Trekking Day 4: Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Shira 2 Camp to Barranco Camp
Hiking distance: 6 miles
Starting elevation: 12,780'
Highest elevation: 15,200'
Ending elevation: 13,000'
Shira 2 Camp to Barranco Camp
Hiking distance: 6 miles
Starting elevation: 12,780'
Highest elevation: 15,200'
Ending elevation: 13,000'
For the first time since we arrived on the mountain, Mo’s daily late-afternoon headache doesn’t go away overnight. She wakes up unhappy. And coughing. Our whole group is hacking consistently now due to the dust and thin air, but Monica seems a little worse than the rest of us. Something to keep an eye on.
It’s also starting to get seriously cold now. After another mostly sleepless night, I awake to find the outer shell of my sleeping bag coated with a thin layer of frost and dust. The dust reminds me of yesterday and reanimates my senseless rage against the wind. I’m also feeling aggrieved that I have to pack my sleeping bag right away each morning.
When Mo’ and I camp on our own we always air out our sleeping bags during breakfast – in the sun whenever possible. This keeps mildew at bay and extends the life of a very expensive piece of can't-fail safety equipment. But on this trip our guides insist that we pack our bags right away each morning so that the porters can tear down our tents and start hauling gear during breakfast. This makes perfect sense, of course, which is why I don’t protest. But it still upsets me to stuff my dirty, half-frozen sleeping bag into a tiny compression sack each morning before drying it out. It’s starting to stink after only three nights.
Monica asks how I’m feeling this morning and before I know what’s happening I let it slip out that I’m ready to go home. Oops! Had I been thinking clearly, I would have kept that to myself. But I’m not thinking clearly. It turns out that hypoxia and sleep deprivation combine to form truth serum. And I’m not quite finished being truthful yet. “I’m not having fun,” I continue, unable to stop myself. “We’re marching up this hill like we’re on a military campaign, and that’s not how I like to hike. It’s go, go, go all the time. No chance to appreciate anything. No time even for self-care. We’re in such a hurry all the time that I have to brush my teeth while we’re hiking.”
I finally shut up long enough to notice that Mo’s face has fallen, and I suddenly realize what I’ve done. This is supposed to be my big once-in-a-lifetime adventure, my triumphant celebration of having outlived my father and grandfather. Monica wants nothing more than for me to enjoy this trip, and I’m taking that away from her.
We finish packing our bags in silence. I'm an inconsiderate jackass. Dust, frost, self-loathing – I stuff it all into my compression sack and cinch it down tight.
It’s also starting to get seriously cold now. After another mostly sleepless night, I awake to find the outer shell of my sleeping bag coated with a thin layer of frost and dust. The dust reminds me of yesterday and reanimates my senseless rage against the wind. I’m also feeling aggrieved that I have to pack my sleeping bag right away each morning.
When Mo’ and I camp on our own we always air out our sleeping bags during breakfast – in the sun whenever possible. This keeps mildew at bay and extends the life of a very expensive piece of can't-fail safety equipment. But on this trip our guides insist that we pack our bags right away each morning so that the porters can tear down our tents and start hauling gear during breakfast. This makes perfect sense, of course, which is why I don’t protest. But it still upsets me to stuff my dirty, half-frozen sleeping bag into a tiny compression sack each morning before drying it out. It’s starting to stink after only three nights.
Monica asks how I’m feeling this morning and before I know what’s happening I let it slip out that I’m ready to go home. Oops! Had I been thinking clearly, I would have kept that to myself. But I’m not thinking clearly. It turns out that hypoxia and sleep deprivation combine to form truth serum. And I’m not quite finished being truthful yet. “I’m not having fun,” I continue, unable to stop myself. “We’re marching up this hill like we’re on a military campaign, and that’s not how I like to hike. It’s go, go, go all the time. No chance to appreciate anything. No time even for self-care. We’re in such a hurry all the time that I have to brush my teeth while we’re hiking.”
I finally shut up long enough to notice that Mo’s face has fallen, and I suddenly realize what I’ve done. This is supposed to be my big once-in-a-lifetime adventure, my triumphant celebration of having outlived my father and grandfather. Monica wants nothing more than for me to enjoy this trip, and I’m taking that away from her.
We finish packing our bags in silence. I'm an inconsiderate jackass. Dust, frost, self-loathing – I stuff it all into my compression sack and cinch it down tight.
Once outside the tent, I pin a few items to the ground with rocks and head off to visit a Porta Potty. After concluding my business there I step out of the privacy tent into bright, bright sunlight and an unexpected whorl of noise and commotion. If I'm seeing things correctly, one of our porters is chasing a white-necked raven through camp. Yep, that's what's happening. To the delight of a cheering crowd assembled by the breakfast tent, the porter is sprinting – uphill, no less – in pursuit of a raven that’s clutching something in its beak. I am confused and also thoroughly entertained.
The raven seems to have forgotten that it possesses the power of flight. It runs, it hops, it flaps occasionally – sometimes even getting off the ground – but ultimately, instead of taking to the air with its plunder, it drops the loot and flutters indignantly to the top of a nearby boulder. The porter retrieves the object, and returns to the breakfast tent, seeking the owner. Now fingers are pointing at me. Me? I look over my shoulder. Yes, me. The porter trots across camp, threading his way between the tents, smiling proudly, holding the item in front of him. It’s my breakfast. Instant oatmeal in a zip-lock bag. It's one of the items I had just pinned under a rock to keep the wind from stealing it.
I’m embarrassed, of course, but I also see the humor and irony in the situation. I laugh and thank the porter, and then suddenly I’m angry again – angry at myself, this time, for being so quick to anger. What is wrong with me? It’s becoming really worrisome that such trivial little difficulties – even the funny ones – are having such a major impact on my attitude. There ought to be a therapy tent next to the breakfast tent.
Over breakfast, we’re told that today we’ll be climbing 2400’ to a landmark called Lava Tower that's situated right at the foot of the Western Breach. We’ll have lunch there and then descend 2000’ to our next camp in the Barranco Valley. There won’t be an acclimatization hike this evening because our lunch spot at Lava Tower is 15,200’ above sea level. That’s significant altitude. In fact, aside from the summit it’s the highest we’ll be going on this trip except for Barafu camp, which is only about a hundred feet higher. The guidebooks say that AMS headaches are common at Lava Tower but usually go away during the post-lunch descent. Mo’ already has a headache, so I’m worried about her. And that concern, like so many other things on this trip, will become ironic.
Today’s hiking is quite steep in places, so we break into two groups in order to allow our two slower hikers may take more and lengthier rest breaks. A Tortoise and the Hare reference really wants to present itself here, but there’s no hare in our story. At this altitude, both groups are tortoises, one just a bit slower than the other.
After a few hours of hiking we’ve cleared the moorland climate zone and are well into the alpine desert. Emphasis on desert. Barren, rocky, and almost lifeless, this zone is often described by guidebooks as a moonscape. I appreciate the comparison, but the reddish tint of the surface reminds me more of Mars. The Curiosity Rover would look right at home here.
The wind, of course, is grinding me down again. Despite the über-bright sun and warmish air temperature, the wind is so cold and constant that most of us wear our gloves and raincoats all day, often with the hoods pulled up. In addition to being cold, the wind is desiccating. I can’t drink enough water to stay properly hydrated, and I’m worried that I didn’t bring enough lip balm. I’m applying it continuously, and my lips are still cracking every time I talk or smile.
The raven seems to have forgotten that it possesses the power of flight. It runs, it hops, it flaps occasionally – sometimes even getting off the ground – but ultimately, instead of taking to the air with its plunder, it drops the loot and flutters indignantly to the top of a nearby boulder. The porter retrieves the object, and returns to the breakfast tent, seeking the owner. Now fingers are pointing at me. Me? I look over my shoulder. Yes, me. The porter trots across camp, threading his way between the tents, smiling proudly, holding the item in front of him. It’s my breakfast. Instant oatmeal in a zip-lock bag. It's one of the items I had just pinned under a rock to keep the wind from stealing it.
I’m embarrassed, of course, but I also see the humor and irony in the situation. I laugh and thank the porter, and then suddenly I’m angry again – angry at myself, this time, for being so quick to anger. What is wrong with me? It’s becoming really worrisome that such trivial little difficulties – even the funny ones – are having such a major impact on my attitude. There ought to be a therapy tent next to the breakfast tent.
Over breakfast, we’re told that today we’ll be climbing 2400’ to a landmark called Lava Tower that's situated right at the foot of the Western Breach. We’ll have lunch there and then descend 2000’ to our next camp in the Barranco Valley. There won’t be an acclimatization hike this evening because our lunch spot at Lava Tower is 15,200’ above sea level. That’s significant altitude. In fact, aside from the summit it’s the highest we’ll be going on this trip except for Barafu camp, which is only about a hundred feet higher. The guidebooks say that AMS headaches are common at Lava Tower but usually go away during the post-lunch descent. Mo’ already has a headache, so I’m worried about her. And that concern, like so many other things on this trip, will become ironic.
Today’s hiking is quite steep in places, so we break into two groups in order to allow our two slower hikers may take more and lengthier rest breaks. A Tortoise and the Hare reference really wants to present itself here, but there’s no hare in our story. At this altitude, both groups are tortoises, one just a bit slower than the other.
After a few hours of hiking we’ve cleared the moorland climate zone and are well into the alpine desert. Emphasis on desert. Barren, rocky, and almost lifeless, this zone is often described by guidebooks as a moonscape. I appreciate the comparison, but the reddish tint of the surface reminds me more of Mars. The Curiosity Rover would look right at home here.
The wind, of course, is grinding me down again. Despite the über-bright sun and warmish air temperature, the wind is so cold and constant that most of us wear our gloves and raincoats all day, often with the hoods pulled up. In addition to being cold, the wind is desiccating. I can’t drink enough water to stay properly hydrated, and I’m worried that I didn’t bring enough lip balm. I’m applying it continuously, and my lips are still cracking every time I talk or smile.
At one point during the morning hike, Robert glances over his shoulder at Monica and studies her for a moment. Then he faces forward again and issues a salvo of rapid-fire Swahili at no one in particular. As far as I can tell, he’s shouting at the wind. Seconds later, though, one of the assistant guides from the very back of the line suddenly appears at Monica’s side, grinning bashfully at her. “Good morning,” he says with a heavy accent. “You good this morning?”
Monica’s confused. “Uh…yeah,” she says. “I think so.” She’s been hiking strong and can’t imagine what Robert saw that made him call for backup. Her quick, alert response seems to satisfy the guide, who nods approvingly and opens up a little space between them, still hiking nearby but without being intrusive. The guide’s name is Stephen, and from this moment on he becomes Mo’s guardian angel. He continues to assist the other trekkers as well, but his focus is now clearly on Monica and will remain there the rest of the trip.
Done poorly, this level of attention could have offended Monica, or at least hurt her feelings, but Stephen’s a pro. He zips in and out of her periphery like a Zen hummingbird, managing somehow to be all but invisible until the very second he can be of service. Then shazam! He’s right at her elbow, grinning genially. Transplanted to Europe, he would be the envy of the finest English butlers. Also, Stephen rarely speaks. He communicates mostly with simple gestures and a shy, disarming smile. In reality he’s completely on top of his game, but he manages to convey the impression that he’s nervous and awkward. It is impossible, therefore, to refuse his assistance without feeling like a heel.
Today’s lunch spot, Lava Tower, is pretty much what you’d expect from the name – a big pile of hardened lava. It's not as tall and narrow as the word tower implies, but I think we can all agree that Lava Stump would be a terrible name. It’s not located on the shortest path between Shira 2 and Barranco Camp so for many years it was treated merely as a side trip for trekkers who had a little extra time to kill. Guides eventually realized, however, that visits to Lava Tower have invaluable acclimation benefits, so the Lemosho Route was redirected to include it. (The original trail is now used almost exclusively as a shortcut for porters and an evacuation route for AMS victims.)
Monica’s confused. “Uh…yeah,” she says. “I think so.” She’s been hiking strong and can’t imagine what Robert saw that made him call for backup. Her quick, alert response seems to satisfy the guide, who nods approvingly and opens up a little space between them, still hiking nearby but without being intrusive. The guide’s name is Stephen, and from this moment on he becomes Mo’s guardian angel. He continues to assist the other trekkers as well, but his focus is now clearly on Monica and will remain there the rest of the trip.
Done poorly, this level of attention could have offended Monica, or at least hurt her feelings, but Stephen’s a pro. He zips in and out of her periphery like a Zen hummingbird, managing somehow to be all but invisible until the very second he can be of service. Then shazam! He’s right at her elbow, grinning genially. Transplanted to Europe, he would be the envy of the finest English butlers. Also, Stephen rarely speaks. He communicates mostly with simple gestures and a shy, disarming smile. In reality he’s completely on top of his game, but he manages to convey the impression that he’s nervous and awkward. It is impossible, therefore, to refuse his assistance without feeling like a heel.
Today’s lunch spot, Lava Tower, is pretty much what you’d expect from the name – a big pile of hardened lava. It's not as tall and narrow as the word tower implies, but I think we can all agree that Lava Stump would be a terrible name. It’s not located on the shortest path between Shira 2 and Barranco Camp so for many years it was treated merely as a side trip for trekkers who had a little extra time to kill. Guides eventually realized, however, that visits to Lava Tower have invaluable acclimation benefits, so the Lemosho Route was redirected to include it. (The original trail is now used almost exclusively as a shortcut for porters and an evacuation route for AMS victims.)
The lunch spot at Lava Tower is higher than the top of any mountain in the continental United States. It’s 700’ higher than Mount Whitney, but, more important, it’s 2,400’ higher than last night’s campsite. We’ve gained a lot of elevation this morning in a very short period of time. And that can have consequences.
As we approach the Tower I start to feel…odd. And very sleepy. A thickness is building up behind my eyes, as if someone’s slowly injecting honey into my skull. My brain downshifts a gear. Then it downshifts again. Someone can be speaking to me for several seconds before I realize it. Even my own thoughts feel like they’re coming from the far end of a long, gelatin-filled tunnel. Still, I don’t have a headache or feel nauseated, so I’m convinced that it’s not AMS. I am, however, willfully ignoring the very unusual fact that I’m not hungry. I’m one of those guys who’s pretty much always at least a little hungry, and it’s now after 1:00 pm. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I’m thinking about skipping lunch today and taking a nap instead. Let me clear: If Monica knew that fact alone she would insist that I receive immediate medical attention. But she doesn’t know because, to my honey-flooded brain, it doesn’t seem worth mentioning.
When we arrive at the base of Lava Tower the lunch tent is already up. All I have to do is slip in and eat, but instead I sit down on a rock and put my head in my hands. This is an involuntary action. The urge to sleep is overwhelming. In fact, I feel like I may pass out before finishing this thought. I haven’t slept well for days on end, so again, I dismiss the possibility that this could be AMS. I just need a nap, that’s all. I can do it right here on this rock. Don’t even need to lay down. I got this. Going…going…
Deirdre’s Spidey-sense must have been tingling because she’s suddenly standing right in front of me. I can’t look up, though, so I only see her boots. Talking between my palms, I assure her that I don’t have AMS. I just really need a nap. She doesn’t dispute my diagnosis. She just urges me to take a pain reliever right away and come to the lunch tent. I think maybe she didn’t hear me. “Just a nap,” I beg. “Ten minutes. Please.” Again, she doesn’t challenge me. “Yes, you can nap,” she says, sounding like a kind and proper British nanny, “but please do so after you’ve taken a pain reliever and had something to eat.” I truly can’t imagine eating anything right now, but it feels rude to argue with Mary Poppins so I haul myself up and drag myself to the tent.
As we approach the Tower I start to feel…odd. And very sleepy. A thickness is building up behind my eyes, as if someone’s slowly injecting honey into my skull. My brain downshifts a gear. Then it downshifts again. Someone can be speaking to me for several seconds before I realize it. Even my own thoughts feel like they’re coming from the far end of a long, gelatin-filled tunnel. Still, I don’t have a headache or feel nauseated, so I’m convinced that it’s not AMS. I am, however, willfully ignoring the very unusual fact that I’m not hungry. I’m one of those guys who’s pretty much always at least a little hungry, and it’s now after 1:00 pm. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I’m thinking about skipping lunch today and taking a nap instead. Let me clear: If Monica knew that fact alone she would insist that I receive immediate medical attention. But she doesn’t know because, to my honey-flooded brain, it doesn’t seem worth mentioning.
When we arrive at the base of Lava Tower the lunch tent is already up. All I have to do is slip in and eat, but instead I sit down on a rock and put my head in my hands. This is an involuntary action. The urge to sleep is overwhelming. In fact, I feel like I may pass out before finishing this thought. I haven’t slept well for days on end, so again, I dismiss the possibility that this could be AMS. I just need a nap, that’s all. I can do it right here on this rock. Don’t even need to lay down. I got this. Going…going…
Deirdre’s Spidey-sense must have been tingling because she’s suddenly standing right in front of me. I can’t look up, though, so I only see her boots. Talking between my palms, I assure her that I don’t have AMS. I just really need a nap. She doesn’t dispute my diagnosis. She just urges me to take a pain reliever right away and come to the lunch tent. I think maybe she didn’t hear me. “Just a nap,” I beg. “Ten minutes. Please.” Again, she doesn’t challenge me. “Yes, you can nap,” she says, sounding like a kind and proper British nanny, “but please do so after you’ve taken a pain reliever and had something to eat.” I truly can’t imagine eating anything right now, but it feels rude to argue with Mary Poppins so I haul myself up and drag myself to the tent.
It’s really hot in here, and the smell of food is a little sickening. When Mo’ sees my condition – and realizes that I’m not eating – she becomes alarmed. I feel a weak impulse to comfort her – to tell her I’m all right – but that thought is just toooo faaaar awaaaay to act upon. I’m also starting to feel like I might vomit, but I stay put and obey orders, forcing down a few cassava chips between lazy sips from a juice box. I must look like a sick toddler. After 20 minutes I can’t take the heat anymore so I go outside, lay down on a stone slab, and pull my hat down over my eyes. I’d be asleep in seconds if well-intentioned trekkers didn’t come by regularly to ask how I’m doing or if I need anything. I’m just about to nod off when I hear the guides calling for us to line up so we can start hiking again.
Oh. DEAR. GOD! Who does a guy have to kill around here to get a nap?
As the guidebooks predict, I start to feel much better once we descend into the Barranco Valley, which is great because the valley is really lovely. The loss of altitude brings us back into the moorland zone, where ice wafers adorn the edges of crystalline creeks and where lives a very unusual Dr. Seuss-looking tree called the giant groundsel. (Even the name is Seussian!) A monstrously large member of the senecio genus, the giant groundsel looks like what you’d get if you crossed a palm tree with a pineapple...and then fertilized it with radioactive Miracle Grow. And then named it Audrey 2. Other species of groundsel – daisies, for instance – grow all over the world, but this colossal cousin lives only on the high slopes of East Africa’s volcanoes, so it’s a privilege to see them in person.
The Barranco Valley was formed a hundred thousand years ago by a giant landslide, yet it looks fresh and rugged enough to have formed yesterday. As a result, Barranco Camp is in a stunningly beautiful location. We’re right at the base of Kibo, looking up at it through the famed Western Breach. Facing downhill from here we see an endless expanse of snowy clouds, unbroken all the way to Mount Meru.
Oh. DEAR. GOD! Who does a guy have to kill around here to get a nap?
As the guidebooks predict, I start to feel much better once we descend into the Barranco Valley, which is great because the valley is really lovely. The loss of altitude brings us back into the moorland zone, where ice wafers adorn the edges of crystalline creeks and where lives a very unusual Dr. Seuss-looking tree called the giant groundsel. (Even the name is Seussian!) A monstrously large member of the senecio genus, the giant groundsel looks like what you’d get if you crossed a palm tree with a pineapple...and then fertilized it with radioactive Miracle Grow. And then named it Audrey 2. Other species of groundsel – daisies, for instance – grow all over the world, but this colossal cousin lives only on the high slopes of East Africa’s volcanoes, so it’s a privilege to see them in person.
The Barranco Valley was formed a hundred thousand years ago by a giant landslide, yet it looks fresh and rugged enough to have formed yesterday. As a result, Barranco Camp is in a stunningly beautiful location. We’re right at the base of Kibo, looking up at it through the famed Western Breach. Facing downhill from here we see an endless expanse of snowy clouds, unbroken all the way to Mount Meru.
By dinnertime I am fully recovered and delighted to have an excuse to wolf down enough food to make up for what I missed at lunch. Monica’s greatly relieved and watches me gorge in amused amazement. When people start retiring to their tents I stay behind for a private chat with Deirdre and Leslie, our Sierra Club co-leaders. “I bonked at Lava Tower,” I say, confessing the obvious, "and that’s more than 4,000 feet lower than the summit. That doesn't bode well for me, does it?”
Deirdre takes the direct approach. “That could indeed be the case, Brian. Altitude sickness is unpredictable. It's probably best to be mentally prepared for the possibility.” Leslie’s a bit more encouraging. “You’re still acclimating,” she says, “and you’ve got two more days before we summit. For all we know, you could go back to Lava Tower right now and have no problem at all. That’s why it’s part of the route.”
I step out of the dining tent and take a long, somber look at tomorrow’s first obstacle, the infamous Barranco Wall. As the name suggests, it’s a steep cliff face nearly a thousand feet high. People who enjoy rock scrambling, as I do, report that climbing the Wall can be a lot of fun, and so I had been looking forward to it until very recently. But now I’m apprehensive about every sudden increase in elevation, and tomorrow morning, right after breakfast, we’ll be gaining about a thousand feet in just an hour or two.
In his novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera asserts that anyone whose goal is “something higher” should expect to suffer vertigo someday. And he’s right. It’s ridiculous for me to be surprised and dismayed that I got a touch of altitude sickness on this trip – as if I deserve some kind of immunity just because I’m the star of my own mental movie. AMS can strike anyone, and, like it or not, I’m anyone.
Kundera goes on, though, to claim that vertigo isn’t the fear of falling. Rather, he says, vertigo "is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.” How's that for a chilling thought? Altitude sickness isn’t vertigo, of course, and Kundera isn’t speaking literally. But I get exactly what he's saying because I do, in fact, feel a metaphorical desire to fall off this mountain. Part of me is seeking an excuse to fail, a face-saving reason to retreat without going to the summit. And that's the feeling against which, terrified, I must defend myself.
Deirdre takes the direct approach. “That could indeed be the case, Brian. Altitude sickness is unpredictable. It's probably best to be mentally prepared for the possibility.” Leslie’s a bit more encouraging. “You’re still acclimating,” she says, “and you’ve got two more days before we summit. For all we know, you could go back to Lava Tower right now and have no problem at all. That’s why it’s part of the route.”
I step out of the dining tent and take a long, somber look at tomorrow’s first obstacle, the infamous Barranco Wall. As the name suggests, it’s a steep cliff face nearly a thousand feet high. People who enjoy rock scrambling, as I do, report that climbing the Wall can be a lot of fun, and so I had been looking forward to it until very recently. But now I’m apprehensive about every sudden increase in elevation, and tomorrow morning, right after breakfast, we’ll be gaining about a thousand feet in just an hour or two.
In his novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera asserts that anyone whose goal is “something higher” should expect to suffer vertigo someday. And he’s right. It’s ridiculous for me to be surprised and dismayed that I got a touch of altitude sickness on this trip – as if I deserve some kind of immunity just because I’m the star of my own mental movie. AMS can strike anyone, and, like it or not, I’m anyone.
Kundera goes on, though, to claim that vertigo isn’t the fear of falling. Rather, he says, vertigo "is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.” How's that for a chilling thought? Altitude sickness isn’t vertigo, of course, and Kundera isn’t speaking literally. But I get exactly what he's saying because I do, in fact, feel a metaphorical desire to fall off this mountain. Part of me is seeking an excuse to fail, a face-saving reason to retreat without going to the summit. And that's the feeling against which, terrified, I must defend myself.
All of our photos from July 2 are online here.