The time I climbed Mt. Kenya
Part I of a ?? part series
I zip up my sleeping bag as far as it will go and scrunch down in it. I’m wearing all my clothes, including a beanie, and I’m still cold. The wan glow of my Kindle silhouettes the rows of bunk beds filled with other hikers. A symphony of soft snoring forms white noise. A stranger farts in the distance.
I’m finally getting comfortable and nodding off when my Diamox-addled bladder nags me for the 532nd time today. I deeply regret those three sips of water I had 30 minutes ago. Dammit, fool, you just had to wash the pills down with something, didn’t you. I kick myself for not bringing adult diapers.
And then I ask myself yet again—What the hell am I doing here?
I can’t remember the first time I saw Mt. Kenya, but it had to be soon after we moved to Nyeri, set near its base, when I was eight. Rising to over 17,000 feet above sea level, her peaks anomalously glistened with ice from their equatorial perch, like an iPhone accidentally left on the set of a period film. You could almost see the mountain from our yard, but for the neighbors’ tree. My mother took that tree as a personal affront. I think she even sent my dad over to ask if they would cut it back. They must have declined, because she still bemoans our obstructed view decades later.
Despite the tragically situated vegetation, I saw Mt. Kenya plenty as a child, at least during the warmer months, when she didn’t pull her covers of her head immediately upon waking. When we pulled out of our drive and headed down the road toward town, she towered over us. As I played on the football field at my primary school, she supervised. As we ate lunch on the veranda of the Outspan Hotel, she inspected our plates. And every year as we sang Easter hymns at dawn on the expansive, rolling lawn of another missionary family, she dressed herself in breathtaking pastels.
The Kikuyu people thought Mt. Kenya—or Kirinyaga, as they called her—was sacred, the dwelling place of God, or Ngai. But I don’t think any of them worshipped her like my parents did. Every glimpse was met with ooohs and ahhhhs and the clicking of a camera. I believe their collection of Mt. Kenya photographs numbers in the thousands. You never knew if today was the day you’d take The Perfect Mt. Kenya Picture, at which point her beauty would somehow be yours forever, seeping into your cells through dark room magic.
“Doesn’t Mt. Kenya look just gorgeous today?” my mother would ask her English students at the Kenyan high school where she taught.
They stared at her blankly and shrugged, as if she were asking if they had ever tasted water.
“Are you nervous? You look nervous,” my friend Moses said for the tenth time since he picked me up from the Nairobi airport. He arranged my climb and has organized all our family’s and many friends’ safaris for several years now. 1
“Would you quit asking? I am NOT nervous. I think YOU are nervous,” I replied. “You're just worried I’m gonna die and your safari business will take a hit.”
“I don’t know how to feel about you going without me. Should I feel envy or pity for you? I don’t know,” he said.
“I’ll tell you when I get down.”
We reached the tour company office where we met my guide and porters. Guide Sammy instilled immediate confidence. He was older than me and had been climbing the mountain since 1987. As long as his knees held up, or even if they didn’t, I had no doubt he could keep me alive. It helped that Moses had basically informed him he shouldn’t bother to return without me, and in good condition. Sammy’s last call before leaving the phone zone and his first one upon reentering it was to Moses, assuring him I was going to survive.
We picked up some supplies and headed for the park gate. This first day would be short, just a few hours up to a camp at around 11,000 feet.
My main worry was wild animals. Namely Cape buffalo and elephants, both of which live on Mt. Kenya and seem to enjoy murdering humans. Not even for food, either, just as a hobby. I recall hearing about a woman killed by an elephant on Mt. Kenya when I was a child.
I had mentioned this concern to Moses months ago. He assured me the guides were so expert, they were telepathically connected to the animals and knew exactly where they enjoyed strolling within several inches. They could 100% avoid them. I didn’t really believe that, but I was willing to try.
Now I asked Sammy about this as we hiked and as I scanned every bush and tree for any sign that a pissed off member of the Big 5 was eagerly awaiting my arrival.
Sammy looked pensive. Then he told me about the time he was he saw a tourist approach an elephant on foot for a better picture.
“The elephant first rammed him with his tusk. It went right through him. Then he threw him on the ground. Then he stomped on him. All of his insides went all over the ground. I will never forget it,” he said. “But, no worries.”
Somehow I had worries. I continued to pivot my head back and forth, scanning, listening, hoping, praying. I really didn’t want to become an elephant piñata.
It was right about then I discovered that when the brim of my sunhat brushed the top of my backpack, it sounded exactly like an animal growling. This was not information I retained, however. For the first of many times, I screamed and ran, leaving Sammy bewildered, then highly amused, in my dust.
The weather was another concern. July is supposed to be an ideal, dry month for climbing. But Kenya’s weather had been as irregular as a perimenopausal lady this year. And July had been wet. And Day One on Mt. Kenya looked not great, completely socked in with clouds. Fortunately we got to camp before the heavens opened up. It rained and rained and rained.
“This is not normal,” Sammy said with concern. “But I bet it will be clear in the morning, and we’ll get a nice view of the mountain.” One could only hope. I began to worry I would expend all this energy for a great view of Mt. Kenya—and the photo of my parents’ dreams!—and only see a bunch of clouds that I could have seen from a chair.
But my biggest problem was just beginning. A problem with a Capital Pee.
I am happy to help you book a trip with Moses! I’m actually leading a group next year, hopefully will become a regular thing.
I want the rest of the story. Now! (Please And Thank You)😄
Sounds like a great trip into the heart of darkness