“Our 77-day summer adventure began with a flight from Kinshasa to Nairobi on June 7 (1975). As soon as we stepped onto the PanAm jet, the shock of a familiar past life overcame us. There were no soldiers. The magazines were not months old. No one stared at us. The people on the plane spoke English. Even the loo felt mind-boggling, so efficient, so well-stocked, everything in its assigned place. It was almost more than we could take in.
“So was Nairobi. Situated close to a mile high, its climate is relatively cool and dry. It’s a lovely city and very modern. It had almost-current movies. It had milkshakes, milk, ice cream! To steep ourselves even more thoroughly in luxury, we took an overnight jaunt to the famed Treetops Lodge. Back in Nairobi for a few days, we enjoyed the very good museum and snake park. Then off we went in a rented car for our tour of the great game parks. We drove southwest of the city, down the escarpment of the Rift Valley and to Masai Mara, then across the border into Tanzania and the Serengeti. There we camped, frightened at first (Mike rustled up a fearsome-looking water buffalo along with the firewood), but then loving the wide-open feel of the plains, the sky fuzzy with stars, and the wild animal calls in the night.
“We crossed the Olduvai Gorge and took a trip down into Ngorongoro crater, a beautiful bowl of nature, where we came closer to the animals than anywhere I’ve been. Then Lake Manyara, where lions sleep in the trees; Amboseli, giraffes grazing under the snowy top of Kilimanjaro (hint of what was to come); Tsavo; then back to Nairobi, where we turned in the car.
“We took in one more movie and one more milkshake, then boarded a bus for Kilimanjaro and The Great Climb. We experienced several bus breakdowns, came upon a man lying in the road, spent three hours going through customs at the Tanzania border, and finally rolled into Moshi, near the base, at 7 a.m. We were able to make arrangements through the Moshi YMCA to leave that very day, because a group of three high-school guys — a Britisher, a Finn and an American — had already arranged to go up. A quick trip to Moshi’s three sparsely stocked grocery stores, and we were set. All told, there were five climbers, plus one guide (Elias, a most likable fellow), a porter for Elias and a porter for Mike and me. (We had at first poohpoohed the idea of a porter, but we were convinced by those wiser than we are in the ways of Kilimanjaro that we’d be fools to shoulder our own packs up that mountain. Thank goodness for their counsel.)
“We took a crowded bus some 30 miles out to Marangu, the starting point for the route we were to take. Then we set off. The first part of the walk is up a road through luxuriant banana-grove kind of country, with lovely, neat houses, and flowers all about. The first climber we ran into, a Scotsman, looked horrible. He said he felt worse. And he hadn’t made it. By the time we reached the gate of the park, well into the first day, we met a young couple who had succeeded. ‘It is very, very hard,’ they said. Above the Marangu Gate, we hiked through thick forest on a muddy, slippery path. The first hut was visible some distance off across a meadow. This hut was luxurious compared to later ones, with three rooms, mattresses, a fireplace. We slept quite well — for the last time before the 60 hours to come. It’s a good thing we couldn’t have predicted then how tough it was going to be — though I think we’d still have done it. We were determined. We had to be!
“The second day started out in an eerily lovely rainforest, which soon broke into a misty meadow. We reached the hut mid-afternoon. The climbing was easy — the trip is well planned that way, starting out gradually uphill to the first hut, then uphill and level to the second, then uphill and level to the third — the day that was to come.
“Anyway, at the second hut we played nursemaid to a mad German, who had been forced to come back by palpitations of the heart. And — we read all the inscriptions of failure left by our precursors.
“The third day was beautiful. We encountered strange plants of all sorts, enjoyed walking through them, and at last broke out of the clouds onto the ‘saddle’ stretching between Mawenzi Peak, (the rugged lower peak at 16,893 feet) and Kibo, the perfect volcano giant at 19,340 feet. From there, we could see the path — going straight up. That night, Mike and I slept together inside both sleeping bags in an attempt to counteract the cold that had kept us awake the night before. We almost strangled, though, from the tightness of this arrangement, and we were kept awake anyway by the verbal antics of our three companions, who were too cold to sleep. Thus it was utterly unnecessary for the guides to wake us up for the 1:30 a.m. climb to the summit.
“When the ominous hour came, Mike said he felt too sick to make the climb. We both had had headaches the day before, but he felt seriously nauseated now. The other four of us got silently (grimly?) ready. Then, at the last moment, Mike sat up, gave a great belch, then one more, and declared, ‘I think that’s it. I’m going.’
“We made mittens out of socks and plastic bags sealed with athletic tape, put on all the clothes we had and went out into the cold full moonlight. The other three had gone on up with a porter who was turned into an assistant guide for this stretch. By the time we caught up with them, one of the teenagers was too sick to go on. We watched as he turned back.
“So far I had thought the climb tough but manageable. Then it started: the most trying effort I have ever made. Straight uphill over two-foot-deep scree — volcanic gravel layered so loosely that every step is frustrating as hell. Your foot ends up sometimes several inches below where you placed it.
“Add to that the constant gain in altitude (from 16,000 to 19,000 feet that morning alone), which makes every breath a gasp and creates a tightness in the chest, and … well, soon you just feel ill. (Our toes and thumbs felt frozen too, but that seemed the least of our problems.) On part of the scree, it is necessary to go straight up; on other parts, it is wide enough to make small zigzags. While we were endlessly zigzagging up the last interminable stretch, the sun rose from behind Mawenzi. It was transporting. By this time, another of the teenagers had given up and gone back. One guide had continued up with the third climber. We were still struggling, struggling, step-by-step-by-laborious step. (I’ll never forget how encouraging was the sound of Elias saying, ‘poh-lay, poh-lay’ — Swahili for ‘slowly, slowly’ — again and again in his rich baritone.)
“And then: We made it. To Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Kibo. There we were, at last, staring down into the huge crater filled with delicate snow and ice formations, giving it the appearance of housing a fairyland town: A town topped by impressive glaciers, some forming stair-step patterns. We sat at the top, sick and sore, gaping at the almost unattainable splendor. And then we started our descent — with each step down the scree now a wonderfully long slide, on our heels.
“We rested briefly at the top hut and then spent the rest of the day going all the way down to the first in order to sleep. It was 22 miles of hiking that day, but worth it for the beer someone had left at the first hut, and for the warmth of our beds that night.
“The trip was 50 miles in all. It was incredible, all right. And we did it.”