We started climbing at 11 PM, pole pole. The support staff were incredible — singing, guiding, and encouraging. We were fully charged and walking like disciplined soldiers. We even had a real American soldier in our group, climbing without any hiking sticks. There were so many people ahead of us, even though we had started early. It felt like one giant, slow-moving human chain stretching into the darkness, their head torches literally shining through the night.
My paracetamol was working wonders. The summit walk felt like a cakewalk — except for the seven-minute break every 90 minutes, when we had to drink hot tea, cold water, and discharge urine. It was dark, so we weren’t allowed to wander too far for… operational reasons. Practical, yes — but removing mittens, gloves, and then opening two zips was not a simple engineering problem. I desperately needed help, but asking felt socially unacceptable. Without assistance, the entire operation could easily consume five minutes — leaving barely two minutes to drink tea and water before marching again.
Drinking from the hydration bladder on summit night was a technical skill. With temperatures dropping below freezing, there was always the risk of water freezing inside the tube, so after every sip we had to blow the water back into the bladder. I performed this ritual diligently. It would have been humiliating to declare my water frozen when I knew exactly how it was supposed to be prevented. Despite that, it appeared someone had performed black magic on me — within two hours, the water stopped flowing. Ice had claimed victory.
Drinking from the thermos wasn’t an option either. The new thermos was so efficient that the water inside was still boiling hot. Meanwhile, my internal calculations went horribly wrong. My legs started crying from the cold. During the next pit stop, I decided to postpone my pissing responsibilities — priorities had shifted. I knew I wouldn’t be able to change the shoes on my own, yet I pretended to try, hoping someone would notice. Eventually, I gave up and pleaded for help, even though it felt mean to ask others to deal with my shoes. The guide arrived like a benevolent deity — removing my shoes one by one and placing the warmers inside with divine patience. Unfortunately, leg warmers behave very differently from hand warmers and take a long time to activate. Physics refuses to negotiate with desperation.
I blamed ABC for not guiding me properly. He should have forced me to use the leg warmers earlier. Even though the cold was still biting, I maintained hope that eventually it would become tolerable. Hope is surprisingly cheap in the presence of pain.
Even at a slow pace, it was a relentless climb. I made sure to eat gels and snacks consistently to keep my energy up. I was doing quite well — except for the numbing feet, the cold hands caused by the mismatched mitten, and my iced hydration system.
ABC, on the other hand, was struggling. He had done everything right except for one tiny mistake — he forgot to take his super drug for his nose. His nose froze, much like my hydration bladder. Perhaps he focused too much on blowing the water back and neglected nasal maintenance. Now he couldn’t breathe through his nose and had to rely entirely on his mouth. The dust wasn’t as bad as on previous days, but a blocked nose on summit night is deeply demoralising.
As the temperature dropped further, approaching -12°C, every step became painful for him. By then, three members of our group had already fallen back. The guides began helping others by carrying their backpacks and eventually insisted that ABC offload his as well, saying he would struggle otherwise.
No one offered to carry mine — which was slightly sad, but also a massive moral boost. Clearly, they perceived me as a strong climber that night. I accepted this silent compliment with great dignity while internally collapsing.
The first five hours were probably my best. I was operating at peak efficiency. Then the paracetamol wore off. The headache returned — with vengeance — perhaps because I couldn’t drink properly due to my frozen water.
I stopped caring about my legs or hands. They became third-world problems. My energy was draining rapidly. There were no snacks left. I have no idea who consumed them. I usually overpack snacks. I don’t know why, on summit day of all days, I would run out.
Then suddenly I remembered — I had extra snacks in my jacket pocket. I reached for them.
Empty.
It dawned on me that I had been keeping my left hand — the one with the undersized mitten — inside my jacket pocket for warmth and had probably dropped all the snacks somewhere along the way. High-altitude generosity.
Another hour passed. I was walking like a zombie. No energy left. My mind entered a strange meditative state. I wasn’t thinking — I was existing. Slowly, the first rays of sunlight appeared. The first summit point became visible — still about an hour of climbing away.
The sunrise was stunning, with vibrant colours stretching across the horizon. But I felt like a colour-blind spectator. I didn’t even have the strength to take a photograph. All I could do was push myself forward like a lifeless log toward Stella Point.
Lack of options in life can be a blessing. When there is only one path forward, you commit to it fully, regardless of discomfort. I had realised this during my first trail marathon, when arrogant overconfidence caused me to start too fast. Severe cramps followed; I felt like my toes were breaking. Yet I didn’t back down. I was mentally prepared to sacrifice my toes if required.
Tonight was different. I was in a trance. Not thinking. Just following the line of headlamps ahead of me like a sheep in a disciplined herd.
Finally, I stepped onto the much-awaited Stella Point. ABC collapsed just before me, and I dropped down beside him immediately. He looked completely shattered. A guide rushed over and squeezed gel and sugar directly into his mouth. I watched with a glimmer of hope. For a moment, I thought nobody cared about me. Then I begged the guide and secured my portion — without crying, even babies don’t get milk.
After two minutes, I could breathe properly again and slowly stood up. I checked my jacket pockets.
Magic.
All the snacks I had “lost” were right there. I grabbed the juice and drank it in one go, then devoured the snack bar as if it were a Michelin-starred dessert.
That’s when I remembered ABC’s wisdom — something I had politely listened to and allowed to exit through the other ear. At high altitude, the brain stops functioning efficiently. Decision-making becomes unreliable. Mild hallucinations are not uncommon. He had advised me to listen to the guides and avoid heroic independent decisions. I believe I followed that advice — except I never asked anyone to check my jacket pockets. Most likely, I had checked the wrong pocket earlier. Or perhaps I was holding a snack in one hand while searching for it in the other. Altitude logic is a fascinating discipline.
None of it mattered now. I was at Stella Point — just one kilometre from Uhuru Peak, with only about 100 metres of elevation remaining. That stretch felt surprisingly manageable, and soon we were standing at the top of Africa. Intact.
Mission accomplished!
I felt more joy seeing ABC genuinely happy than from my own achievement. He had accomplished something he once considered impossible. As for me, I wasn’t sure whether I felt happiness or emptiness. Perhaps both. There is a strange vacuum that follows the completion of something you desperately wanted. The journey had felt heavier — and somehow more meaningful — than the summit itself. The suffering on the climb felt sweeter than standing at the top. Pain and pride coexisted comfortably.
We spent about thirty minutes at the peak before beginning the descent. The day was far from over — Millennium Camp still awaited.
Descending toward Barranco was dramatically faster. There was a specific downhill route, filled with volcanic dust. Everyone was practically running — including ABC — which made me the slowest for once. Mildly embarrassing, but I can’t lose. I reminded myself that those sprinting downhill hadn’t carried their backpacks on the way up. I had mastered the art of selective happiness.
At camp, we received a grand welcome with traditional songs and dance. It felt like victorious soldiers returning from battle. After a quick lunch, we packed and began walking toward Millennium Camp — a relatively uneventful stretch, elevated only by the quiet joy of completion.
Millennium Camp felt different. We were closer to the rainforest, surrounded by richer vegetation. From one side, Uhuru Peak was still visible — snow-covered, proud, almost indifferent. This route is apparently the closest to the summit but usually reserved for supplies and emergency evacuations.
That night, we had the best sleep of the entire week. A grand dinner. No more Diamox. No more midnight bathroom marathons.
The next morning, we headed toward the final gate, eager to collect our certificates and enjoy the long-awaited celebratory beer. The 13 km downhill walk felt more like flying than hiking. No more pole pole.
At the gate, we washed our faces with fresh running water. The sensation was indescribable. A humbling reminder of how easily we take simple comforts for granted — much like uninterrupted time with a close friend.
After beer and lunch, we attended our “graduation ceremony” and received our certificates. Honestly, the ache of the climb felt more soothing than the glory of the trophy. Eleven people from different parts of the world, united by a shared pursuit, carrying a story that would remain with us forever.
Then came the most delicate task of all — tipping the support staff. Without them, this would have been a tragic novel rather than a memorable chapter.
I consider myself a stoic, unattached to things. But when it comes to giving money away, I suddenly feel as though my wife is watching me from a hidden camera. I get nervous.
The official recommendation was $300–400, which I felt was reasonable. But walking beside ABC for a week has already inflated it by 50% to $500. I knew I shouldn’t compete with him here — I didn't want to win — yet curiosity overpowered wisdom. I forced him to reveal his secret envelope. Then instantly felt deep hatred toward myself for intruding into another man’s privacy. I had no options and no cash left. So I ended up borrowing enough to reach a number that felt respectable. I hope neither of us remembers exactly how much I owe him! ABC often says that once you have enough money, you should stop worrying about it. In this regard, he is the true stoic. I never tell him he is my teacher!
Back at the hotel, we spent nearly two hours cleaning our gear. Kilimanjaro dust is almost as persistent as the mountain itself. We ended the trek with a long, luxurious half-hour bath, finally washing away every trace of the trail.
ABC declared that the bath was unquestionably the best part of the entire hike. No one believes him — he says the same thing everywhere.
But for those thirty minutes, I believed him completely.
As I stood there, watching the water finally turn clear, I recalled a few lines from a great poet:
Scaled heights to outrun the smallness inside.
The summit loomed, indifferent and austere,
And I stood, high-headed, trembling in its shadow.
Pride flared, then faded with the thin air,
Faces, laughter, struggle — the true summit unseen.
Yet still, a quiet question pierces my chest:
Why climb at all, if the mountain keeps its secrets?
