at 19,000 feet was a workout; another 1 1/2 hours was going to be brutal. We trudged on.

Horombo huts, with Uhuru Peak in the background.

And then there it was, the sign that read “Uhuru Peak. Africa’s Highest Point.” I’d like to tell you the song from “Chariots of Fire” began playing and I triumphantly raised my arms above my head and sprinted to the top, but in actuality I just lumbered to the sign, kissed it, and collapsed.