Climb the Hill You’re On: Summiting Mount Kilimanjaro
Originally published in the Fleet Feet Albany & Malta Newsletter, August 2023.
On July 22, I reached the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain on the African continent. I stood atop 19,341 feet, at the place nicknamed, “the Roof of Africa.” I grinned with barely enough oxygen in the air and after eight hours of climbing just that morning. The entire trek was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the most rewarding experience I’ve ever had.
I had never done anything like this before; I’d never experienced how thin the air could get above 10,000 feet, or how relentless the equatorial sun is, burning any unprotected skin in minutes, or how hard my heart would pump at a snail’s pace the higher we climbed, or the mental toughness it took to wake up before sunrise each morning and climb up and down thousands of feet. I had to take it one day, even one hour at a time. Despite my inexperience, I found myself in familiar territory both emotionally and physically, all because of my experience as a runner.
I just started marathon training before we left, running plenty of hills to get my body ready for all of that climbing. In the days leading up to the trip, I prioritized the same things I do when I’m training or prepping for a race: rest, hydration, and fueling. I already had so many of the things I would need—electrolytes to properly hydrate hours of hiking in the harsh sunlight, synthetic socks and clothes to help wick away the abundance of sweat, and plenty of carb-rich snacks to keep me going. I tried to go into this hike not as a complete unknown, but as another endurance challenge that I knew my body was capable of conquering.
I was in a group of eight people, one of them being my dad. We ranged in age from 15 to 63 years old, but we all struggled. We found community in one another and safety in the guides and porters who did everything in their power to get us to the top of that mountain. They refilled our waters, took weight off of our backpacks when our bodies felt like they were falling apart, and continually reassured us that we were strong and we would reach that daunting summit. Each day brought new challenges; whether that was scrambling up the Barranco Wall, an unbelievably steep, rocky climb that required us to use our hands to pull our own weight and that of our heavy backpacks up 800 feet—all while knowing that any miscalculated step could lead to a treacherous fall. I must admit, it was a lot of fun. While we worked to conquer such an intimidating climb, the porters passed us quickly and nonchalantly, carrying tents, our duffel bags, and other camp supplies on their backs and heads, easily double the weight we all carried. I feared for them, for the friends I had made in them, but they proved their mental and physical strength in every step up the mountain, leaving me inspired and motivated to press on for all they were doing for us.
For everything they did, however, the guides and porters could not remedy the doubts that each of our minds conjured. As much as we were unified in our group, I still felt isolated in my thoughts. We climbed in silence often as the thin air necessitated our lungs holding onto whatever oxygen we could. I had my anxious moments, of course, never having climbed that high and experienced such strain on my lungs and heart. I panicked feeling my heart pound in my chest as we hiked slower and slower the higher we got in order to compensate for the lack of oxygen. But as the days progressed, I found peace in the silence.
The reassurance from our guides felt reminiscent of the mantras runners tell themselves and each other to push through a tough race or run. One of our guides, Renatus, kept directing our gazes toward Kilimanjaro’s summit, Uhuru Peak, as we marched on. “Every step you take,” he said, pointing, “gets you closer.”
With Uhuru Peak lingering above as I kept moving upward, I reminded myself to keep putting one foot in front of another, regardless of how tired I was or how desperately I wished I could pause and take a deep breath. Those reminders were vital for the hardest day of them all: summit day.
We were awakened at 3:30 am with the intention to leave for the summit at 4:30. I’ve never woken up that early to run before, but it reminded me of waking up early for a race. None of us slept well. I told everyone that it’s rare for people to sleep well the night before a marathon or half marathon. I recalled my last half marathon, when I slept four hours at most and ran my best race to date.
It was hard to eat breakfast at 4:00 am. Our appetites hadn’t yet arrived, but I knew how vital it was to eat before a long day of intense climbing to the summit. All we could stomach was a small bowl of oatmeal. I thought again back to my last half marathon, when I sat at 5:30 am struggling to swallow a peanut butter and banana sandwich. The thought of how essential that fuel would be for my race was the only thing that allowed me to get it down. Again, I told my group mates about how hard it is to eat in the early morning before a race, but your body will thank you for it.
While the days were often sweat-ridden with the equatorial sun fooling our bodies into thinking the air temperature was at least 20 degrees warmer, the nights were frigid. Layers were crucial. A lot of the base layers I brought with me were running shirts, perfect to keep my core warm and wick away moisture. I was used to layering from years of cross-country skiing and winter running, but this was something different. The altitude prevented our bodies from moving quickly to warm up. I doubled the layers I would normally wear for a cold run.
We began the ascent in the dark. That high above the clouds and cities left the stars undisturbed. It was the clearest, most beautiful night sky I could have imagined. Looking far up the mountain, we could see a trail of headlamps ascending in front of us, people who had begun their summit trek at midnight to reach the peak just after sunrise. Each step grew more difficult with every foot of elevation we gained. The air just kept getting thinner. That’s when I needed to return to my running mantras.
“One foot in front of the other.”
“Each step brings you closer.”
“Keep moving forward.”
A saying that I’ve turned to often is, “Run the mile you’re in.” In this situation, that didn’t really apply, but I needed the sentiment regardless. So, I modified it.
“Climb the hill you’re on.”
I thought of every segment between our water breaks as another little hill to climb. I just needed to make it to the next break, the next moment where I could catch my breath, eat something, and drink Kilimanjaro’s best medicine: water. Each of us carried four liters of water, a considerable weight to add to our backs, but the most essential weight. As we shed our layers, our packs only became heavier, and the trek only became more difficult as our bodies worked harder to carry more and breathe less oxygen. I would not have been able to reach that summit with a smile on my face without the guides who unburdened my back by carrying some of my water.
About two hours into our climb, the sun began to rise. The sky evolved from deep shades of purple into the warm glow of orange and yellow. It was a sunrise unmatched. My body was straining to soak it in, but I knew this would be a sight I wouldn’t want to forget. From that moment on, I kept telling myself to look up, because as much pain as I was in, I knew I would never experience this again. I welcomed the glow of the sun to warm me up after the cold darkness. I saw the peak get closer with each hour that passed as we gained thousands of feet in elevation.
After seven hours, many snacks, and nearly 4,000 feet climbed, we reached Stella Point. Not yet at the peak, but only a few hundred feet of climbing left to do. As we took a break, Renatus told us we only had one hour left to reach the summit. It was within sight. At the end of a gradual, long climb, I could see the sign that would mark our achievement in the distance. I didn’t know how I was going to make it. Up until then, I felt good. I felt strong, even through the seemingly endless struggle to get to that point.
And then I didn’t.
My head started to hurt, the first symptom of altitude sickness. I knew it wasn’t from dehydration, after all the water I’d downed by then. It felt different too, like a pressure inside of my skull that I couldn’t shake. But I was so close, and I knew I had to make it. I turned to my dad, who felt even more insurmountable exhaustion. We were both so close, just one more hour.
At 12:30 pm, Saturday, July 22, we arrived at Uhuru Peak. My dad began to cry. I couldn’t shake my pounding head, but I also couldn’t believe we’d done it. To celebrate, I saved a Tanzanian Kit-Kat to eat at the summit, my final burst of carbs in the form of delicious chocolate. We couldn’t stay long among the thin air, so after our photos and appreciation of how far we’d come, we began the descent.
It was by no means easy coming down on tired legs, most of us suffering from headaches, nausea, or debilitating exhaustion. But at that point, I felt that it would all be alright. We had made it, we had overcome the hardest part. While we weren’t descending far enough to reclaim all of the oxygen we’d been missing, breathing felt easier from that moment on.
Hiking Mount Kilimanjaro challenged me in ways I’ve never encountered before. I used the runner in me to tackle those challenges, the person who has pushed through every tough mile and still continues to lace up her shoes and get out the door, knowing my body will be challenged again. With that in mind, I hiked Kilimanjaro knowing I have the power to do hard things and only come out stronger. After everything I overcame on this trek, I’m left empowered. I’m left with the knowledge that my mind and body are resilient when I lean on others, but also when I trust myself and push away anxious doubts.
After we conquered the summit, I told my fellow hikers I was excited to get back to running once I returned. “The marathon will be so easy compared to this,” I said, laughing (I was wrong. But, it did carry me through the hardest parts of the race).
