In
the distance, on Mt. Kilimanjaro's face, we detect a small, winding chute
rising straight up the mountainside.
But examining it more closely, we detect minute switchbacks crisscrossing
the giant snow-topped mound. This is the trail my new wife and best friend,
Cheryl, and I will traverse. Having spent the last fours months together
crossing Africa, and another three days on the trail to this point, this
promises to be the high point of our odyssey – and a supreme test for a
new marriage. For nearly six hours, we inch our way across the desert floor
until we reach desolate Kibo Hut at over 16,000 feet. It’s a primitive
wooden shelter with tin roof. There’s no running water. No heat. Just the
mountain. Her monumental challenge weighs on our backs, as it has all who've
attempted to scale her slopes; equally heavy on those who make it - as
those who die trying.
Altogether
eight of us are ready to test ourselves on the continent’s highest summit.
Our
comrades at the hut include a crimson haired Finnish girl who returns for
a second try, plus an Irish couple with two sons, eager to test their mettle.
By 6pm that murky, frigid night, the temperature plummets far below freezing.
Our spartan hut isn't much warmer.
By dim candlelight, we make one final
check of all our gear, while savoring dinner, a simple cup of tea. We've
been warned not to eat much, since it’s hard digesting food at lofty altitudes.
Briefly, I contemplate the Japanese
climber who roomed here just days before. All night, he suffered from altitude
sickness. However, in the morning, he insisted on continuing to the summit.
Reaching Gillman's Point, he promptly fell into a coma. His guides, aware
he needed treatment within twelve hours, hustled him on a wheel barrow
stretcher to the bottom. Days later, he still lay unconscious in a Moshi
hospital.
In that rarefied mountain air, sleep
is elusive. But we don't suffer long. At just past midnight, it’s time
to test our resolve. It’s as inviting as a frigid Minnesota morn in the
stillness of our room.
My
hand trembles, as I touch a bashful flame to the candle stump waxed to
the tabletop. As it sputters to life, Cheryl and I shiver so wildly
it’s difficult to don three layers of clothing. But by 1am, after a snack
of tea and biscuits, we hug, wish ourselves luck and set off.
It’s the dark side of the moon outside.
There’s no light from any building. No star casts its beacon. There’s only
Patrick’s, our guide’s, meager flashlight to illuminate our path up the
mountain, and it’s already too late to correct that serious error.
We set off in stony silence, each
with our own challenge. Conversation will only break our concentration,
lessen our resolve.
Kibo Hut is separated from the summit
by 3,000 formidable feet of shifting slag, so every movement needs to be
measured; each step controlled. However, as we slowly snake our way through
the darkness, the path never becomes fully visible, since Patrick forges
ahead, leaving us blind in his wake. Often I swear we've lost the trail
completely, as the air grows thinner with each step.
Climbing becomes more labored, stops
more frequent. Together we gasp short, agonizing breaths, our lungs wheezing
like leaking bellows.
Occasionally,
I glance toward the canopy of stars overhead, if only to verify we’re still
heading upward. Approaching the halfway point, three hours above Kibo,
we stop every thirty or forty feet.
“Grab a candy, take a drink, breathe
deeply,” I coach myself, as steady gusts whip off the mountaintop, rips
our faces and challenges our concentration. As we cower in the darkness
of Hans Meyer Cave, named after the first European to "conquer" Kilimanjaro,
I think how egotistical it is to imagine conquering Kilimanjaro.
No, you merely survive because either
the mountain or God himself wills it.
Just then flickering lights appear,
as the Irish family and guide rush back down to escape the onslaught of
altitude sickness. We continue our steady thirty paces–pause–thirty paces–pause
rhythm. “Polipoli, Patrick!” I sputter in the only Swahili I know. “Slowly,
slowly!” Still, his light grows faint, as he scurries ahead. Cheryl, close
behind me at first, falls farther and farther back. Until lost in the darkness
she cries out, "Waittttt!” in bone-chilling terror.
Fearing the worst, I cautiously shuffle
down to her side. Hugging, gasping together, heaped in fearful desperation,
we struggle to catch our breaths. We’re mentally drained. Each step takes
super-human strength. Pulling Cheryl's head to mine, I gaze into her ghostly
visage of gray, and for the first time seriously wonder if we’re going
to make it down.
It hurts to realize she’s courageously
holding on, partially, for my sake. If one of us quits and returns with
Patrick, the other will have to finish on their own in the dark–or turn
back, too. So, I encourage her, console and cuddle her. We even try awkwardly
walking hand-in-hand for awhile. And vow we'll make it together...or not
at all. We utter a silent prayer, and hunker down with our last ounce of
resolve to concentrate on the ragged crack of rocks taunting from above.
Scrambling on numbed hands and knees, we weave a surreal, drunken waltz.
Until finally, a brilliant sliver cracks the darkness.
The sky is shrouded in stunning violet.
As the stars dissolve, we spot a tiny sign reading "Gillman's Point – 18,647
feet." We’re so far above the clouds, we can trace the curvature of the
earth. In celestial celebration, we beam smiles wider than the crater,
yet realize the need to press on to Uhuru Point, the true summit. Gingerly
we trek the icy rim of the massive dome, realizing any misstep will send
us plummeting into the crater below. Finally, halfway to Uhuru, at Stella
Point, we’re met by the dispirited Finn.
"It's impossible to continue," she
sighs. The sun we so eagerly yearned for has the last laugh, transforming
the snow on the slender crest into a slippery sheet of glass.
Stella. It seems an appropriate place
to stop, I think, since the day belongs to the stars.
The following
are Brandon's previous articles for the magazine:
In
the distance, on Mt. Kilimanjaro's face, we detect a small, winding chute
rising straight up the mountainside.
But examining it more closely, we detect minute switchbacks crisscrossing
the giant snow-topped mound. This is the trail my new wife and best friend,
Cheryl, and I will traverse. Having spent the last fours months together
crossing Africa, and another three days on the trail to this point, this
promises to be the high point of our odyssey – and a supreme test for a
new marriage. For nearly six hours, we inch our way across the desert floor
until we reach desolate Kibo Hut at over 16,000 feet. It’s a primitive
wooden shelter with tin roof. There’s no running water. No heat. Just the
mountain. Her monumental challenge weighs on our backs, as it has all who've
attempted to scale her slopes; equally heavy on those who make it - as
those who die trying. 
