Notes from the Field 2009

By Katarina Grande
Tanzania

"I feel good about this--I think she'll let us summit," Frank says, gazing up at the glacier atop Mount Kilimanjaro. We've been hiking for four days; three of them above the clouds. The vegetation has changed from rain forest to moorland to alpine desert. During the day, the equatorial sun beats down in potent UV rays--during the night, the air is frigid. Everything--everything--is coated in mountain dust. Everyone is filthy, coughing chronically from the dry air, peeing constantly from the diarrhetic altitude medication Diamox, and radiating heat from sunburns...and loving every minute of it. The trek has been brilliant, the views comparable to medieval art depicting heaven.

The team will, pending injury or pulmonary edema, summit in less than 48 hours. It won't be a problem for the Scandinavian men on our climbing team--Frank, the bearded Norwegian explorer quite naturally stepping out of the frame of a National Geographic cover and onto the mountain. His adventure buddy, Daniel, a Swede enthusiasti ally referred to as "Supertall" by the porters, is constantly pausing to take photographs with his giant-lensed camera, yet never lags behind the group. Then there's Tammy, the big-hearted aunt of Amber; on the hike because "Amber made her." I'm the 5th team member and climbing Kili because it's a great personal challenge and a way to see gorgeous views of Tanzania. Somehow, these mountain experts--next up is Everest--and the three women make a good team.

We begin the trek wandering through the mountain rain forest, chatting about randomness and playing the Mountain Mens' favorite hiking game. We wonder where our guide--an expressionless Tanzanian man named Crispin was. Hakuna matata, we mutter, and forge on down the well-traveled path. The Mountain Men set the pace--a very slow and steady pace. Step. Step. Step. I had never hiked at such a slow pace but I begin to understand the logic. Groups that had zoomed past us hours ago were leaning against trees, wiping sweat from their faces, as we steadily march upward. We continue this processional through the next two days.

Today, Barafu Wall requires us to pack up the hiking poles and grasp rock hand grips as we scramble upward. Careful not to slip on ice-coated footholds or fall into glacial streams, we meander our way up the wall. I love the variation in the hiking--both scenery and style. The pretty, resilient little mountain flowers, the mist from clouds rolling into valleys, the trees that look like giant pineapples...and of course, the ever-present, majestic views of Kili's summit.

As grandiose and wonderful as this experience is, there is a dark side--the situation of the porters. These underpaid, underappreciated men carry the mzungo (I'm one of them) luggage: backpack, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, clothes, etc. plus the items for each campsite--tents, food, dishes, cooking utensils, pots, pans, lawn chairs--heavy, heavy stuff. And, unlike the mzungos wheezing their way up the rocks, the porters don't have camelbacks, hiking poles, microfiber long underwear, polarized sunglasses. The just put the heavy packs on their heads and scramble through the rocks. Do they like the job? It's probably good to have a job...but ouch, this one comes with a lot of pain. The dozen or so people that die on the mountain each year? Porters, mostly. But to get the more lucrative position of Guide or Assistant Guide, one must prove himself as a porter. Crispin did ten years. Yesterday, when one porter was feeling sick, the guides just were annoyed. It's a rough situation.

July 11, 2009
Unable to sleep, I sit up, alert in the freezing tent as my watch alarm beeps 11pm. It is time to begin the nightlong ascent to the summit. I layer clothing like crazy, switch on the headlamp, and join the group. The Mountain Men look prepared in their high-tech gear. Amber and Tammy toss in a few extra pieces of candy into their packs. I'm nervous--I feel like I was about to enter some sort of Viking battle. We quickly drink some tea and set off. The hill is steep, the footing rocky. I fix my gaze on Crispin's hot pink gaiters to keep pace.

Step. Step. Step. It gets colder. I grab the straw of my Camelback but it's now solid ice. No water. I start worrying about altitude sickness--or worse. But the worries drift like clouds through my exhausted body. It's 2am--our pole pole (pole-ay, pole-ay: "slowly") pace seems to be speeding up--we keep passing pale-faced hikers leaning on rocks for support. Breathing is a challenge: the 50% oxygen level, the arctic air, the physical exertion. I just want to rest...just for a second. But we continue. The usually chatty group is silent as the moonlight illuminates the glaciers above. Step. Step. Step. Just keep walking. My thoughts weave together with my mind radio. "Jump Around" pops into my mental playlist. Hours pass and Crispin pauses at the top of a ridge, his arms outstretched. "Congratulations, you've reached Stella Point," he says. Great, I think, but it's not the summit. I sit on a rock. Frank lends me his giant down parka. I want to take a nap, but it's time to continue to Uhuru Peak--the highest point in Africa.

I shuffle back into the rhythm. To the left is a beautiful, magnificent, blue-tinted glacier. "Wow," I whisper aloud (and then spend the next few minutes catching my breath). The ice looks so majestic--intimidating and peaceful at the same time. It's like seeing the night sky in a really dark place for the first time--the stars are a bit overwhelming. The team makes it to to the famous Uhuru Peak summit sign. However, we had ascended so fast that our summit didn't coincide with the sunrise as planned. We take celebratory photos in the dark and manage to convey, "Congratulations!" to each other through garbled, oxygen-deprived speech.