Rarefied Air

Tuko Pamoja "We're in this together" became our mantra as we emerged from the rainforest into heather and beyond: six kayakers from San Diego, two guides and 16 porters from beautiful Tanzania: a village of nomads, weaving slowly like a colony of ants balancing oversized bread crusts on their heads through lava fields and alpine desert towards the snows of Kilimanjaro.

Chasing twilight on slick red mud, using tree roots as steps, a luminous moon led us the last mile home to our first camp at Mti. Mkubwa, 9,498 feet, where tropical rains soaked our dreams in the songs of rare birds and delicate red and yellow-spotted impatiens. Leaving Mkubwa for Shira I next morning, emerging from the canopy of mahogony and podacarpus trees, the elephant tracks gave way to jackal prints in the mud. Over a field of wooden outhouses, we saw our mountain, so very far away, covered in snow, radiant in the setting sun.

We were pampered with too much food: veggie stews, fruit, toast and jam, rice, popcorn and hot cocoa. An essential ingredient, "fat spread" got poured into every hot dish. We began to make gifts of all the snacks, the trail mix, the chocolate bars we brought, to lighten our load.

Following a trail of proteas in varying stages of bloom to Shira II at 12,500 feet, Kilimanjaro remained in view, but never seemed closer. How could we reach the snow line, let alone the summit, in three days? The rain began to fall as we reached camp, but when it retreated in a few hours we found ourselves perched on a ridge of dark chocolate soil, heavy blue clouds from the west resting on the jagged peaks below camp, a thunderstorm echoing through the valley to the east. It was here our guide Dismas Urio, a veteran of over 300 ascents, relayed radio reports from higher on the mountain, that our path might be barred by heavy snows and rains. As we stood in the fading twilight, watching lightening at play, each of us silently developed the mental resolve to prepare for the worst.

When Tanzanians laugh, the song spreads across the sky, and there are no more problems in the world. The porters were singing to Maria Carey and Chaka Khan on a faint transistor radio in the brilliant cloudless dawn, melting the hail clinging to our tents. Our nomad village advanced through the lava fields into wet snow and icy winds, singing Beatles tunes and sharing movie trivia. This was a personal best for everyone: Lava Tower at 15,190 feet. Higher than Mt. Whitney. And as we descend to Barranco Camp, 13,044 feet, a new landscape emerged. The senecio tree, like a Joshua tree,  indigenous, thrives here on moisture from the cold mists in the ravines. In the morning we were to face the ominous Barranco Wall, a scramble up a lava face, with hand holds made from the cooling of lava bubbles.

Sparrows woke us. We cheered our porters as they steamed past us on the Barranco Wall, then into the Karanga Valley, our last water source, and up again. Massive glaciers clung to the side of Kilimanjaro now and when we reached the wide open alluvial plain, I felt the urge to run across, lest the slightest rain bring a flash flood strong enough to carry away elephants.

We were starting to feel the magic. As we walked into Barafu Camp, our highest home at 15,330, I was humming loudly, and Dismas 2 (Mtuy) started to do the same. This was the camp rangers said we might not reach. This is it. We would have a quick dinner, four hours rest, and pack ourselves like marshmallows into every piece of clothing we brought before our ascent at midnight. But in the meantime, we paused to appreciate the grace of sister peak Mawenzi, content in her beauty beside Kibo, the peak they call Kilimanjaro.

Under the full moon, midnight didn't seem so dark. Fireflies danced in the void above us, earlier hikers nearing Stella Point. My feet had rocks in them, my lungs had cotton batting. Step, pole plant, breathe. The switchbacks were short, you kept your eyes on the boots in front of you. Step, pole plant, breathe. When desperate for a sip of water, somehow Dismas knew, and we would stop. We moved as a centipede, tight together, our minds full of every word of encouragement we'd ever heard, plodding upwards to claim 4,400 feet in three miles.
After six hours of sleepwalking, the growing light around us recharged our energy. We cried and hugged on reaching Stella Point, then fortified ourselves with half frozen Clif bars and electrolyte slush against a 30 mph wind rising up to escort us the final quarter mile to Uhuru Peak.

The sun has risen here at the top of Africa every morning since the faulting of the Great Rift Valley created this volcanic mountain over two million years ago. Every morning in this rarefied air, above the clouds, it casts a golden light across the famed glaciers of Kilimanjaro. But I will have seen it only this once. Standing there, knowing this, my face to the sun, I am both truly alone and at peace with the world.

It was a bittersweet parting, our nomad family, the next morning at Mweka camp, 10,000 feet. Tanzanians were excited to go home to loved ones. We showered them with gifts of Thermarests, rain pants, hats, gloves, batteries, swiss army knives, chocolate. The tips we give them will more than double their income, and they will do it again, perhaps next week. For us it was a trip of a lifetime.