My watch buzzes just before midnight, snapping me into focus. I fumble into my gear, ruthlessly culling half the contents of my pack—weight is the enemy now, not lack of supplies. The rest gets shoved haphazardly into my duffel.
My tentmate, Bob, a 70-year-old with a lean frame and fierce determination, sleeps soundly. His two daughters, cheering him on from afar, would be proud of his grit, but exhaustion has won tonight. The summit isn’t his today.
I stumble out of the tent, legs thrusting me forward, arms pushing me up from the ground. The effort leaves me gasping. Above, a sky thick with alien constellations glitters coldly. I head to the mess tent, one of the first to arrive, where gas lamps offer feeble warmth against the sharp, frosty dark.
Top 4 tips to Stargaze and photograph the stars of Mount Kilimanjaro’s night sky
The crew, usually vibrant, move sluggishly, their energy dimmed. I sit silently, mentally tallying my odds: 75% chance of summiting, up from 20% on day one. I’ve slept decently, hiked strongly, but 1,300 meters of ascent looms—roughly a Ben Nevis, with half the oxygen. Or like climbing the 15 flights to the top floor of the city hospital 26 times, where I’d paced during my father’s final days. This will demand everything.
Heidi, my reason for being here, arrives looking worn. Her invitation pulled me from a grey haze into a world of longing and clarity, though she doesn’t know it. Altitude’s been rough on her, but she’s holding up. Others trickle in. We nibble biscuits, sip tea, and absorb the briefing. “One team, one goal,” they say, but the tone is grave—stay behind the guides, follow orders. I miss coffee, then feel a pang of guilt. Porters, wiry locals paid a pittance, haul water, tents, everything, fueled by maize porridge. My petty craving feels indulgent.
What to wear on Kilimanjaro Summit Night and Uhuru Peak Summit Day
At 12:30 a.m., we start. Four days of hiking weigh on my legs. Pinpricks of light zigzag up the dark slope above, other groups already ahead. At Barafu camp’s edge, my breath grows shallow, oxygen levels down 10% since last night. My head throbs, my gut clenches—my body’s triaging, prioritising survival over digestion. But my mind’s fixed on the peak.
A sign warns against climbing with breathing issues or headaches. Fear spikes, urging me to turn back, like a kid dreading a scolding. I press on, trailing head guide Hamisi, choosing the front as the weakest. Each step feels like I’ve sprinted a mile. My summit odds feel slim now, but I won’t quit. I’m teetering, one blow from collapse, yet I refuse to fold.
We pass slower groups, each detour onto steeper ground draining me further. At a water break, swallowing feels like a chore, and forcing down a few biscuits nearly makes me retch. We trade weak jokes, leaning on camaraderie forged on a post-COVID Mt. Toubkal trip, where rediscovering connection felt electric. Hamisi, seeing my struggle, slings my pack over his shoulder—his third. It stings, but with air thinning, pride crumbles.
Hamisi says Stella Point, the crater’s edge, is near. I cling to that hope. Then, at 4:30 a.m., the moon rises, its pale glow exposing the truth: the slope still towers above. I keep my eyes down, tracking solid rocks to avoid hallucinated ones. A stumble could end this, proving my doubts right. The guides chant a Swahili song—“Jambo, Jambo Bwana…”—its rhythm both irritating and grounding.
Lila, a mix of grit and vulnerability, is in tears. We’d bonded lower down over her passion for poetry and philosophy. I tell her she’s got this, hoping she holds. Her partner, Tom, turned back, undone by visions of drowning in blood. He’s fit, a cold-water swimmer, yet the mountain broke him. I recall our dicey descent in a Scottish gully months ago, dodging a hurtling rock by inches, my nerves frayed.
Why headlamps are important for Kilimanjaro treks especially on summit night
We pause for tea, but Stella Point still isn’t here. Every step grows heavier, the gap to our goal agonising. Heidi admits she thought she saw our trip leader, Dan, plummet off the ridge. Dan’s a brash, hard-drinking type with a gleaming veneer, one of three from Liverpool. Dawn’s first light creeps in. Heidi, usually polished, tosses her tea in frustration, maybe too sick to stomach it. She’s struggling but unyielding.
Finally, Stella Point. I stagger the last steps, collapsing onto a rock, gasping. Hamisi helps me with my gloves, a small kindness. Relief floods me—the summit’s close now, just a matter of staying upright. The crater path widens, and we spread out. Niall, a sharp-tongued trainer, surges ahead, another Scouser. Liam trails, his calm endurance almost eerie. I try to lead but lack the gas. Heidi and I talk, my heart swelling in the moment’s weight, though words fail me. As the sun breaches the horizon, Tanzania’s plains glow 250 miles away. Glaciers gleam left and below in the crater’s depths. Mt. Meru cuts the skyline, still shadowed.
I pull ahead, resisting the urge to stay with Heidi—she’s been distant lately. Over the ridge, Uhuru Peak appears, the highest freestanding summit, a place I never thought I’d reach. I’ve dragged my heavy frame to Africa’s roof. Niall and Dan embrace me, and I soak in the vast view under a flawless sky, the mountain’s triangular shadow stretching a hundred miles.
I wait for the others. All who started today make it, each waging their own war. We hug, exhausted but triumphant. Eve, on her second attempt, has blue lips from oxygen depletion. Last is Maureen, Bob’s daughter, tears mixing with pride, wishing her father and sister were here. Stepping away for a photo, emotion hits me hard. I’ve silenced the voice that calls me unworthy. I wish my parents could see this.
Comments