Days 5 and 6–Summit Night: Kosovo Camp to Uhuru Peak to Millennium

September 24-25, 2016.  KiliClimb2016.

The time had arrived!  For better or worse, I was headed for the Rooftop of Africa.

Bear with me, as this post is long.  It covers 20 hours of nastiness!  Fair warning:  Harsh original language included in this post.

Trek Up to Uhuru Peak

(“Uhuru” means Freedom in Swahili.)

As noted in my last post, on September 24, our porters woke us at 11:00 pm to prepare for midnight departure to the summit.  I held back tears as I climbed out of my tent, knowing that I had not slept at all.  It was going to make the summit bid that much harder, and I really did not need anymore handicaps.

I went to the mess tent to eat a light breakfast, consisting of some ginger wafers, hot tea, and something else I don’t remember. They purposefully keep the meal light because many vomit at altitude, so you don’t want anything heavy in your stomach.

RG3 found me and whispered quietly and secretly into my ear, “Honey Badger, where is your Camelback [water bladder]?”  I replied, “Jeff said we weren’t to take them.”

RG3:  “Honey Badger. Where is your water bladder?”

“I already told you.  Jeff said we weren’t to bring them!”

RG3:  “Honey Badger!  Where is your water bladder.  Tell me now.”

“Whatever, goddamnit!  It’s in my tent.”

RG3 disappeared and returned a few minutes later with my Platypus 3-liter water bladder.  Confused and basically pissed off, I watched him and a few other staff put alternating boiling and cold water in it.  (Later I learned this was to keep the water warm without melting the plastic.)  RG3 put the water bladder in my backpack.  I rolled my eyes and thought, “what the hell is going on here?  Jeff said we didn’t need them!”  It didn’t help that I had been at 16,000′ for over 8 hours, and my brain was not at all clear.

At midnight, knowing that Jeff was hot for us doggies to get rolling, I left the mess tent, got my trekking poles and backpack, and waited for the rest of the group.  They were slow in coming, and not surprisingly, Jeff rolled by at about 12:10 am and said, “What the fuck?!?  Why the hell aren’t you guys on the trail yet?!?”  I shrugged and said I was waiting for everyone to show up.

At about 12:20 am, when all of Team Alpha was present and accounted for, along with our guides, we started our long trek to the summit.  The temperature was about 0 degrees Celsius, but thankfully the wind had died down.  It was very quiet and eerie being out in the pitch dark.  The only light we had was from a few stars and our headlamps.

As had been the case for most of the trip, RG3 was carrying his pack AND mine, including the fully loaded 3-liter bladder.  That bladder alone weighs close to 8 pounds, so I felt bad.  But in my condition, I knew not to complain.  When the guides take your pack, you don’t argue.  RG3 told me I would need every drop of that water in addition to the two Nalgene bottles I had, and I didn’t argue.  When I took my first drink, he taught me how to blow the water back in the bladder when I was done drinking so the tube wouldn’t freeze.  This worked well for about five hours, at which point the tube froze, and I couldn’t get any more water out of the bladder.  We switched to the Nalgene at that point, and I would continue drinking out of the Platypus later when the temperatures were higher.

It was so lonely and scary out there.  I remember reading accounts of people in that final slog, making the mistake of looking up the mountain and seeing the long trail of headlamps slowly making their way to the summit, on very steep terrain.  It was demoralizing.  Also, the terrain around us was a bit scary, with several steep drop-offs.  So I basically just kept my head down and focused on RG3’s or Dastan’s feet (our guides).  Focus focus focus!  I remember someone on the internet saying that it was better to climb the last push in the dark so you couldn’t see the precipitous terrain around you.

The oxygen deprivation was getting so difficult.  I continued to pressure-breathe, but it didn’t really seem to help.  I found myself needing to stop about every 10-15 minutes to sit on a rock and catch my breath, which wasn’t good because it impeded progress.  I asked RG3, “are we going too slow?” and he said, “yes.”  Shit.

After about 5 hours of steady hiking in the cold night, I saw the faintest glimmer of a sunrise.  Soon, we could see the beauty and splendor of Kilimanjaro and Mawenzi Peak (at least I think that’s what it is–I’ll have to check with RG3).  Sadly, I couldn’t have cared less.  I felt awful and fatigued.  But RG3 urged me to take some photos, so I did:

 

Now that I’m recovered, I’m sure glad Larick made me take those photos.  So incredible!

Not far from Stella Point, the last major landmark before the summit, we stopped for the umpteenth time to rest.  About this time, Jeff and Team Bravo caught up, and Jeff encouraged us and doused me with a bottle of 5-Hour Energy (that turned out to be a mistake, as the caffeine made my heart race!)  We kept slogging up the scree, taking what seemed to be one step forward, two steps backward, as we slid through the loose gravel on the steep slope.  Here are some pics near Stella Point (I think Trish took them):

Stella!!!!

After what seemed to be decades, we reached Stella Point at 18,885′!  Hoo-ahhh!!!!  I don’t know who took this panorama (probably Trish!), but it’s excellent.  It is another hour to Uhuru Peak (the summit) from here.  In the picture, the summit is off to the right–you can see the trail working up that direction.

We stopped to sit down and breathe and prepare for that final hour.  I ate a snickers bar, and RG3 apparently rubbed my hands, which were freezing.  It was very cold up there, and I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

The hour that followed was probably the worst of my life.  The oxygen was very low, and I was starting to develop something called bronchospasms.  Jeff caught me at some point and walked beside me.  He said, “Badger, you’re going to make it.”  I’m not completely sure, but think I said, “Of course I’m going to fucking make it.  By the way, this FUCKING SUCKS!!!!”  He laughed and urged me to walk faster, but that wasn’t gonna happen.  He also told me, “Badger, did you know that only one out of two people that attempt to summit Kilimanjaro make it?”  I said, “shit, if I’d have known that, I’d have never come on this crazy trip!”  In retrospect, I’m really glad I didn’t know that statistic, because it is depressing, and it could have defeated me. Here’s a pic of Jeff and me during this convo.  Please keep your Marshmallow Woman comments to yourself, by the way.  I was wearing about six layers, including an Arctic down parka!

At this point, I had a one-track mind: GET TO SUMMIT. I didn’t care about photos. Fortunately, RG3 had my iPhone and took some good ones:

Anyway, I kept my pole pole pace, with RG3 matching it and encouraging me.  Here’s a great pic I think Trish took, showing Heather Stone in the back, and RG3 and I further up the hill, almost to the summit:

Doesn’t it look beautiful?  I can’t even describe how horrible it felt.  At this point, remember, we’re at 50 percent of the oxygen available at sea level.  It hurts.

After what seemed to be days, I saw the summit and the famous sign come into sight.  I lumbered over to it and sat on a rock, breathing hard.  Slowly the rest of the team made it, and we took a celebratory shot.  It took everything I had to smile in this pic, as I was in no mood whatsoever!

With the above statistics in mind, it is notable that out of our group, only three didn’t make it to the summit.  One had to turn back because of altitude sickness, one developed HACE (more on that in a minute), and one had severe leg cramps.  But I’m very proud of EVERYBODY.  Success is not measured by summiting; it is measured by trying in the first place.  This is far more difficult than it looks–trust me.  And there is no guarantee for anyone.  Tennis-great Martina Navratilova tried to summit years ago, and she had to quit early because of altitude sickness.  So there is absolutely no shame in not making it.  High altitude doesn’t discriminate–it hits whomever it wants, and you don’t have a choice when it hits you.

All I can remember while waiting at the sign was feeling very very angry and wanting my mother.  I’m sure it was a result of the oxygen deprivation.  RG3 tried to get me to pose, but this was the best I could do.  In retrospect, I’m so disappointed for not doing one of my epic Badger poses.  I’m also very disappointed not to have a shot with me and my awesome guide, RG3.  What a moron I am.  I’ll just have to climb it again someday and do it right next time. Here is a grumpy shot that RG3 took.  I tried to cooperate, but as you’ll see, it’s pretty weak.  I just sat there like a bump on a, well, rock?

If my information is correct, I reached the summit at about 8:30 am local time.  It took almost 9 hours to go a little over 1.5 miles.  Ugh.  And I still had over 11 hours to go before I could rest again.

Near-Death Experience

I mentioned HACE above.  That stands for, “high altitude cerebral edema.”  It is a severe form of altitude sickness that is fatal if not immediately treated.  As the name suggests, it means your brain is swelling with fluid.  (There is a similar condition called HAPE, which is high altitude pulmonary edema (fluid in the lungs–also fatal if not immediately treated).  Well, I don’t remember if I was going down or up, but I remember someone collapsing nearby.  There was a lot of commotion, and it was all very confusing.  What happened was one of our very own climbers had collapsed with HACE and basically was dying.  Fortunately, Jeff was close and injected her with something (decadron?), and they immediately evacuated her down about 1,500′, I think.  That is the only cure for HACE.  I am happy to report she survived and is fine today, but it was a very close call and very frightening.  It just proves that Kilimanjaro isn’t to be trifled with.

Millennium Camp (High Camp)

After a brief stay at Uhuru Peak, we quickly started our descent.  It turned out to be the worst part of the trip and one of the worst days of my life.  The route down to Kosovo Camp (base camp) was through a lot of steep scree.  If you are an experienced mountaineer, this is fun for you, because you can “scree ski” like this and get down the mountain in a hurry:  Scree Skiing

I don’t scree ski “like that.”  Hell, I don’t scree ski.  It’s harder than it looks.  I tried repeatedly, but I just kept falling down.  At one point I sat on my butt and tried to slide down, but it didn’t work and only irritated RG3.  So I alternated with attempting to “scree ski” and just walk down, but the steepness and slippery gravel made it very hard.  And slow.  In the end, I lost my left big toenail a month after the climb due to the trauma of my toes slamming against the topes of my hiking boots with each step down.  It weren’t purty–this is from about 6 days post-summit. Ouch!  I am happy to say it grew back fully, and you can’t tell it ever happened.

After many hours, we reached Kosovo Camp (where we had started from) 3,400′ below the summit, and I was D-O-N-E.  By now I was in severe distress and was unable to breathe properly.  I found my tent and tried to rest a little per Jeff’s instructions before we were allegedly supposed to hike another 3+ MILES AND ANOTHER 3,000′ DOWN.  I don’t think so.  As I laid in my tent, I became very alarmed as my breathing difficulty intensified, my heart raced to 140 beats per minute, and I started to wheeze.  These are classic signs of HAPE.  I called to Jeff, who came to my tent and listened to my chest.  He said,

Badger, you’re fine.  There is no fluid in your lungs.  You do not have HAPE.  You have bronchospasms, brought on by the dust and high exertion/heavy breathing.  I had the same thing in the Himalaya once, and it scared the bejesus out of me.  But trust me, you’ll be okay.

He tried to help me calm down and slow my breathing, but it didn’t work.  I was really in bad shape.  I told him there was no way I could continue to downclimb and that he needed to arrange for a taxi or something.  (This proves I was suffering from brain damage, because there are no taxis on Kilimanjaro!)  He insisted that I had no choice but to walk down on my own two legs.  I remember wanting to cry, but I once again dragged myself out of my tent and continued to slog to our camp for the night:  Millennium Camp, or High Camp.

I honestly don’t think I can remember a more miserable time in my life, and I’ve been involved in some pretty difficult athletic events, such as riding my bike from Seattle to San Francisco.  The problem is that I was already exhausted, and I am terrible at downclimbing because of my bad knees.  Several times going through Barafu I sat down and insisted on ass-climbing once again, but RG3 forced me to get up.  “No Badger, you can’t do that.  You must stand up and walk.”

Eventually RG3 and another guide got on either side of me and assisted me down the trail.  I cried, shouted, cried, sat down, collapsed, and basically fell to pieces as we tried to get to camp.  The hours were quickly slipping by, and I saw the sun going down.  I was terrified, because remember:  We started our trek at midnight, and we were coming up on the nighttime again.  I asked several times, “where is camp?  How far?”  I was told many times, “about 30 minutes.”  They told me that for about 5 hours.

One vivid memory I have is when I sat on a rock and cried, exclaiming that I just couldn’t make it.  Yvonne, a nurse and combat veteran, sat down next to me and said, “Badger, you will make it.  You are strong.  Just keep going.”  Somehow, we did.  It really is about perseverance and tenacity.

Around dusk (but before we lost all light), I finally stumbled into High Camp.  I think I may have been the last in. I collapsed on the steps next to the sign-in register and continued to heave with very strong bronchospasms.  (Incidentally, it was a good thing RG3 insisted on bringing that water bladder, because I drank every drop plus the two Nalgene bottles, and I needed more.)

I made my way to the mess tent, and my comrades will attest that I was in bad shape.  My breathing was quite stertorous and scary–so bad in fact that it caused me to vomit all my dinner up.  I was so embarrassed, but Sistus, our chief staff member in charge of mess (pun intended), cheerfully cleaned it up, and they went to find Jeff.  Incidentally, it seems appropriate to insert a photo of our chef and cooking staff here in our mess tent–they were awesome.  Unfortunately, Sistus is not in it.  Yes, that’s me in the right corner next to the guy who is waving.

Jeff gave me an inhaler and some other medicine to calm me down.  I crawled into my tent with my boots hanging out into the vestibule, too tired to drag them in or remove my boots.  I don’t know who, but one of the staff/porters removed my boots, and I got into my sleeping bag and tried to sleep.  Jeff also gave me Prednisone to help with the bronchospasms.  I wish I’d had enough presence of mind to film myself in this condition, but I didn’t.  In any event, here is a video showing what bronchospasms sound like (sort of).  Except in my case, I was breathing about four times faster (and harder) than the “dummy” in this video:  Bronchospasms

It was so scary.  Somehow I managed to fall asleep after using the inhaler about four times.  Unfortunately, I woke up several times having to pee, and I was so tired and lacking energy, I just got into my tent vestibule and peed right on the ground.  Sorry.  No pride left at this point.  Just sheer fatigue and survival instincts.  Badger was pooped out.

Bear in mind:  My day started at midnight, and I reached our final camp at about 8:00 pm.  If my calculations are correct, that’s a 20-hour day of grueling hiking.  Without proper sleep the day before.  Or oxygen.  Yuck.

The good news is that I made it, and I was alive (barely!)  And at our 13,000′ level for the night, the oxygen felt abundant in comparison!  LOL.  Only one more day on the mountain.  I started to dream of a long, hot shower and like eight pizzas….

-Badger out!