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.
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