Climbing Kili(2) - The mountain pushes back

so far ... 

Unlike the first two days, the third day was supposed to be exciting, with a lot of ascents up to Lava Tower, which is at 4,600 m. That was our acclimatization challenge, after which we had to do further ascents and descents to reach Barranco Camp at 3,900 m. Lava Tower sits on the slopes of the Kibo cone, and the desert-like walk with high elevation was indeed satisfying my thirst for adventure.

We spent two hours there having lunch, as the walk had been quite exhausting. After lunch, I stepped out to use the toilet and was pleasantly surprised to see that a toilet tent had been set up. My stomach got far too excited, and I immediately occupied the place.

Halfway through, a gentleman almost opened the tent zip and stopped abruptly. That’s when I realised my mistake — I hadn’t checked the tent number and was using somebody else’s toilet. I had assumed everyone would plan efficiently; who, in their right mind, would set up individual toilets midway through a mountain?

Anyway, the gentleman didn’t mind, but my body turned even colder from sheer shame.

As if that wasn’t enough, the added height started taking its toll — a sharp headache returned quickly. I didn’t tell anyone except ABC, still afraid they might consider me a risk. Then came the medical check, which was brutal. My oxygen level refused to go above 79, but after a few more minutes, it reached 82, so I asked them to stop right there to take the reading. Since “everything else was fine,” the guides didn’t mind much. After lunch, we continued walking toward Barranco Camp.

Barranco Camp was beautiful in a deceptive way. We followed our usual routine. I was more tired than usual, but miraculously, my oxygen levels recovered to around 90. I made sure to keep my hands warm with hot water before taking the reading — purely for scientific accuracy, of course.

The guides explained the next day’s itinerary: Barranco Wall — a crucial day of the hike with a bit of rock climbing, considered one of the more challenging days of the trek. I slept very well that night. ABC, on the other hand, couldn’t —  he had caught the infamous Kili cough. He hadn’t used his neck gaiter as efficiently as I had. Luckily, he had a special medication that, with just two drops, could keep the cough away for 12 hours — basically altitude black magic.

Barranco Wall lived up to its reputation, especially the rock sections. This wasn’t hiking anymore; it was controlled scrambling. Hands on rock, boots searching for tiny ledges, bodies pressed close to the mountain while pretending it was completely normal. Every few metres required focus: where to place your foot, where to grab, when to move, and when to just freeze and listen to the guide. At some points, you trusted the guide’s hand more than your own survival instincts.

Unlike ABC, heights don’t usually bother me. But the “Kissing Rock” turned into “Pissing Rock” for me. The rock face narrows and forces you to lean in and shuffle sideways while pretending to be calm. I was so busy negotiating with gravity that I completely forgot to kiss the rock — missing a prime show-off opportunity.

I showed off way too early by being overly confident in my climbing skills and ended up hurting my knees. I didn’t expect a tiny touch against rock to be so painful. Of course, I didn’t tell anyone, enduring it silently while pretending it was part of my grand endurance strategy.

ABC kept saying he had a fear of heights. Apparently, acrophobic people sometimes even get the urge to jump. But annoyingly, he was super efficient and much faster than me on rocks. I was relieved after about 90 minutes of climbing. The views that followed were truly breathtaking.

We had tea there, enjoying a glimpse of Stella Point, then headed toward Karanga Camp. This section felt more like a valley — a lot of unnecessary ups and downs, as if the mountain wanted to make sure we didn’t get too comfortable. The day was long but rewarding, both physically and mentally.

My headache returned like a badly written subplot, but overall, it wasn’t close to testing our limits. ABC was much better, which was the only unsettling part, disrupting my peace and internal narrative.

Karanga Camp sits around 4,000 m — close enough to the summit to feel real, but far enough to allow denial. Oxygen checks continued, numbers fluctuated. Guides nodded thoughtfully. I pretended not to care while doing precise mental math on acceptable failure scenarios.

Dinner tasted good. The cold was getting colder. Diamox-driven night bio breaks had become a strangely tolerable routine.

The following day was short — an easy hike to Barafu Camp at 4,670 m. They called it a “rest day,” but we still did another hour of acclimatization. Barafu means “ice,” and we could feel it even before they told us.

This was summit night. We were supposed to sleep in the evening, wake up by 10 PM, and start the summit hike by 11 PM after a night breakfast. This was where reality finally sank in. I followed ABC’s footsteps, copying everything he did to ensure I was fully prepared.

I switched to my well-researched Mammut mountain shoes, which I couldn’t return because no one told me shoes can’t be returned after being used. How else am I supposed to know if they’re comfortable without testing them once? Honesty in life never pays well — especially in mountaineering retail.

I was confident I would sleep well. All five previous nights I had slept like a baby (they also wake up every three hours) and woke up with zero headache. But on summit evening, I realised I’m an adult and married. I had hoped ABC would start snoring so I could blame him, but he anticipated that and fell asleep quickly. I tried thinking of other external factors to blame for my poor sleep, ran out of options, and finally fell asleep at 8 PM.

At 10 PM, the alarm rang promptly, but I felt surprisingly fresh, with no headache. It seemed I had stored enough “sleep credit” from the previous nights. ABC’s planning was spot-on, as always. We were ready within minutes. There was no need to pack, since we would return to the same camp for lunch after the summit climb.

We geared up with warm merino wool clothes and headed for night breakfast. I was determined to ace the summit, taking a precautionary paracetamol in addition to the full 250 mg Diamox. I kept the backpack light, carrying only minimal snacks — we had never finished the ones we carried anyway. In addition to our own, we were given packed snacks, which I stashed in my jacket pocket for quick access.

I wore two layers of socks and extremely thick mountain shoes, so I ignored ABC’s advice about leg warmers. He was clearly sad that no one ever listens to him — a problem I immediately understood — so I put the leg warmers into my trousers anyway. I confidently prophesied that I would start sweating within 10–15 minutes.

Finally, I filled my water bladder with 2 L of water and my brand-new thermos flask with 1 L of hot water. The headlamp was fully charged. Gloves and summit mittens on — except the left mitten, which was far too small. Nightmare! I had tested the right-hand mitten — flawless. Who in their right mind would bother testing the left one too, distrusting an “efficient” stock manager?

Anyway, how hard could it be? My wife trusts my body’s resilience — she always says I’m unusually strong against the cold. That’s the only praise I’ve ever received, and this was only a couple of hours to the summit. So bring it on.

Climbing Kili(1) - The Itch For Something Bigger

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.