Trekking Day 2: Monday, June 30, 2014
Big Tree Camp to Shira 1 Camp
Hiking distance: 6 miles
Starting elevation: 9,140’
Highest elevation: 11,600’
Ending elevation: 11,500’
Big Tree Camp to Shira 1 Camp
Hiking distance: 6 miles
Starting elevation: 9,140’
Highest elevation: 11,600’
Ending elevation: 11,500’
Our second day on the mountain begins with a ritual that will be repeated every morning of the trek. First, a porter brings a tray to our tent’s vestibule and makes us each a mug of instant coffee while we start packing. Next, another porter delivers two bowls of hot wash water. Then Deirdre drops by for a brief medical assessment disguised as a friendly chat. It starts with polite small talk about the weather and about how everybody slept last night, but before moving to the next tent Deirdre makes sure to ask about three critical body parts: head, feet, and butt. She wants to know if we’ve got headaches or any other symptoms of AMS. She wants to know if we’re developing any blisters or fungi on our feet. And she wants to know if we’re experiencing constipation, diarrhea, or any other digestive maladies that could make life difficult at high, remote locations. In summary, every morning on this trip Mo’ and I will receive a hot drink, a chance to wash up, and a quick physical exam, all before exiting our tent. Not a bad way to climb a mountain.
As we mash our sleeping bags into their stuff sacks, I inform Monica that camp quieted down considerably last night after 10:00 pm. I know this because I didn’t sleep well, which makes no sense. I haven’t slept well since before leaving for Tanzania, so by now I should be passing out from sleep deprivation alone. But I’m not. In fact, I was sufficiently awake in the pre-dawn hours to have been wholly unnerved by what sounded like a Pteranodon attacking camp. It was probably just a turaco, but whatever it was swooped low over our tent, screeching like Rodan, and for a bone-chilling second I thought it was going to snatch us up in its talons.
To our great relief, Mo’s headache has gone away. Although unlikely at this altitude, AMS is still a possibility, and a headache is the usually the first symptom. We both start taking our Diamox this morning because we’ll be climbing well into the danger zone later today. I agreed yesterday not to fight Deirdre on the Diamox issue. She argued convincingly that it’s foolish to put my chances of summiting at risk after having invested so much money and effort into getting here in the first place. She’s not wrong, so I take my medicine like a good boy.
By 8:30 am, our whole group is fed, packed, and cheerfully half-stepping out of Big Tree Camp behind Robert, the assistant guide we see the most. The trail this morning takes us over a series of ridges so it feels as if we’re going downhill about as often as up. But by the time we stop for lunch on top of one of those ridges, it’s evident that we’ve climbed well out of the rainforest and into the heath zone. We’ve also cleared 10,000’ elevation, which means that the sun is getting intense.
One reason for this is that there’s no more shade. None. Anywhere. In the interval between breakfast and lunch, trees became gradually smaller and eventually gave way to short but densely-packed heathers and other scrub vegetation. It crowds the trail but is rarely tall enough to blocks our views. As a result, we can often see the trail both ahead and behind us for miles at a stretch. When looking back, it’s satisfying; when facing forward, daunting. But the bottom line is this: there’s no place to hide from the sun anymore, and there won’t be any shade again until we go back down the other side of the mountain…in another week.
As we mash our sleeping bags into their stuff sacks, I inform Monica that camp quieted down considerably last night after 10:00 pm. I know this because I didn’t sleep well, which makes no sense. I haven’t slept well since before leaving for Tanzania, so by now I should be passing out from sleep deprivation alone. But I’m not. In fact, I was sufficiently awake in the pre-dawn hours to have been wholly unnerved by what sounded like a Pteranodon attacking camp. It was probably just a turaco, but whatever it was swooped low over our tent, screeching like Rodan, and for a bone-chilling second I thought it was going to snatch us up in its talons.
To our great relief, Mo’s headache has gone away. Although unlikely at this altitude, AMS is still a possibility, and a headache is the usually the first symptom. We both start taking our Diamox this morning because we’ll be climbing well into the danger zone later today. I agreed yesterday not to fight Deirdre on the Diamox issue. She argued convincingly that it’s foolish to put my chances of summiting at risk after having invested so much money and effort into getting here in the first place. She’s not wrong, so I take my medicine like a good boy.
By 8:30 am, our whole group is fed, packed, and cheerfully half-stepping out of Big Tree Camp behind Robert, the assistant guide we see the most. The trail this morning takes us over a series of ridges so it feels as if we’re going downhill about as often as up. But by the time we stop for lunch on top of one of those ridges, it’s evident that we’ve climbed well out of the rainforest and into the heath zone. We’ve also cleared 10,000’ elevation, which means that the sun is getting intense.
One reason for this is that there’s no more shade. None. Anywhere. In the interval between breakfast and lunch, trees became gradually smaller and eventually gave way to short but densely-packed heathers and other scrub vegetation. It crowds the trail but is rarely tall enough to blocks our views. As a result, we can often see the trail both ahead and behind us for miles at a stretch. When looking back, it’s satisfying; when facing forward, daunting. But the bottom line is this: there’s no place to hide from the sun anymore, and there won’t be any shade again until we go back down the other side of the mountain…in another week.
The sun is also intense today because of elevation. The same phenomenon that makes it hard to breathe up here also makes it imperative to take shelter under hat brims, bandanas, and big, gloppy handfuls of sunscreen. The low air pressure means that nitrogen and oxygen molecules are more widely dispersed here than at sea level; therefore, a lot of sunlight can pass between those molecules and reach my tender, pallid flesh. The problem isn’t that we’re getting closer to the sun; it’s that there’s less atmosphere up here to shield us from the sun’s radiation. We're being microwaved on Low.
For those of us with Liberal Arts degrees (Nerd Alert!), thoughts turn naturally to Icarus at times like this. Trudging robotically up this mountain, trying hard to hide under my own hat brim, I can’t help but wonder if I, like the fabled Icarus, am foolishly, perhaps arrogantly, flying too close to the sun. I'm hiking well and feeling strong, but this is only Day 2 of an 8-day climb, and I've never been this high for this long before. I can't help but worry that I may very soon be out of my depth. I’m already mixing metaphors, after all.
Film director Stanley Kubrick once suggested that the moral we generally attach to the Icarus story may actually miss the point. Instead of “Don’t fly too high,” he proposed that perhaps the real message is, “Do a better job on the wings.” Kubrick’s interpretation appeals to me as an empiricist, and I think it applies particularly well to our current situation. The risk one takes on Kilimanjaro isn’t flying too high or getting too close to the sun; it’s reaching too far too fast. The hubris is in attempting to seize the high ground before having earned it. Perhaps it’s also in trying to showcase yourself by trivializing the mountain. A modern day Icarus, then, might be the guy who ran up Kilimanjaro...and then back down again. Or maybe it’s the pair of cousins who bicycled to the top. Or perhaps it’s the woman who summited in high heels, full makeup, and designer shades. But it’s not me. I’ve trained for this; I’ve planned for it, and I’m climbing with an experienced, reputable outfitter. I respect this mountain and I’ve paid my dues getting here. In short, I’ve done a good job on the wings. Mine just happen to be made of fleece and sunscreen instead of wax and feathers.
Our group is in high spirits. Despite the intense sun, steep trails, and impossibly slow pace, we’re continuously cracking each other up with clever conversation and slapstick comedy. We’re either the world’s happiest funeral procession or its laziest Bunny Hop ensemble, I can’t decide which. Our next camp is only 6 miles from Big Tree, but we’re taking all day to get there because it’s nearly 2500’ higher and we need time to acclimate. And time passes quickly with this group, regardless of the conditions.
As we trundle along behind Robert like gimpy little ducklings, our porters dismantle camp behind us. Then just like yesterday, they start passing us, loaded with gear, dripping sweat, moving fast. This is puzzling. On the one hand, they won’t be summiting with us and so they don’t need to acclimate as slowly and as thoroughly as we do. On the other hand, they’re still climbing to elevations that are well into the AMS zone, so I don’t understand how they can move so fast without bonking. I will never get a chance to ask, though, because few of them speak English and I rarely see any of them for more than a minute at a time.
Considering that we’re all camping together, it is amazing how little contact we have with our porters. We see only four of them on a regular basis, and they’re always in a hurry. The two porters who make us coffee and deliver wash water every day dash away immediately because they have a dozen other people to serve in a very short amount of time. The two porters who handle our meals only appear when they open the flap of the dining tent to pass in food or take away dirty dishes. All 54 porters, cooks, and guides camp close enough that we can easily hear each other, and yet they somehow stay mostly out of sight until the moment they’re needed. This must be what a Downton Abbey summer camp would look like.
For those of us with Liberal Arts degrees (Nerd Alert!), thoughts turn naturally to Icarus at times like this. Trudging robotically up this mountain, trying hard to hide under my own hat brim, I can’t help but wonder if I, like the fabled Icarus, am foolishly, perhaps arrogantly, flying too close to the sun. I'm hiking well and feeling strong, but this is only Day 2 of an 8-day climb, and I've never been this high for this long before. I can't help but worry that I may very soon be out of my depth. I’m already mixing metaphors, after all.
Film director Stanley Kubrick once suggested that the moral we generally attach to the Icarus story may actually miss the point. Instead of “Don’t fly too high,” he proposed that perhaps the real message is, “Do a better job on the wings.” Kubrick’s interpretation appeals to me as an empiricist, and I think it applies particularly well to our current situation. The risk one takes on Kilimanjaro isn’t flying too high or getting too close to the sun; it’s reaching too far too fast. The hubris is in attempting to seize the high ground before having earned it. Perhaps it’s also in trying to showcase yourself by trivializing the mountain. A modern day Icarus, then, might be the guy who ran up Kilimanjaro...and then back down again. Or maybe it’s the pair of cousins who bicycled to the top. Or perhaps it’s the woman who summited in high heels, full makeup, and designer shades. But it’s not me. I’ve trained for this; I’ve planned for it, and I’m climbing with an experienced, reputable outfitter. I respect this mountain and I’ve paid my dues getting here. In short, I’ve done a good job on the wings. Mine just happen to be made of fleece and sunscreen instead of wax and feathers.
Our group is in high spirits. Despite the intense sun, steep trails, and impossibly slow pace, we’re continuously cracking each other up with clever conversation and slapstick comedy. We’re either the world’s happiest funeral procession or its laziest Bunny Hop ensemble, I can’t decide which. Our next camp is only 6 miles from Big Tree, but we’re taking all day to get there because it’s nearly 2500’ higher and we need time to acclimate. And time passes quickly with this group, regardless of the conditions.
As we trundle along behind Robert like gimpy little ducklings, our porters dismantle camp behind us. Then just like yesterday, they start passing us, loaded with gear, dripping sweat, moving fast. This is puzzling. On the one hand, they won’t be summiting with us and so they don’t need to acclimate as slowly and as thoroughly as we do. On the other hand, they’re still climbing to elevations that are well into the AMS zone, so I don’t understand how they can move so fast without bonking. I will never get a chance to ask, though, because few of them speak English and I rarely see any of them for more than a minute at a time.
Considering that we’re all camping together, it is amazing how little contact we have with our porters. We see only four of them on a regular basis, and they’re always in a hurry. The two porters who make us coffee and deliver wash water every day dash away immediately because they have a dozen other people to serve in a very short amount of time. The two porters who handle our meals only appear when they open the flap of the dining tent to pass in food or take away dirty dishes. All 54 porters, cooks, and guides camp close enough that we can easily hear each other, and yet they somehow stay mostly out of sight until the moment they’re needed. This must be what a Downton Abbey summer camp would look like.
As I watch the porters race by today it finally dawns on me why we so rarely see Johnny, our lead guide. His job is monumental. In addition to being responsible for 14 Sierra Club trekkers, he’s also in charge of his own little army, which spends much of each day spread out over many linear miles, not to mention hundreds – even thousands – of vertical feet. What’s more, porters often come from rival tribes, yet here they must work and sleep together in very close quarters and under very challenging conditions. At the center of all this potential chaos is Johnny, who must keep everybody happy and be everywhere at once. It’s no wonder, then, that he has such a diplomatic personality. It’s also no wonder that he puts Robert in charge of our trekking group each day. That frees Johnny to run up and down the trail and to occasionally scramble up to higher vantage points in search of cell phone reception. Under the circumstances, it’s a wonder we see him at all, and yet when we do, he’s always smiling, always delightful. He’s also remarkably soft-spoken for a guy who’s herding nearly 70 people to the top of a volcano.
Right after lunch we endure a long, steep ascent, and three members of our group begin to fall behind. They’ve been struggling with the steeper sections of trail since yesterday but they’ve managed to keep up until now because the guides have been carrying their packs for them. That’s no longer enough. They’re still able to make the climb, it seems, but they need longer rest breaks and more of them. Every so often, then, the guides give us all a longer rest break to let the others catch up, and this is starting to get worrisome. We’re supposed to arrive in camp early enough today to take what’s called an acclimatization hike. That’s a method of combating altitude sickness by climbing a little higher each day than you intend to camp. If we don’t arrive in camp early enough, though, we won’t be able to squeeze in that extra hike before dark. And so for the first time a little uneasiness arises in the ranks as our once-imperturbable little group mulls over the potential ramifications of our pace. There’s also a rumor that one of the three slower hikers has symptoms of AMS, but we’re not given any details. We traipse on, a bit quieter, a bit more contemplative, than usual.
Sometime in the late afternoon I get startled out of a deep hiking trance by the sound of people gasping at the front of the line. I look up and gasp, too. We’ve just come around a ridge to a stunning view of the expansive Shira Plateau. And there, right in its center, is Kibo, Kilimanjaro’s tallest volcanic cone. The view is breath-stealing. We stop to gape, but the guides urge us not to waste time taking photographs here. There's a much better spot, they tell us, just ahead.
It’s easy to get confused and think of Kibo as Kilimanjaro, but it’s not. We’re already on Kilimanjaro. In fact, we’ve been on Kilimanjaro since we drove through Londorossi Gate yesterday. Still, the top of Kibo is our ultimate destination, and there it stands before us, tantalizingly close. But not really. It will take us two full days to cross the Shira plateau. Then it will take another two days to skirt around Kibo’s base and reach the campsite from which we will make our summit attempt. The trail across the plateau is plainly visible where it cuts through the heath. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my immediate future so clearly laid out before me.
Right after lunch we endure a long, steep ascent, and three members of our group begin to fall behind. They’ve been struggling with the steeper sections of trail since yesterday but they’ve managed to keep up until now because the guides have been carrying their packs for them. That’s no longer enough. They’re still able to make the climb, it seems, but they need longer rest breaks and more of them. Every so often, then, the guides give us all a longer rest break to let the others catch up, and this is starting to get worrisome. We’re supposed to arrive in camp early enough today to take what’s called an acclimatization hike. That’s a method of combating altitude sickness by climbing a little higher each day than you intend to camp. If we don’t arrive in camp early enough, though, we won’t be able to squeeze in that extra hike before dark. And so for the first time a little uneasiness arises in the ranks as our once-imperturbable little group mulls over the potential ramifications of our pace. There’s also a rumor that one of the three slower hikers has symptoms of AMS, but we’re not given any details. We traipse on, a bit quieter, a bit more contemplative, than usual.
Sometime in the late afternoon I get startled out of a deep hiking trance by the sound of people gasping at the front of the line. I look up and gasp, too. We’ve just come around a ridge to a stunning view of the expansive Shira Plateau. And there, right in its center, is Kibo, Kilimanjaro’s tallest volcanic cone. The view is breath-stealing. We stop to gape, but the guides urge us not to waste time taking photographs here. There's a much better spot, they tell us, just ahead.
It’s easy to get confused and think of Kibo as Kilimanjaro, but it’s not. We’re already on Kilimanjaro. In fact, we’ve been on Kilimanjaro since we drove through Londorossi Gate yesterday. Still, the top of Kibo is our ultimate destination, and there it stands before us, tantalizingly close. But not really. It will take us two full days to cross the Shira plateau. Then it will take another two days to skirt around Kibo’s base and reach the campsite from which we will make our summit attempt. The trail across the plateau is plainly visible where it cuts through the heath. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my immediate future so clearly laid out before me.
It's nearly sunset when we arrive at Shira 1 Camp, and Deirdre informs us that our unexpectedly slow pace today has indeed cost us the acclimatization hike. For the first time there’s some serious grumbling in our ranks. Two or three trekkers express concern that missing this acclimatization hike jeopardizes our chances of summiting. My own worry is that the situation jeopardizes our esprit de corps.
Deirdre apologizes and assures us that we’ll start traveling as two separate groups, if necessary. Johnny also makes a cameo appearance and explains that today’s acclimation hike was redundant anyway. He only put in the schedule out of an abundance of caution. With his charming smile and quiet voice he assures us that we’re all hiking well and that he’s confident we’re all going to make it to the top. Tempers cool a bit and by the time the three slower hikers arrive in camp, everyone is genuinely glad to have them back in the fold. By dinnertime we’re a happy family again with one exception. Maddi, one of the three slower hikers, remains in her tent, apparently suffering from nausea and diarrhea. This could be AMS, of course, but in East Africa it’s just as likely to be from something she ate or drank. Johnny’s going to check on her through the night and decide in the morning whether or not she can continue. It’s a sad and ominous conclusion to our second day on the mountain.
When Mo’ comes to the tent at bedtime she finds me sitting in the vestibule, fastidiously inspecting our hiking boots one at a time. She’s confused because we’ve logged a lot of trail miles together and she’s never seen me do this before. Truth is, I've never done this before. But I’ve also never climbed to 19,000’ before, never been to Africa before, never been above timberline for so long. That’s a lot of firsts for one trip, so I’m feeling compelled to double-check our gear and triple-check our check-lists, especially now that our friend Maddi is facing the possibility of a forced retreat.
Monica watches me for a little while and then asks me what the heck I’m doing.
“A better job on the wings,” I reply obliquely. “A better job on the wings.”
Deirdre apologizes and assures us that we’ll start traveling as two separate groups, if necessary. Johnny also makes a cameo appearance and explains that today’s acclimation hike was redundant anyway. He only put in the schedule out of an abundance of caution. With his charming smile and quiet voice he assures us that we’re all hiking well and that he’s confident we’re all going to make it to the top. Tempers cool a bit and by the time the three slower hikers arrive in camp, everyone is genuinely glad to have them back in the fold. By dinnertime we’re a happy family again with one exception. Maddi, one of the three slower hikers, remains in her tent, apparently suffering from nausea and diarrhea. This could be AMS, of course, but in East Africa it’s just as likely to be from something she ate or drank. Johnny’s going to check on her through the night and decide in the morning whether or not she can continue. It’s a sad and ominous conclusion to our second day on the mountain.
When Mo’ comes to the tent at bedtime she finds me sitting in the vestibule, fastidiously inspecting our hiking boots one at a time. She’s confused because we’ve logged a lot of trail miles together and she’s never seen me do this before. Truth is, I've never done this before. But I’ve also never climbed to 19,000’ before, never been to Africa before, never been above timberline for so long. That’s a lot of firsts for one trip, so I’m feeling compelled to double-check our gear and triple-check our check-lists, especially now that our friend Maddi is facing the possibility of a forced retreat.
Monica watches me for a little while and then asks me what the heck I’m doing.
“A better job on the wings,” I reply obliquely. “A better job on the wings.”
All our photos from June 30 are online here.