My Journey to the Roof of Africa

Some experiences can make or break you. At 19,341 feet above sea level, with the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro now “done and dusted,” I vowed to never view another incline again. Yet here I am, more than a month later, reeling from the high of reaching the roof of Africa, considering, “Which summit is next?” 

It’s taken me far too long to post photos and reflections from this experience of a lifetime, as I’ve been catching up on work, writing assignments and handling the routine of the kids’ return to school. But the scenes from climbing Mount Kilimanjaro linger in my mind: trekking its muddy rainforests, sliding along scree, sleeping under the star-studded sky, and those moments when I was huffing and puffing through moorlands, telling myself to simply put one foot in front of the other. 

Kilimanjaro was never on any bucket list of mine. I had never given it a thought. My gaze had been set upon Everest Base Camp for years, but when I started planning a family trip to Kenya, the opportunity to take a quick detour to Tanzania presented itself (consider it a calling, or just well targeted Facebook ads!). Suddenly, Kili became my new obsession.

I told my mom- she started praying.

I told my dad- he started inquiring.

I told my sister and husband, asking if they wanted to join, and they said, “That’s all you.” 

To some extent they were right—it was all me— but it also wasn’t. 

My hiking group had no other tourists, so it was just me, my guide, and eight porters. The first night on the mountain, when I tucked into my sleeping bag, I felt alone. Yet in all the days that followed, I never once felt lonely. Eight porters would take down the entire camp site each day, pass me on the trail balancing 15-20 kilos on their backs and heads, then set up camp at the next site. By the time I would reach camp, there was a four-course, hot meal prepared. Despite all that they were carrying — while maintaining that Hakuna Mattata attitude— they would motivate me, uttering “Strong woman!” as I ambled along with a measly 11 kilos on my back. 

My Climb Kili guide, Frank, kept me informed and engaged throughout the trek. It got to a point where, as we slogged toward the lava tower across alpine desert, I had to politely tell him to pause on the philosophical discussions because I simply could not engage in further conversation: I was out of breath.

It was also thanks to his expertise and  transparency that I was well prepared for summit night, which would reach 5°F to -13°F, plus windchill. I bundled up in seven layers of clothing — and didn’t feel cold (except for my hands). I could focus all of my attention on taking one step at a time in the dark instead of expending energy to stay warm. 

Finally standing at 19,341 feet above sea level, the experience of hiking to the top of the world’s tallest free-standing mountain left me breathless in more ways than one. I felt the culmination of months of preparation, the warmth of my friends and family who had encouraged me along the way, the confidence to achieve anything that I set my mind to, and the power of a force much larger than any of us.  

The mountains are my temple. Though they can be chiseled into new forms through wind, water and geological forces, I feel they have a permanence that puts our existence into perspective. Experiences like this – hiking to the top of one of the world’s tallest peaks- is one of the purest ways for me to experience the divine, within and without. 

And it wasn’t just me over the five months of preparation and six days of the hike. I carried with me: 

• The strength in my dancer’s legs and faith bestowed upon me from my mom (she would be happy to know that I mentally chanted Hanuman Chalisa on summit night to get me to the top!);
• The sense of adventure and practicality instilled in me by my dad (his words “to remain steady” rang in my mind throughout the hike);
• The unflinching support of my husband, who solo-parented the entire extra week I was climbing the mountain and  handled the kids each time I escaped into the woods for a practice hike;
• The love of my kids who asked on the very first day of the climb, “Mom, are you at the top?”;
• My sister’s embrace in the form of a brass Tanzania bracelet she purchased from the Maasai village market before I set off;
• The good wishes of my girl friends — old and new  — who accompanied me on trails in Georgia and a high-altitude test-run up Mt. Elbert in Colorado; 
• The expertise and friendship of my guide, who checked my vitals, ensured I was well fed and properly hydrated along the way 
• The endurance of my upbeat porters, who not only carried the entire campsite on their backs, but did so in high spirits to keep me motivated too!

Climbing Kilimanjaro was one of the most, if not the most, mentally and physically challenging things I’ve done. I have returned from it with a renewed sense of confidence, clarity and faith.