What I carried, carried me

We were above the clouds, more than 12,000 feet up Mt. Kilimanjaro. My climbing partner and I had come from Michigan to attempt the ascent. To understand the nature of our endeavor, you should know that Kilimanjaro is one of the highest freestanding mountains in the world, and its summit is the highest point on the African continent.

It lies just 206 miles south of the equator, and it was not until the 1860s that explorers confirmed that the mountain was indeed capped with snow and ice, not "masses of white rock somewhat like quartz," as maintained by the legendary Stanley Livingstone. Our trip up and down the mountain would require a 60-mile trek. On top are glaciers, arctic conditions (as cold a minus 13 degrees F.), and about half the oxygen at sea level. Add to this the fact that, at 19,455 feet, Kilimanjaro's summit is higher than the first base camp on Mt. Everest, and you may appreciate that I was fast learning that we were engaged in a formidable undertaking.

During the past few days, we had met climbers coming down. To a person, they described the climb to the top in one way or another as "very difficult." We were at Horombo camp, the hub where climbers from the various routes converged.

The camp smelled of food being cooked outside, kerosene used for lamps, and the honest sweat of porters. The Swahili shouts of the Tanzanian guides and porters did not drown out the international chatter of the Swiss, Swedes, Germans, French, Dutch, Belgians, Norwegians, Australians, Asians, and others who had come to accept the challenge.

Horombo camp held a sense of accomplishment for those who had made it to the summit. For those who had not (most of a youthful Dutch group, for one), it was a place to acknowledge that one had given one's best, a fact that overrode any disappointment. Horombo was also a camp of aspiration, hope, and promise for those about to attempt the summit.

For me, it was a camp of confession. It had been a tough three days, and I thought I owed it to my younger partner, Dave, to say that I wasn't sure I would make it. I was ruing the mad moment a few months ago that had prompted me, in my retirement year, to suggest we make the climb.

After all the miles we'd traveled, I felt I was letting him down by telling him that he might have to go it alone, but I felt he deserved to know.

Kilimanjaro is enticing because most routes to the top permit the amateur climber to court her, to dance her dance and eventually kiss her on the forehead without technical climbing skills, of which I have none. But I discovered that the mountain is a strange siren - a tall maiden standing with her feet in tropical heat and an exposed midsection as barren as a desert. The more you press her, the colder her breath becomes. Ultimately, you find that her head and shoulders are wrapped in ice.

Kilimanjaro had ceased to be a challenge and had become my nemesis - an exhausting enterprise, a rapidly fading and seemingly unattainable ideal. I knew that if I were to continue to woo her, I would have to learn to love her, for to love is a necessary part of all true achievement.

Thus began the humbling review of my motives for the climb. Sir Edmond Hillary's "Because it's there" did not ring true for me. What was I trying to prove and to whom?

I would have to find an answer by the time we arrived at Kibo camp. Kibo sits cold and windy on a rocky shelf at 15,300 feet, the last stop before the final ascent. I wasn't alone in my self-reflection, it seems. Many confided their doubts.

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