I exited my tent into the chilled evening, and took a few shaky steps down the slope of the pocked earth. The night sky above me was awash with a magnificent panoply of stars, millions of glittering angels that watched knowingly as I turned my back to the cold mountain and gazed across the comforting lights of the city of Moshi that lay 10,000 feet beneath me. In less than 24 hours, we would start our final ascent to the peak of Kilimanjaro—the summit day I was relieved to have ultimately reached, yet held with a sense of foreboding. I closed my eyes and breathed a silent prayer: that each of us might feel God’s strength and lead the following day; strength to overcome both physical struggle—and our own determination if the decisive moment to turn back became unavoidable. I returned wearily to my tent, quietly wondering when that moment would come for me…
Our journey had begun five days before, as the five of us gathered at the gate marking the start of Mt. Kilimanjaro’s Machame Route. My friends Wayland and Courtney had traveled from Uganda, where they work at a Christian school. They had brought their childhood friend Keri, an English teacher at a university in South Korea. Rounding out the group were my college classmate Carter and I, who had flown in from DC. We had a full team of 21 Africans to support us—guides, cooks, and a large number of porters hired at the gate to help carry our packs, tents, and other equipment. Our lead guide was Azizi, a 23 year-old Tanzanian with a gentle, laid-back demeanor and an endearing tendency to leave out syllables in our names (I quickly became “Jerry”). He had an impish sense of humor which we quickly appreciated, and wore a collection of clothes donated from past climbers—a shirt from a bar in Iowa, a Spongebob Squarepants hat. “Those who go with Azizi will have no problems and will always be safe,” he told us. Figuring anyone who talks about himself in the third person must be legitimate, I began the hike with the utmost confidence.
DAY 1. The Machame route is known as the most beautiful route up the mountain, offering a stark variety of scenery and ecosystems during the climb. Our first day was spent trekking through a lush tropical forest. Feathery white strands known as “old man’s beard” descended from above us, forming a fine gossamer quilt covering the trees on the distant hillsides. Monkeys flitted on branches, the noise blending with the melody of vibrantly-colored birds that twittered across the valley. Porters passed us as we walked, carefully balancing an assortment of packs and gear on their backs, shoulders, and heads. “Pole, pole…” they intoned to us—the Swahili word for “slowly.” After several hours of hiking (partly in a rainstorm, which would become an afternoon ritual), we reached our campsite enshrouded in the clouds at 10,000 feet. The porters had already set up our tents, and tea was waiting for us in the mess tent. It wasn’t long before the mist cleared and we got our first glimpse of the glacier-streaked Kilimanjaro summit, bathed with a pink glow from the sunset. There were a number of other hikers sharing our campsite, and we chatted excitedly with a few of them as we took in the view. We especially connected with an American named Scott from Alaska. He had bright red hair and a long beard, leading some of the guides to refer to him as “Jesus.” We would see them throughout the remainder of the climb. I turned in early as the darkness grew, for what would be my first night of restless sleep.
DAY 3. I woke up the morning of the third day with a rumble in my stomach. I had made it to our campsite of 12,000 feet without issues, other than some difficulty sleeping. This day promised to be the toughest to date, with a morning climb to 16,000 feet, then a descent back to 12,000 feet for the night. My appetite was dwindling, but I ate a small breakfast and tried to gear myself for the challenge ahead. Shortly after mid-morning, we broke camp and began to follow the snaking path up the ridge. The forest of the first day had transitioned to vast moorland, then desert. Cascading rock walls stretched into the distance, their shaded outlines all pointing like fingers to the bright solitary peak that shone above us in the sunlight. As we climbed higher, an expanse of cloud followed us up the valley, coming closer and closer until it swallowed us into a chilly mist. As we approached the soaring Lava Tower that marked the highest elevation of the day, my stomach pain had grown significantly, becoming worse when we stopped for breaks. Yet breathing had become difficult, and an unaccustomed lethargy and exhaustion was starting to seep through my body that made breaks unavoidable. By the time we finally reached the tower to stop for lunch, a light headache and small waves of nausea were running through me as snow swirled around us. Azizi noticed my pale complexion and quickly started our descent down the other side of the tower, keeping a close eye on me. I moved slowly, taking short steps, but the fatigue continued—causing me to occasionally stumble and even fall as my balance faltered. It took several hours, but we finally reached our next campsite at the lower elevation by late afternoon. I collapsed into my tent, hoping that rest might begin to assuage the weakness I felt. I took some Cipro for the turning of my stomach, and forced myself to swallow a small bit of the bread and soup that the team brought to my tent. They were quite concerned about my state, Carter especially coming frequently to check on me and make sure I was eating. I knew if my condition didn’t improve, I wouldn’t be able to continue the following morning. I thought back to the signs of altitude sickness I had studied at home, debilitating effects that could compound and eventually lead even to death, and my hopes and goals for the trip radically shifted. My shaken mind raced as I drifted towards an uneven sleep, pensively waiting to see how my body would handle the next day…
DAY 5. “Jerry…are you afraid?” Our guide Azizi looked at me quizzically as we sat at the base camp, a few hours before our midnight summit attempt would begin. My condition had improved over the previous two days, though the hikes had been short and the pace plodding. The headache and nausea had mostly disappeared (thank you, Cipro); but my energy level still waned rapidly and my lungs churned at the slightest exertion, even a short downhill walk to the campsite outhouse. We had just measured our resting heart rate while sitting in the mess tent—mine had easily topped the group at a racing 95 beats per minute. My mind turned again over the deep unknowns of how my body would take that evening as I pondered Azizi’s question. I shrugged and nodded truthfully, thinking that was probably the desired response. “Don’t be afraid, Jerry,” he told me directly. “You will give up too easily tonight.” He gave me a disarming smile and pushed out of the tent into the dusk. I returned to my sleeping bag to rest while the remainder of the team slept, focusing my thoughts on just making it through the initial hour.
DAY 6. SUMMIT DAY. The final ascent began at 11:30 P.M. We left most of our gear at base camp, carrying little but water, a few snacks, and wearing as many layers of clothing as we could handle. Azizi placed me right behind him in the lead; Courtney came next, the other member of our group that was struggling with the altitude. Bringing up the rear was her husband Wayland, experiencing such obvious hardship that he burst into country singing after several steps. I glanced up and could see the glowing of headlamps slicing zigzag lines into the mountainside above me as we began to walk. I kept the 23rd Psalm echoing through my head, as my breathing inescapably quickened.
When we arrived at our first break point an hour later, I had developed a persistent light headache and clinging dizziness. I sat gingerly on a rock and forced myself to eat part of a half-frozen energy bar, while Courtney doubled over next to me in some likely form of nausea. After checking with her, Azizi came by and asked me if I wanted to keep going. I looked at him and nodded, hoping meekly to advance just a little further before my symptoms worsened and I was forced to finally relent. Satisfied that my mind and legs were strong enough, our young guide motioned for us to resume. I squeezed Courtney’s knee, waiting for her to return the gesture before rising and continuing to walk up the dark trail. As the minutes stretched onward, I came to realize that as long as I set a slow pace, the altitude’s effects were manageable—it was when I strained or moved abruptly that my head’s throbbing and spinning threatened to overwhelm me. Occasionally, Azizi would stop and check my tongue and eyes for the telltale signs of worsening altitude sickness, but he would always nod and continue to follow the flickering headlamps that stretched into the sky. Our breaks became infrequent, then stopped altogether as concerns about frostbite forced us to keep moving. By now, my energy level had dropped significantly, and every half-step seemed something of a small victory. Small but gradual waves of dizziness continued to strike me, and my breathing became increasingly labored, then hoarse, then audible as I found myself grunting with each exhausted breath. The trail beneath me changed to sand, marking the beginning of the final push as the first embers of dawn appeared. Carter and Keri encouraged me from behind, but it was drowned out in the cacophony of my intense struggling for air and inches of forward progress. In an instant, my mind somehow flashed back to the star-filled night before, the prayer that I had spoken on the mountainside. I immediately felt a tingling, a warming, a strengthening that rushed through my body, engulfing the resistance that racked it. My senses soared with a sense of presence I had never experienced, as I continued with each deliberate step, each thunderous breath. Behind me, a fiery gash had been ripped into the morning sky, washing the earth surrounding me in a stark red. Tears flooded my eyes—I realized for the first time that I was going to reach the mountain’s rim.
I pushed forward, the minutes stretching interminably, until I finally reached the edge of the volcano’s crater, to find….Jesus. His bright orange beard had turned a frosty white, which quivered as he smiled at me—Scott was undoubtedly wondering how I’d ever made it back in his Alaska. I turned to see Courtney approaching my side, then the rest of our team. “Jerry!!” Azizi hugged me joyfully, then pointed me with our assistant guide towards the summit, another several hundred meters around the rim on a slight incline. Wanting to get me back to lower altitudes quickly, the guide asked if he could help me make the final ascent. Not in any shape to argue, I nodded, allowing him and another guide to each hold one of my forearms as we slowly walked forward. We continued like this, side-by-side, for 45 minutes, finally reaching the sign that marked the top of Africa. The guide released my arm and picked up a frozen champagne bottle that laid among the rocks, and we posed for pictures…our full team that had finally finished together. Ready to descend, I motioned downward to our assistant guide, and we began back down the path. Our progress downward was rapid, and my conditions improved quickly as we decreased in altitude. Within hours, we were back at base camp eating lunch, and it would only be a day before we were on a van driving back to Moshi. As we ate that day, Keri told us of some Americans she had met on the mountain who had watched my final, assisted ascent around the rim to the summit. They were all talking about how “wonderful” it was, to see a blind man climb Mt. Kilimanjaro…
Since returning home, I have remarked to many how climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro is the hardest thing I have ever done. Yet those words seem incomplete, as there seemed so much more to the journey than individual achievement. As I ascended to evermore soaring heights, my weakness only became more pronounced and exposed. I remain convinced that I would not have been standing on the summit, were it not for the strength poured into me—by the Christ-filled love and care of my teammates, and the ultimate provision and grace of a far-greater power. Each of us had to overcome some level of struggle in our climb (maybe even Wayland, who actually sang most of the way up…), yet my prevailing feeling as I look back at our group on that extraordinary morning is not one of pride…but of awe, wonder, and humility. I pray that is something that we each can carry with us—growing from it, drawing from it, sharing it—in the peaks and valleys of life to come.
Our journey had begun five days before, as the five of us gathered at the gate marking the start of Mt. Kilimanjaro’s Machame Route. My friends Wayland and Courtney had traveled from Uganda, where they work at a Christian school. They had brought their childhood friend Keri, an English teacher at a university in South Korea. Rounding out the group were my college classmate Carter and I, who had flown in from DC. We had a full team of 21 Africans to support us—guides, cooks, and a large number of porters hired at the gate to help carry our packs, tents, and other equipment. Our lead guide was Azizi, a 23 year-old Tanzanian with a gentle, laid-back demeanor and an endearing tendency to leave out syllables in our names (I quickly became “Jerry”). He had an impish sense of humor which we quickly appreciated, and wore a collection of clothes donated from past climbers—a shirt from a bar in Iowa, a Spongebob Squarepants hat. “Those who go with Azizi will have no problems and will always be safe,” he told us. Figuring anyone who talks about himself in the third person must be legitimate, I began the hike with the utmost confidence.
DAY 1. The Machame route is known as the most beautiful route up the mountain, offering a stark variety of scenery and ecosystems during the climb. Our first day was spent trekking through a lush tropical forest. Feathery white strands known as “old man’s beard” descended from above us, forming a fine gossamer quilt covering the trees on the distant hillsides. Monkeys flitted on branches, the noise blending with the melody of vibrantly-colored birds that twittered across the valley. Porters passed us as we walked, carefully balancing an assortment of packs and gear on their backs, shoulders, and heads. “Pole, pole…” they intoned to us—the Swahili word for “slowly.” After several hours of hiking (partly in a rainstorm, which would become an afternoon ritual), we reached our campsite enshrouded in the clouds at 10,000 feet. The porters had already set up our tents, and tea was waiting for us in the mess tent. It wasn’t long before the mist cleared and we got our first glimpse of the glacier-streaked Kilimanjaro summit, bathed with a pink glow from the sunset. There were a number of other hikers sharing our campsite, and we chatted excitedly with a few of them as we took in the view. We especially connected with an American named Scott from Alaska. He had bright red hair and a long beard, leading some of the guides to refer to him as “Jesus.” We would see them throughout the remainder of the climb. I turned in early as the darkness grew, for what would be my first night of restless sleep.
DAY 3. I woke up the morning of the third day with a rumble in my stomach. I had made it to our campsite of 12,000 feet without issues, other than some difficulty sleeping. This day promised to be the toughest to date, with a morning climb to 16,000 feet, then a descent back to 12,000 feet for the night. My appetite was dwindling, but I ate a small breakfast and tried to gear myself for the challenge ahead. Shortly after mid-morning, we broke camp and began to follow the snaking path up the ridge. The forest of the first day had transitioned to vast moorland, then desert. Cascading rock walls stretched into the distance, their shaded outlines all pointing like fingers to the bright solitary peak that shone above us in the sunlight. As we climbed higher, an expanse of cloud followed us up the valley, coming closer and closer until it swallowed us into a chilly mist. As we approached the soaring Lava Tower that marked the highest elevation of the day, my stomach pain had grown significantly, becoming worse when we stopped for breaks. Yet breathing had become difficult, and an unaccustomed lethargy and exhaustion was starting to seep through my body that made breaks unavoidable. By the time we finally reached the tower to stop for lunch, a light headache and small waves of nausea were running through me as snow swirled around us. Azizi noticed my pale complexion and quickly started our descent down the other side of the tower, keeping a close eye on me. I moved slowly, taking short steps, but the fatigue continued—causing me to occasionally stumble and even fall as my balance faltered. It took several hours, but we finally reached our next campsite at the lower elevation by late afternoon. I collapsed into my tent, hoping that rest might begin to assuage the weakness I felt. I took some Cipro for the turning of my stomach, and forced myself to swallow a small bit of the bread and soup that the team brought to my tent. They were quite concerned about my state, Carter especially coming frequently to check on me and make sure I was eating. I knew if my condition didn’t improve, I wouldn’t be able to continue the following morning. I thought back to the signs of altitude sickness I had studied at home, debilitating effects that could compound and eventually lead even to death, and my hopes and goals for the trip radically shifted. My shaken mind raced as I drifted towards an uneven sleep, pensively waiting to see how my body would handle the next day…
DAY 5. “Jerry…are you afraid?” Our guide Azizi looked at me quizzically as we sat at the base camp, a few hours before our midnight summit attempt would begin. My condition had improved over the previous two days, though the hikes had been short and the pace plodding. The headache and nausea had mostly disappeared (thank you, Cipro); but my energy level still waned rapidly and my lungs churned at the slightest exertion, even a short downhill walk to the campsite outhouse. We had just measured our resting heart rate while sitting in the mess tent—mine had easily topped the group at a racing 95 beats per minute. My mind turned again over the deep unknowns of how my body would take that evening as I pondered Azizi’s question. I shrugged and nodded truthfully, thinking that was probably the desired response. “Don’t be afraid, Jerry,” he told me directly. “You will give up too easily tonight.” He gave me a disarming smile and pushed out of the tent into the dusk. I returned to my sleeping bag to rest while the remainder of the team slept, focusing my thoughts on just making it through the initial hour.
DAY 6. SUMMIT DAY. The final ascent began at 11:30 P.M. We left most of our gear at base camp, carrying little but water, a few snacks, and wearing as many layers of clothing as we could handle. Azizi placed me right behind him in the lead; Courtney came next, the other member of our group that was struggling with the altitude. Bringing up the rear was her husband Wayland, experiencing such obvious hardship that he burst into country singing after several steps. I glanced up and could see the glowing of headlamps slicing zigzag lines into the mountainside above me as we began to walk. I kept the 23rd Psalm echoing through my head, as my breathing inescapably quickened.
When we arrived at our first break point an hour later, I had developed a persistent light headache and clinging dizziness. I sat gingerly on a rock and forced myself to eat part of a half-frozen energy bar, while Courtney doubled over next to me in some likely form of nausea. After checking with her, Azizi came by and asked me if I wanted to keep going. I looked at him and nodded, hoping meekly to advance just a little further before my symptoms worsened and I was forced to finally relent. Satisfied that my mind and legs were strong enough, our young guide motioned for us to resume. I squeezed Courtney’s knee, waiting for her to return the gesture before rising and continuing to walk up the dark trail. As the minutes stretched onward, I came to realize that as long as I set a slow pace, the altitude’s effects were manageable—it was when I strained or moved abruptly that my head’s throbbing and spinning threatened to overwhelm me. Occasionally, Azizi would stop and check my tongue and eyes for the telltale signs of worsening altitude sickness, but he would always nod and continue to follow the flickering headlamps that stretched into the sky. Our breaks became infrequent, then stopped altogether as concerns about frostbite forced us to keep moving. By now, my energy level had dropped significantly, and every half-step seemed something of a small victory. Small but gradual waves of dizziness continued to strike me, and my breathing became increasingly labored, then hoarse, then audible as I found myself grunting with each exhausted breath. The trail beneath me changed to sand, marking the beginning of the final push as the first embers of dawn appeared. Carter and Keri encouraged me from behind, but it was drowned out in the cacophony of my intense struggling for air and inches of forward progress. In an instant, my mind somehow flashed back to the star-filled night before, the prayer that I had spoken on the mountainside. I immediately felt a tingling, a warming, a strengthening that rushed through my body, engulfing the resistance that racked it. My senses soared with a sense of presence I had never experienced, as I continued with each deliberate step, each thunderous breath. Behind me, a fiery gash had been ripped into the morning sky, washing the earth surrounding me in a stark red. Tears flooded my eyes—I realized for the first time that I was going to reach the mountain’s rim.
I pushed forward, the minutes stretching interminably, until I finally reached the edge of the volcano’s crater, to find….Jesus. His bright orange beard had turned a frosty white, which quivered as he smiled at me—Scott was undoubtedly wondering how I’d ever made it back in his Alaska. I turned to see Courtney approaching my side, then the rest of our team. “Jerry!!” Azizi hugged me joyfully, then pointed me with our assistant guide towards the summit, another several hundred meters around the rim on a slight incline. Wanting to get me back to lower altitudes quickly, the guide asked if he could help me make the final ascent. Not in any shape to argue, I nodded, allowing him and another guide to each hold one of my forearms as we slowly walked forward. We continued like this, side-by-side, for 45 minutes, finally reaching the sign that marked the top of Africa. The guide released my arm and picked up a frozen champagne bottle that laid among the rocks, and we posed for pictures…our full team that had finally finished together. Ready to descend, I motioned downward to our assistant guide, and we began back down the path. Our progress downward was rapid, and my conditions improved quickly as we decreased in altitude. Within hours, we were back at base camp eating lunch, and it would only be a day before we were on a van driving back to Moshi. As we ate that day, Keri told us of some Americans she had met on the mountain who had watched my final, assisted ascent around the rim to the summit. They were all talking about how “wonderful” it was, to see a blind man climb Mt. Kilimanjaro…
Since returning home, I have remarked to many how climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro is the hardest thing I have ever done. Yet those words seem incomplete, as there seemed so much more to the journey than individual achievement. As I ascended to evermore soaring heights, my weakness only became more pronounced and exposed. I remain convinced that I would not have been standing on the summit, were it not for the strength poured into me—by the Christ-filled love and care of my teammates, and the ultimate provision and grace of a far-greater power. Each of us had to overcome some level of struggle in our climb (maybe even Wayland, who actually sang most of the way up…), yet my prevailing feeling as I look back at our group on that extraordinary morning is not one of pride…but of awe, wonder, and humility. I pray that is something that we each can carry with us—growing from it, drawing from it, sharing it—in the peaks and valleys of life to come.
