Trekking Day 7: Saturday, July 5, 2014
Barafu Camp to Summit to Barafu Camp to Millennium Camp
Hiking distance: 4 miles to summit, 4 miles back to Barafu, another 3 miles to Millennium Camp
Starting elevation: 15,300’
Highest elevation: 19,341’
Ending elevation: 12,560’
Barafu Camp to Summit to Barafu Camp to Millennium Camp
Hiking distance: 4 miles to summit, 4 miles back to Barafu, another 3 miles to Millennium Camp
Starting elevation: 15,300’
Highest elevation: 19,341’
Ending elevation: 12,560’
When I catch up to Monica she’s standing at the foot of the big green summit sign, gazing up like it’s the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. I join her and we stare for a while.
If this were a movie, our story would end here. Mo’ and I would fall into each other’s arms and kiss passionately while the camera pulls back and spirals away, gradually revealing that we are just specks on Kibo’s massive cone, majestically piercing an endless cloud bank. Cue orchestra. Fade to black. Roll credits.
But this is not a movie. We still have to get back down.
First, though, we have to take a bunch of summit pictures – a.k.a. hero shots. Apathetic with hypoxia, this is not an easy task. Mercifully, our guides organize the photo shoot for us. Like pros, they collect our cameras and herd us into languidly cooperative clusters that almost resemble lines. Then they coordinate with guides from other trekking companies to improvise a shooting schedule so we don’t get in each other’s' way. Expecting a fairly long wait, Mo’ and I sit on a rock ledge and gaze down at the long shadows stretching across the floor of Kibo's crater. But in just a few seconds Barak(a) is signaling that it’s our turn at the summit sign.
If this were a movie, our story would end here. Mo’ and I would fall into each other’s arms and kiss passionately while the camera pulls back and spirals away, gradually revealing that we are just specks on Kibo’s massive cone, majestically piercing an endless cloud bank. Cue orchestra. Fade to black. Roll credits.
But this is not a movie. We still have to get back down.
First, though, we have to take a bunch of summit pictures – a.k.a. hero shots. Apathetic with hypoxia, this is not an easy task. Mercifully, our guides organize the photo shoot for us. Like pros, they collect our cameras and herd us into languidly cooperative clusters that almost resemble lines. Then they coordinate with guides from other trekking companies to improvise a shooting schedule so we don’t get in each other’s' way. Expecting a fairly long wait, Mo’ and I sit on a rock ledge and gaze down at the long shadows stretching across the floor of Kibo's crater. But in just a few seconds Barak(a) is signaling that it’s our turn at the summit sign.
The sign looks like a green picket fence that crashed sideways on the surface of an asteroid. Arrogant, inconsiderate trekkers have plastered so many stickers onto it that parts of the sign have to be interpolated rather than read. The gist of it, though, is “Welcome to the top.” As irritated as I am about the stickers, I have to admit that if someone handed me a banner reading "You thought this was a good idea," well, I'd be hard-pressed not to hang it over that sign right now.
Mo’ and I haul ourselves up to the sign and get a shot of just the two of us. Then other members of our group start popping in and out while Barak(a) and Robert kneel before us, snapping away like paparazzi, each with at least half a dozen cameras hanging from his neck and wrists. It won’t occur to me until later that Barak(a) and Robert were kneeling in order to exaggerate our apparent elevation. There’s nothing in the summit sign pics to indicate how high we are – only that we’re in a very cold and rocky place. If you ever want to fake a Mars landing, film it here.
Fortunately, Monica and I had had the foresight to rehearse our summit pose several days ago, back when our heads were a lot clearer. If not for that, I’m sure we would have stared vacantly into the lens, stooped and slack-jawed like a pair of knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing Neanderthals. Despite the planning, we still forget to pull down Mo's balaclava in several shots, and neither one of us ends up looking very heroic.
After a few minutes of picture-taking, our guides pull us away from the sign so that other trekkers can take the stage. Barak(a) hands me my camera and I stare at it blankly, having no idea what to do with it. I know there were other pictures I had intended to take here, but I can’t remember them now. (For the record, I had wanted to get a picture of the people waiting in line to have their pictures taken. I had also wanted to get a picture of Monica’s and my feet in front of a scenic vista, which has become our signature shot on recent adventures. I had also promised myself to keep a close eye on Monica up on the summit, but I forgot that, too.)
Barak(a) can see that I’m rudderless, so he gestures coaxingly back toward the trail. He wants to begin our descent. He’s not terribly insistent about it, though, so I back away and wander around a bit, still wondering what it is that I’m forgetting to do. For several minutes I meander aimlessly – and alone – on one of the few patches of level ground within sight of the summit sign.
Summoning all the mental energy I have left – roughly the equivalent of a single Triple-A battery – I manage to remember that I’m here for a reason. I’m 54. That’s how old my dad and his dad were when they each had heart attacks. I’m here to celebrate my fitness and spirit of adventure, and to cast off a lamentable family legacy.
Lurching to the right, I squint into the still-rising sun and whisper the name of my father. Then I carefully rotate to the West and whisper the name of my grandfather. When my eyes adjust again, I’m gazing at the massive pyramidal shadow that Kibo is casting on the clouds below. I had imagined that this would be an emotional moment, but my actions are mostly mechanical, rehearsed. There just isn’t enough oxygen here for me to care very deeply about anything, even this.
Its mission completed, my brain powers down and awaits new programming. Truth be told, I’m kind of bored.
Mo’ and I haul ourselves up to the sign and get a shot of just the two of us. Then other members of our group start popping in and out while Barak(a) and Robert kneel before us, snapping away like paparazzi, each with at least half a dozen cameras hanging from his neck and wrists. It won’t occur to me until later that Barak(a) and Robert were kneeling in order to exaggerate our apparent elevation. There’s nothing in the summit sign pics to indicate how high we are – only that we’re in a very cold and rocky place. If you ever want to fake a Mars landing, film it here.
Fortunately, Monica and I had had the foresight to rehearse our summit pose several days ago, back when our heads were a lot clearer. If not for that, I’m sure we would have stared vacantly into the lens, stooped and slack-jawed like a pair of knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing Neanderthals. Despite the planning, we still forget to pull down Mo's balaclava in several shots, and neither one of us ends up looking very heroic.
After a few minutes of picture-taking, our guides pull us away from the sign so that other trekkers can take the stage. Barak(a) hands me my camera and I stare at it blankly, having no idea what to do with it. I know there were other pictures I had intended to take here, but I can’t remember them now. (For the record, I had wanted to get a picture of the people waiting in line to have their pictures taken. I had also wanted to get a picture of Monica’s and my feet in front of a scenic vista, which has become our signature shot on recent adventures. I had also promised myself to keep a close eye on Monica up on the summit, but I forgot that, too.)
Barak(a) can see that I’m rudderless, so he gestures coaxingly back toward the trail. He wants to begin our descent. He’s not terribly insistent about it, though, so I back away and wander around a bit, still wondering what it is that I’m forgetting to do. For several minutes I meander aimlessly – and alone – on one of the few patches of level ground within sight of the summit sign.
Summoning all the mental energy I have left – roughly the equivalent of a single Triple-A battery – I manage to remember that I’m here for a reason. I’m 54. That’s how old my dad and his dad were when they each had heart attacks. I’m here to celebrate my fitness and spirit of adventure, and to cast off a lamentable family legacy.
Lurching to the right, I squint into the still-rising sun and whisper the name of my father. Then I carefully rotate to the West and whisper the name of my grandfather. When my eyes adjust again, I’m gazing at the massive pyramidal shadow that Kibo is casting on the clouds below. I had imagined that this would be an emotional moment, but my actions are mostly mechanical, rehearsed. There just isn’t enough oxygen here for me to care very deeply about anything, even this.
Its mission completed, my brain powers down and awaits new programming. Truth be told, I’m kind of bored.
Looking back, it’s certainly possible that my appreciation of the summit’s grandeur had been blunted by oxygen deprivation, but I suspect I would have been underwhelmed regardless. K-man’s summit is a rock pile, just like all the rock piles we had clambered over to reach it. Except for the glaciers – which are, admittedly, pretty awesome – the view from the summit is no better than the view from Barafu, Karanga, or Barranco Camps. Turns out that when you’re looking down on an unbroken ocean of clouds, it doesn’t matter whether you’re 3,000 or 7,000 feet above them. And while it’s certainly impressive to see Kibo’s shadow reaching out across the Earth’s atmosphere, we had already seen that phenomenon from several of the lower camps. In my opinion, then, the only reason to go any higher than Barranco Camp – which is stunningly beautiful – is to claim bragging rights to the summit. That will become more and more the case as the summit glaciers disappear. Had I known any of this back at Barafu, I might not have shoved that palatyi off my chest.
Robert appears in my periphery and suggests that we leave. Seeing him reminds me that I’ve lost track of Monica, so I start scanning the hill for her. She materializes almost immediately, which hints that she might have been nearby the whole time. She tries to hug me but we’re wearing too many layers. You can’t hug the Michelin Man. Instead she puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me in for a kiss, but, recalling that she has a head cold, I dodge her lips and peck her on the cheek. I don’t remember apologizing for this, or even explaining, even though I sort of remember that she had a hurt look on her face when I pulled away. (For the record, I apologized later, at much lower elevation, and Mo’ confirmed that she had, in fact, felt a bit stung.)
Robert and Barak(a) repeat that it’s time to go down. They're more insistent now and are actually nudging us in the direction of the trail, but I cajole Barak(a) into taking a few more pictures of us, this time with glaciers in the background. After that, Monica and I finally relent and merge into the thickening stream of downhill trekkers.
It’s only 7:30 am, yet the sun, hovering belligerently at eye level, is blasting us with all the intensity it usually reserves for high noon. We’ve only just begun our descent, so Robert lets out an annoyed sigh when I step off the trail to remove some layers. I also swap out my wool cap for a sun hat and attempt to apply sunscreen. Can’t do it, though. The sunscreen isn’t frozen, exactly, but it’s too cold and congealed to squeeze from the tube. This is bad. The sun is coming in sideways, sneaking under my useless hat brim, irradiating my pallid flesh and giving me cancer. I can feel the basal cells forming on my cheeks.
The descent, it turns out, is brutal. Once we step off the crater rim we're sliding down the steep scree slope of Kibo’s cone. Try to imagine doing lunges down a sand dune, one that’s been liberally sprinkled with chunks of broken tile. Now imagine that the sand dune is four times the height of the Empire State Building. With each bone-jarring step, all my weight comes down on one foot, which then slides forward in the loose talus, stretching my legs like a wishbone. Then I have to use all the quad strength I’ve got to stop sliding before I tear in half at the crotch. We’re already beyond exhaustion from the trip up; now we’re in agony going back down. What’s worse, we can see enormous, demoralizing distances ahead of us. Barafu Camp is nothing but a speck among the rocks, and there’s a vast, nearly vertical desert to cross in between. It seems impossible in our condition. There’s nothing to do, though, but eat the pain and telemark forward.
Robert appears in my periphery and suggests that we leave. Seeing him reminds me that I’ve lost track of Monica, so I start scanning the hill for her. She materializes almost immediately, which hints that she might have been nearby the whole time. She tries to hug me but we’re wearing too many layers. You can’t hug the Michelin Man. Instead she puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me in for a kiss, but, recalling that she has a head cold, I dodge her lips and peck her on the cheek. I don’t remember apologizing for this, or even explaining, even though I sort of remember that she had a hurt look on her face when I pulled away. (For the record, I apologized later, at much lower elevation, and Mo’ confirmed that she had, in fact, felt a bit stung.)
Robert and Barak(a) repeat that it’s time to go down. They're more insistent now and are actually nudging us in the direction of the trail, but I cajole Barak(a) into taking a few more pictures of us, this time with glaciers in the background. After that, Monica and I finally relent and merge into the thickening stream of downhill trekkers.
It’s only 7:30 am, yet the sun, hovering belligerently at eye level, is blasting us with all the intensity it usually reserves for high noon. We’ve only just begun our descent, so Robert lets out an annoyed sigh when I step off the trail to remove some layers. I also swap out my wool cap for a sun hat and attempt to apply sunscreen. Can’t do it, though. The sunscreen isn’t frozen, exactly, but it’s too cold and congealed to squeeze from the tube. This is bad. The sun is coming in sideways, sneaking under my useless hat brim, irradiating my pallid flesh and giving me cancer. I can feel the basal cells forming on my cheeks.
The descent, it turns out, is brutal. Once we step off the crater rim we're sliding down the steep scree slope of Kibo’s cone. Try to imagine doing lunges down a sand dune, one that’s been liberally sprinkled with chunks of broken tile. Now imagine that the sand dune is four times the height of the Empire State Building. With each bone-jarring step, all my weight comes down on one foot, which then slides forward in the loose talus, stretching my legs like a wishbone. Then I have to use all the quad strength I’ve got to stop sliding before I tear in half at the crotch. We’re already beyond exhaustion from the trip up; now we’re in agony going back down. What’s worse, we can see enormous, demoralizing distances ahead of us. Barafu Camp is nothing but a speck among the rocks, and there’s a vast, nearly vertical desert to cross in between. It seems impossible in our condition. There’s nothing to do, though, but eat the pain and telemark forward.
There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth on this leg of the journey. More than on the ascent. The airborne dust, thick as a blizzard on the way up, is even thicker on the way down. I’m coughing so hard I think I might hack up a lung, and poor Monica is coughing harder still. I’m groaning audibly on nearly every step from the strain of controlling my fall. And falling is what we’re doing now. Falling and catching ourselves. Again and again and again. I occasionally hear Mo’ weeping, and I know it’s as much from frustration as from exertion and pain. We’ve been doing deep lunges for more than an hour now, yet Barafu Camp doesn’t seem any closer.
The descent lasts much longer than seems bearable. Our guides allow us to rest whenever we ask, but they never suggest stopping as they had done on the way up. Robert and Barak(a) tolerate our breaks but express no sympathy. They can’t afford to. The temptation to surrender here is great, so they can’t allow us to even entertain the notion. I’m sure that more than a few trekkers abandon hope at this point and insist on being stretchered the rest of the way to camp. So Robert and Barak(a) show no signs of compassion, offer no words of encouragement. They give no indication that we’re doing anything particularly difficult or even noteworthy. They simply say “Yes,” when we ask for a rest break, and then “Let’s go,” about a minute later. It’s all business.
Right about the time we get close enough to Barafu to start making out details, the camp dips behind outcroppings and ridges. We won’t see it again until just before we get there. It’s about at this point that Fuad and his wife pass us, accompanied by their summit guide. We barely notice each other. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the steep and sandy ground. All the rocks are loose, too, so every step must be carefully calculated, mindfully executed, and then recovered from. I look up quickly and nod a greeting to Fuad, but I time it poorly and he doesn’t see it. I have neither the energy nor the risk-tolerance for a second attempt. His little group slips by ours without a word.
Shortly before reaching camp, we have to negotiate the steep slabs of rock that had been our first obstacle on the way up. Mo’ and I are spent, but there’s no alternate route and there’s no use complaining. We groan and grunt and pick our way down in slow motion. And then, miraculously, we discover that we’re hobbling into Barafu, threading our way between tents, looking for ours. When we find it, we have to resist the overwhelming urge to collapse. It’s too hot inside the tent for all the clothes we’re wearing, so we strip down to our base layers, spending 15 or 20 minutes removing boots, gaiters, CamelBaks, and fleece. Then we have to spend another 10 minutes securing all our gear against the wind and the ravens. Then, and only then, do we crawl into the oven-warm tent and lay our bodies down.
Within seconds, oblivion.
“Come and eat something, please!” Deirdre is tugging on our tent flap, insisting that we come out for lunch. Monica moans disapprovingly, and I check my watch. It’s noon. We’ve been asleep for about an hour, but it feels like we closed our eyes only a few seconds ago. Not counting that nap, we’ve spent the last 14 hours climbing and descending a 4,000’ mountain, and we’re not finished yet. After lunch we will descend another 3,000’ to a lower camp. We’re not on vacation; we’re on maneuvers.
The lunch tent is unoccupied when we arrive. Those who summited ahead of us have already eaten and are either resting or packing. Others will come and go, dropping in just long enough to grab some grub on the fly and maybe exchange a few high fives and attaboys. Mo’ and I pick through the lunch offerings and return to our tent. We’re just about finished packing when our group’s two slowest trekkers finally arrive in camp. One of them, a gentleman in his 60s, is practically being carried by porters. His spirits are high, though. He dispenses cheerful greetings and congratulations through camp as he passes, but his whole body is crooked and his gait asymmetrical. He’s sandwiched between two porters with an arm slung over each one. After a very long rest he will end up being delivered to our next campsite on a stretcher. I will later learn that he had proposed to his girlfriend on the summit. She said yes.
Before long we’re lined up single file, backpacks on, walking downhill again. The porters are tearing apart camp behind us, devouring it like Stephen King’s Langoliers. As we walk my mind is cluttered with worries. First, there’s Monica, who’s so sick and weak now that she might not even make it down the mountain, much less be able to participate in the upcoming safari. There’s also the anticlimax to contend with. For I have been to the mountaintop, and, lo, I was not impressed. I spent nearly $10,000 for an experience that made me go “Meh,” and I don’t know what to do with the disappointment.
For much of the afternoon I wonder how so many people could claim to have found this trek a life-altering event. Is it possible that many of them are exaggerating rather than admit that they bought a pig in a poke? Did I have unreasonable expectations? Am I wrong to feel so blasé? Certainly hypoxia muted the experience for me. But isn’t that part of the experience to begin with? And wouldn’t that be true for everyone?
Clearly, I’m getting enough oxygen now that my inner monologue is back online, noisy as ever. Chatter, chatter, chatter goes my monkey mind. Chatter, chatter, chatter.
Hmmm. Maybe he’s the reason I’m not enjoying this trip more.
The upper portion of the Mweka Trail is like a wide dirt road, hard-packed and rutty. We could spread out and walk side-by-side here except that we’d then be rudely blocking the porters who frequently pass us on both sides. In time, the “road” starts narrowing, getting hemmed in by scrub vegetation as we descend into new climate zones. The air is getting so thick with oxygen that I’m sure I’d feel like a genetically-enhanced super-being if I weren’t so incredibly fatigued and sleep-deprived. My knees are rubbery and my thighs burn like I’ve been skiing moguls all day. It’s hard, therefore, to enjoy the dense, almost syrupy air.
Millennium Camp, our destination, was built to accommodate the huge influx of trekkers hoping to ring in the 21st Century on K-Man’s summit. Hence the name. It now serves as a quieter alternative to the original, and still more popular, Mweka Camp that’s located a few miles further down the trail. Mweka Camp is in the rainforest, though, where the weather is fickle, so I’m glad we’re staying at Millennium Camp instead. It’s high enough to be relatively dry but low enough to have some wind-shielding vegetation. More important, it’s closer than Mweka Camp, and I’m ready to sit down now.
By the time we reach camp, the porters have tucked our tents into the barren spaces between protective patches of scrub brush and trees, many of which are taller than I am. We haven’t seen plants this big for days. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen plants, period, for quite a while. If the sun weren’t already setting by now we’d be grateful for the shade. As it is, though, the temperature is just warm enough to allow me a quick, shirtless sponge bath with the hot wash water that’s been placed outside my tent. I dry off hurriedly and layer up against the chilly breeze, but not fast enough to keep my teeth from chattering. Despite having descended 7,000 feet from dawn to dusk, we’re still more than 12,000’ above sea level. The air’s still very thin, cold, and dry here, despite how favorably it compares to the summit.
We assemble in the dinner tent to eat and congratulate each other again. We don’t stay long, though, because of the low temperature and the unalleviated exhaustion all around. Deirdre informs us that the groom-to-be has arrived on a stretcher and that food will be taken to him in his tent. Mo’s not in much better condition. She coughs ceaselessly through dinner and excuses herself after having gotten a little food in her stomach. The rest of us hobble off to bed soon thereafter. I have never been so fatigued.
Sometime around 8:00 pm I crawl into the tent and kiss Mo’ on the forehead – the only part of her that’s available now that she’s zipped up in her mummy bag. Then I wearily strip down to my long johns and worm down into my own smelly, dusty, but snuggly-warm bag. I stare up at the tent’s ceiling and ponder the events of the past 22 hours – the grueling misery, the surprising hallucinations, the dull ache of disappointment. What does it all mean? How will I feel about it a year from now? How much of it will I even remember?
Chatter, chatter, chatter goes my monkey mind. Chatter, cha…
Oblivion.
The descent lasts much longer than seems bearable. Our guides allow us to rest whenever we ask, but they never suggest stopping as they had done on the way up. Robert and Barak(a) tolerate our breaks but express no sympathy. They can’t afford to. The temptation to surrender here is great, so they can’t allow us to even entertain the notion. I’m sure that more than a few trekkers abandon hope at this point and insist on being stretchered the rest of the way to camp. So Robert and Barak(a) show no signs of compassion, offer no words of encouragement. They give no indication that we’re doing anything particularly difficult or even noteworthy. They simply say “Yes,” when we ask for a rest break, and then “Let’s go,” about a minute later. It’s all business.
Right about the time we get close enough to Barafu to start making out details, the camp dips behind outcroppings and ridges. We won’t see it again until just before we get there. It’s about at this point that Fuad and his wife pass us, accompanied by their summit guide. We barely notice each other. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the steep and sandy ground. All the rocks are loose, too, so every step must be carefully calculated, mindfully executed, and then recovered from. I look up quickly and nod a greeting to Fuad, but I time it poorly and he doesn’t see it. I have neither the energy nor the risk-tolerance for a second attempt. His little group slips by ours without a word.
Shortly before reaching camp, we have to negotiate the steep slabs of rock that had been our first obstacle on the way up. Mo’ and I are spent, but there’s no alternate route and there’s no use complaining. We groan and grunt and pick our way down in slow motion. And then, miraculously, we discover that we’re hobbling into Barafu, threading our way between tents, looking for ours. When we find it, we have to resist the overwhelming urge to collapse. It’s too hot inside the tent for all the clothes we’re wearing, so we strip down to our base layers, spending 15 or 20 minutes removing boots, gaiters, CamelBaks, and fleece. Then we have to spend another 10 minutes securing all our gear against the wind and the ravens. Then, and only then, do we crawl into the oven-warm tent and lay our bodies down.
Within seconds, oblivion.
“Come and eat something, please!” Deirdre is tugging on our tent flap, insisting that we come out for lunch. Monica moans disapprovingly, and I check my watch. It’s noon. We’ve been asleep for about an hour, but it feels like we closed our eyes only a few seconds ago. Not counting that nap, we’ve spent the last 14 hours climbing and descending a 4,000’ mountain, and we’re not finished yet. After lunch we will descend another 3,000’ to a lower camp. We’re not on vacation; we’re on maneuvers.
The lunch tent is unoccupied when we arrive. Those who summited ahead of us have already eaten and are either resting or packing. Others will come and go, dropping in just long enough to grab some grub on the fly and maybe exchange a few high fives and attaboys. Mo’ and I pick through the lunch offerings and return to our tent. We’re just about finished packing when our group’s two slowest trekkers finally arrive in camp. One of them, a gentleman in his 60s, is practically being carried by porters. His spirits are high, though. He dispenses cheerful greetings and congratulations through camp as he passes, but his whole body is crooked and his gait asymmetrical. He’s sandwiched between two porters with an arm slung over each one. After a very long rest he will end up being delivered to our next campsite on a stretcher. I will later learn that he had proposed to his girlfriend on the summit. She said yes.
Before long we’re lined up single file, backpacks on, walking downhill again. The porters are tearing apart camp behind us, devouring it like Stephen King’s Langoliers. As we walk my mind is cluttered with worries. First, there’s Monica, who’s so sick and weak now that she might not even make it down the mountain, much less be able to participate in the upcoming safari. There’s also the anticlimax to contend with. For I have been to the mountaintop, and, lo, I was not impressed. I spent nearly $10,000 for an experience that made me go “Meh,” and I don’t know what to do with the disappointment.
For much of the afternoon I wonder how so many people could claim to have found this trek a life-altering event. Is it possible that many of them are exaggerating rather than admit that they bought a pig in a poke? Did I have unreasonable expectations? Am I wrong to feel so blasé? Certainly hypoxia muted the experience for me. But isn’t that part of the experience to begin with? And wouldn’t that be true for everyone?
Clearly, I’m getting enough oxygen now that my inner monologue is back online, noisy as ever. Chatter, chatter, chatter goes my monkey mind. Chatter, chatter, chatter.
Hmmm. Maybe he’s the reason I’m not enjoying this trip more.
The upper portion of the Mweka Trail is like a wide dirt road, hard-packed and rutty. We could spread out and walk side-by-side here except that we’d then be rudely blocking the porters who frequently pass us on both sides. In time, the “road” starts narrowing, getting hemmed in by scrub vegetation as we descend into new climate zones. The air is getting so thick with oxygen that I’m sure I’d feel like a genetically-enhanced super-being if I weren’t so incredibly fatigued and sleep-deprived. My knees are rubbery and my thighs burn like I’ve been skiing moguls all day. It’s hard, therefore, to enjoy the dense, almost syrupy air.
Millennium Camp, our destination, was built to accommodate the huge influx of trekkers hoping to ring in the 21st Century on K-Man’s summit. Hence the name. It now serves as a quieter alternative to the original, and still more popular, Mweka Camp that’s located a few miles further down the trail. Mweka Camp is in the rainforest, though, where the weather is fickle, so I’m glad we’re staying at Millennium Camp instead. It’s high enough to be relatively dry but low enough to have some wind-shielding vegetation. More important, it’s closer than Mweka Camp, and I’m ready to sit down now.
By the time we reach camp, the porters have tucked our tents into the barren spaces between protective patches of scrub brush and trees, many of which are taller than I am. We haven’t seen plants this big for days. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen plants, period, for quite a while. If the sun weren’t already setting by now we’d be grateful for the shade. As it is, though, the temperature is just warm enough to allow me a quick, shirtless sponge bath with the hot wash water that’s been placed outside my tent. I dry off hurriedly and layer up against the chilly breeze, but not fast enough to keep my teeth from chattering. Despite having descended 7,000 feet from dawn to dusk, we’re still more than 12,000’ above sea level. The air’s still very thin, cold, and dry here, despite how favorably it compares to the summit.
We assemble in the dinner tent to eat and congratulate each other again. We don’t stay long, though, because of the low temperature and the unalleviated exhaustion all around. Deirdre informs us that the groom-to-be has arrived on a stretcher and that food will be taken to him in his tent. Mo’s not in much better condition. She coughs ceaselessly through dinner and excuses herself after having gotten a little food in her stomach. The rest of us hobble off to bed soon thereafter. I have never been so fatigued.
Sometime around 8:00 pm I crawl into the tent and kiss Mo’ on the forehead – the only part of her that’s available now that she’s zipped up in her mummy bag. Then I wearily strip down to my long johns and worm down into my own smelly, dusty, but snuggly-warm bag. I stare up at the tent’s ceiling and ponder the events of the past 22 hours – the grueling misery, the surprising hallucinations, the dull ache of disappointment. What does it all mean? How will I feel about it a year from now? How much of it will I even remember?
Chatter, chatter, chatter goes my monkey mind. Chatter, cha…
Oblivion.
All our photos from July 5 (and there aren’t many) are available online.