I don’t know whether this is a midlife crisis or a genuine interest in making the best of my remaining life. Either way, I’ve been constantly bugged by an internal push to find my limits. Earlier, I challenged my son, went vegan for three months, and ran a half marathon. That slowly became my normal routine, and as usual, the itch returned — louder this time — asking for something bigger.
That’s when one of my friends casually suggested climbing Everest Base Camp. I said yes without blinking. So did many others. But when it came to actual planning, one by one they started discovering excellent, well-researched reasons to drop out. The idea refused to leave me alone, so I looked for alternatives and finally locked onto Kilimanjaro — one of the best non-technical high-altitude climbs in the world.
I was determined to do it even if it meant going alone, but somehow I managed to lure my friend ABC. I suspect he was also going through his own midlife crisis, which turned out to be a real boon for me.
Unlike me, ABC is a meticulous planner. He won’t jump into a river expecting others to save him like I would. He would first measure the depth, verify it multiple times, check historical river data, and only then jump. If I’m nearby, he would probably convince me to jump first and observe the outcome before taking his turn 😄
Bottom line: he’s not just clever — he does his homework meticulously. Bringing him in meant I didn’t have to do much beyond locking onto the Lemosho route and suggesting Altezza as our tour operator. He would triple-check that it was a sane option anyway, but I needed something in my name.
As expected, all the preparation went smoothly. ABC practically did a PhD on how to climb Kili with zero risk, while my contribution was mostly nodding and occasionally increasing the risk slightly to make it more adventurous. Many say I am a cheapskate trying to reduce expenses, but I just don’t believe them.
Climbing with zero risk felt boring, and I wanted to retain the feeling of doing better than ABC. After all, I was considered more fit, and I initiated the adventure and invited him — not the other way around. I deserve that privilege.
He insisted on expensive insurance, citing data about how many people get air-rescued and how terrible it would be without proper coverage. I went with insurance that cost one-third of his price — still a substantial amount for something I was confident I wouldn’t need. See, overconfidence is extremely useful for becoming rich, though sometimes it might also end your life a bit earlier.
Similarly, I was dead against taking Diamox. What’s the fun of artificially helping your body? That’s not testing the true limits of willpower. A friend suggested home remedies and pranayama based on her Himalayan trekking experience. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I spent the entire month of August in India, leaving me with just one week before Kili — not enough time to become a pranayama expert. ABC eventually convinced me to take Diamox using all his negotiation tactics.
Before agreeing, I still wanted to prove I could do it without Diamox. So on a Friday night, one week before our return flight to the UK, I decided to do a quick trip to Leh and attempt a day hike to a nearby pass at around 4,500m. For the first time in my life, I even convinced my wife that this wasn’t such a bad idea.
We flew from Mangalore via Delhi, as Leh airport is apparently one of the trickiest airports to land at — a nightmare for pilots even in broad daylight. Not our problem, we thought. We comfortably boarded the morning flight, expecting to reach Leh in 90 minutes.
After 90 minutes, the pilot developed second thoughts due to bad weather and poor runway visibility. After circling for 15 minutes, he decided to return to Delhi.
At this point, everyone on the plane did a crash course in aviation and began advising the pilot. Many produced real-time data showing other flights landing successfully. The pilot, likely suffering from a sudden inferiority complex, handed out snacks (clearly over budget) and attempted another landing after 90 minutes.
Unfortunately, he still couldn’t see the runway — though several newly graduated pilots on board claimed they could and asserted it was perfectly safe.
After circling both physically and mentally for another 20 minutes, the pilot gave up and returned to Delhi. One passenger demanded to be rebooked only if the next flight was not flown by that incompetent pilot. I really wanted to see how that conversation ended, but I had to run to catch my flight back to Mangalore.
Technically, I did spend a considerable amount of time above 4,000m without spending any money, but apparently that wasn’t enough proof that I could climb Kili without Diamox.
As always, bad things happen when you don’t listen to your wife. I joined friends for water sports during the rainy season and fell sick just before returning to the UK. That meant zero serious physical training before Kili. But I had plenty of past data and overconfidence to compensate.
Meanwhile, ABC transformed himself by completing 30 hikes in 60 days. I initially assumed he was playing mind games. After seeing him lose 4–6 kg, I accepted that the transformation was real — though nothing stopped me from believing I was still more competent. One advantage of losing good eyesight early in life is that you only see what you want to see.
By then, both of us had become overconfident and convinced ourselves it would be a cakewalk: just over 50 km spread across seven full days. How hard could it be?
We flew Qatar to Doha and then to Kilimanjaro. The first day was for rest and gear checks. Deciding who had the best kit turned into a serious competition. The tour managers couldn’t decide who they should favour, so we declared a draw: ABC had the best kit overall, and I had the best kit considering budget.
We had to fit everything into 15 kg duffel bags. My calculations were precise. ABC tried multiple permutations and combinations but still had 2 kg extra. My simple solution was to carry it in my backpack and move it later if needed. We had at least 5 kg of snacks that would eventually disappear anyway.
But my logic failed against his conscience. He hired an extra porter for $175. I supported his generosity by shifting some of my load onto him so my porter carried less.
While he had all the gear, I rented a few items like mittens, summit pants, and a rain jacket — mainly to give more money to Africans instead of wealthy Westerners.
On day one, we met the rest of the team: a 76-year-old Russian, a 62-year-old Canadian doctor with his 55-year-old partner, two Americans in their 40s, and the rest were younger. We were supported by a team of nearly 70 people — impressive employment generation.
Tanzanian authorities strictly limit porter loads to 20 kg, which actually prevents exploitation. The guides were excellent, spoke fluent English, and taught us some basic Swahili like Jambo, Asante, and Karibu. Best of all, Diamox was free — allowing me to mock ABC for overplanning.
The first hike was short, from Morum Barrier Gate at 3,400m to Shira Camp 1 at 3,600m. It was just about two hours — but shockingly dusty. Fine volcanic dust filled the air, coating shoes, clothes, and lungs.
ABC was prepared with neck gaiters and even carried a spare in case he lost one. He had calculated the probability of that being very high, so he generously donated it to me.
We reached Shira Camp 1, marking the first day of the adventure. Entering the small tent and changing inside was harder than the hike itself. I cursed him for not choosing a bigger tent, but he argued that bigger tents aren’t energy-efficient in cold weather. One decision I truly praised him for was getting our own toilet — a universally respected move.
Dinner was surprisingly luxurious: a large dining tent, hot food, and multiple options. I chose a pescatarian menu (wife-approved) and was surprised to see them cooking fish just for me. ABC’s lactose intolerance was also handled with precision. This felt more like royal camping than hardcore trekking.
Nights were tricky mainly because Diamox turns you into a professional night-time urinator. Opening the tent zip at 2 a.m. is a skill I never mastered. Power management was another challenge — one headlamp, one power bank, two phones (one bought from the black market with a substandard battery). Summit night would require seven hours of torchlight, so every percent mattered.
Despite everything, the first night was calm. Morning came with bedside ginger tea and personal wake-up calls. We hiked pole pole (slow, slow) to Shira Camp 2, maintaining a steady pace. Porters carried our chairs, tea appeared magically mid-trek, and lunch was served on the trail.
The walk was long and dusty but not dramatic — about 10 km to 3,850m. Every day, we did an acclimatisation hike, typically a one-hour trek gaining another 100–200m, and then descended to sleep lower.
Apparently, Kilimanjaro isn’t a single peak but an amalgamation of three distinct volcanic mountains. Shira was once much taller but collapsed and eroded over millions of years. The next is Mawenzi, an extinct volcano at 5,149m — the scary sister: rugged, rocky, technical, and deadlier. The last is Kibo, where we were heading, toward Uhuru Peak at 5,897m.
Unlike the other two, Kibo is technically an active volcano, meaning it could erupt again and kill us — though it hasn’t tried in about 200,000 years.
Two people had birthdays on the second day, so the chefs ensured it was celebrated in style with a proper cake, freshly carried from base. But the second day itself wasn’t really a cakewalk.
I had a mild headache. ABC was exhausted and worried. I noticed he hadn’t eaten well in the morning; I, on the other hand, was constantly stuffing myself. Evening rituals continued — tea, dinner, health checks. My oxygen levels dropped faster than I liked, which made me quietly nervous. If it dropped below 75–80, summit day would be denied — and that thought made me feel like a loser.
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