Ain’t no mountain high enough

In September, I was one of a 30-strong group of students from York attempting to scale Mount Kilimanjaro – the highest free-standing mountain in the world.

Few of us had trained, but the hardest part wasn’t really the walking – the guides would say “pole-pole” (slow down) almost constantly. The hardest part was coping with the altitude: the lack of oxygen beyond 4000 metres above sea level renders you out of puff even when you’re stood still, let alone walking. How can you train for that? Chain-smoke on a treadmill?

Climbing Kilimanjaro is dangerous; about a dozen people die on it every year. On the third day, you climb the scrambling traverse of the Barranco wall, where a slip could cause you to fall a few hundred yards down jagged rock. Then there’s Summit Day, when you hike a steep, slippery slope at night in freezing temperatures. But nobody ever warned me about Day Minus One: staying at the Midlands Lodge in Moshi. I suffered a gushing nosebleed for no reason, and simultaneously cut and stubbed my toe on a step just outside our room. In the room, we were terrorised by a marauding termite infestation, a gecko, and then – weirdly enough – a decimated gecko. I couldn’t wait to get to the relative safety of the mountain.

We were going up the Machame route, which is one of the tougher ways up; it takes six days (four less than how long Cheryl Cole took), has you sleeping in tent (not lodges, like the ones Cheryl slept in), and you actually have to walk back down, instead of getting a helicopter ride (just lazy, Cheryl).

 Day One: Machame Gate (1490m ASL) to Machame Camp (2980m ASL)

Day One was a straightforward hike through the montane forest. The only discomfort was from my stubbed toe, and the only bad experience of the day was having to use the Glastonbury-style toilets. Actually, I’ve been to Glastonbury, and these were much worse.

Day Two: Machame Camp to Shira Camp (3840m ASL)

On the second day we ascended to Shira Camp. It was just outside Shira Cave and had stunning views of Shira Plateau and Shira Cathedral.

Not long after settling there, we had to go for a stroll to Shira Hut, to do some yoga for altitude acclimatisation. Nothing fancy, thank God, just balancing on one leg, spreading our arms and breathing deeply.

 Day Three: Shira Camp to Barranco Camp (3950m ASL)

Barranco campsite is hardly higher than Shira, But there was a tough ascent to Lava Tower (4630m) in the morning. We did yoga there as well, and seemed so close to the peak.

In the second half of the day I couldn’t shake the frustrating feeling that we undoing all of the morning’s hard work. Obviously the guides know better, but at the time I was adamant they were wrong to have us doing so much descending when we were supposed to be climbing the thing. I hadn’t started feeling the altitude sickness and wanted to stay at Lava Tower and then ascend from there. I was in quite a sulk.

 Day Four: Barranco Camp to Barafu Camp (4550m ASL)

In the morning we ditched the hiking poles to scramble up the daunting Barranco Wall. It was straightforward in most places, but would’ve been unforgiving if we did make a mistake. We were using all four limbs, but the porters were using their hands to steady the load above their heads and negotiating the wall on two feet. It was a nerve-racking sight.

The camp at Barafu – which is the Swahili word for ice – sits at 4550m, so still lower than Lava Tower, but we were now more acclimatised to the altitude and as ready as we’d ever be for the final ascent.

 Day Five: Barafu Camp to Uhuru Peak (5895m ASL)

It’s too cold to spend the night at Barafu, so we were told to rest in the evening and be ready to go at midnight. The cold and the apprehension made it impossible for me to sleep for the first few hours, and then almost cruelly I managed to drift off at about 11.30. Just enough sleep to have morning breath and feel awful, but not at all rested.

There was then a gruelling seven-hour ascent to Stella Point (5685m). We were zig-zagging up the mountain by the light of our head-torches, and could see nothing ahead except more lights, inching slowly upwards. It was too cold to rest, so there was no option but to keep lumbering on.

The cold was almost paralysing, and only got worse as we got higher. In the wee hours of the morning it was almost unbearable. Then altitude sickness started taking hold as well. My head was pounding like it was stuck in an elevator door that was repeatedly closing on it. The scree was slippery and I found myself swaying and staggering about as I tried to keep my balance. I felt drunk, and not in a good way.

After five minutes at Stella Point we were taken to Uhuru Peak, the top of Africa. Every step felt like the last possible exertion my legs could take, and on the loose rock, some of them took me backwards.

My time at the peak felt distant and dreamlike, even at the time. I knew I was proud and elated, but I didn’t have the energy to express it. A few of the group got naked to celebrate. I have no idea how they came across the motivation to do that; we had about nine layers of clothes on, for a start. I got the photos I wanted (of the mountains, not the nudists), and then allowed myself a moment to think: I’ve done it. I’ve walked to the top of the highest free-standing mountain in the world. We all have, and we’ve raised over £75,000 for charity. Now, this is a good time to set off down, because I think I’m about to have an aneurysm.