TRESPASSERS IN THE REALM OF THE GODS
- Niki Sepsas

"Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go." T. S. Eliot

General William Tecumseh Sherman remarked in the 1860's to a fawning Washington press corps that there was only one man in the army who could equal him in the use of expletives and that man was George Armstrong Custer. General Sherman, obviously, had not been traveling with me for the past four days. There is little doubt that both he and Custer would have blushed ashamedly had they been within earshot of the tapestry of colorful and descriptive phrases I was weaving as I made my way up the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak on the African continent.

My oxygen-starved brain was about to shut down a body that several hours earlier had begun to question whether I would survive to stand on the 19,340-foot summit. The nausea and total fatigue brought on by altitude sickness had drained most of my physical resources and I was reduced to plodding along in a step-breathe-step-breathe stupor. I was now less than 300 feet below the summit but breathing heavily and wondering if I had finally hit the wall.

In the pink glow of dawn, I glanced at some of my traveling companions and was pleased to see that most were sharing my pain, disorientation, and exhaustion. I was reserving a few of my choicest expletives for them for convincing me that standing on one of the summits of the world's seven continents was something we had to do. This was mostly their fault, I mused.

They were a group of middle-aged adrenaline junkies intent on some type of an adventure trip. "How about a Mount Kilimanjaro climb?" one suggested over dinner one evening at a restaurant in downtown Birmingham where we frequently met to discuss our travels and other irrational behavior. "It's one of the seven summits of the world and it looks like it's just a high altitude hike," they suggested. "I bet we could do it."

"I think it's more than just a hike," I countered. As a tour guide for the past 15 years, I had taken groups several times to Kenya and Tanzania and had seen the mountain's giant cone rising majestically into the clouds over the plains of east Africa. While "Kili" is not considered a technical climb in the sense of an Everest expedition, the peak's summit is covered with snowfields and glacial ice, and any climb, technical or not, at 19,000 feet is serious. Only about one in four climbers who attempt Kilimanjaro actually reach the summit. The rest are turned back by altitude sickness, conditioning, and other afflictions. In 1998, a total of 12 people died attempting to summit the peak. The mountain is very unforgiving for those who are unprepared or do not afford it adequate respect.

"Come on," they urged. "Find us an expedition outfitter with guides and porters and let's do it."

Four months and almost 9,000 miles later, our expedition of eight would-be mountaineers was descending the stairway onto the tarmac at Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi, Kenya. Diversity was our byword. A more unlikely group of adventurers probably never hoisted backpacks.

My sister, Christy, and my brother-in-law, Bucky, were the natural leaders of the group and the only two that our friends at home felt would achieve the summit. A surgeon at Medical Center East in Birmingham, Bucky was a veteran of two Ironman Triathlons in Hawaii, and had dozens of other triathlons and marathons under his belt. Christy had also crossed the finish line of countless marathons, triathlons, and 10-k races over the years. Both were in their fifties and in top shape. These two were the Animals.

At the other end of the spectrum were the Mortals, six recreational athletes who had pinned our hopes of walking on the roof of Africa on four months of stepped up training and duffel bags filled with the latest in expedition clothing and equipment. John, an architect, Oksana, a pulmonary research doctor at UAB, and Bob, an editor at The Birmingham News, were in their forties and active in various physical activities. At sixty-something and holding, Pete was the elder statesman of the group, and had made a name for himself in the restaurant business in Birmingham. And then there was George, another mid-forties restaurant man and the self-appointed alpha male of the group. We could count on him to supply enough jokes, stories, and zany antics to make light of any situation that would befall the group. He and Pete were possessed of the same dogged determination that took them up and down the mountains in their native village of Tsitalia in Greece's Peloponnese. We would soon see if it was enough to sustain them on Kilimanjaro. I ranked myself somewhere among the Mortals.

The common thread binding all of us was a commitment to give the venture our very best effort. None of us knew how we would fare in the thin air at which we would be spending six days on the climb. Stories of altitude sickness and the myriad problems that afflict low-level creatures such as ourselves occupied most of our travel time on the 17 hours of air time necessary to bring us to Africa. After overnighting at our hotel in Nairobi, we faced another full day of bone-rattling travel, this time bouncing across the washboard roads of Kenya and Tanzania, to the Marangu Hotel near the town of Moshi at the base of Kilimanjaro. The adventure was about to begin.

The verdant lawns, brilliant bougainvillea, and shady patios of our hotel were colorful props for one of the most spectacular vistas imaginable. The snow covered summit of Kilimanjaro looked down on us from a distance as we enjoyed our temporary luxury. "Come on," it seemed to say. "Give it your best shot, but be prepared."

A briefing lecture at the hotel on the night prior to beginning the climb proved invaluable. The wealth of information presented by the hotel manager added to the volumes of study materials we received from Jambo! Travels, our California-based expedition outfitter. The session was punctuated, however, by the embarrassing snoring and snorts emanating from several of our group who, despite valiant efforts to remain awake, succumbed to the jet lag and dozed off. They would pay for their sins later on the mountain.

Our group had opted for the six day Machame Trail as our route to the summit. The Marangu Trail, an alternate five-day ascent, dubbed the 'Coca-Cola Route' because of its shorter duration and easier grade, has become the more popular choice for many climbers and, consequently, has become more crowded. While our route was steeper and more difficult, it was also more scenic and we hoped to benefit from the additional day our bodies would have to acclimatize to the altitude.

DAY ONE
We met our guides and porters after breakfast. All were Tanzanians and were disgustingly fit. None appeared to tip the scales at over 130 pounds. In contrast to our high tech hiking boots and miracle weave clothing, the porters wore old shoes and T-shirts. Could they possibly carry our duffel bags crammed with long underwear, socks, gloves, vests, and jackets made from the latest in space-age fibers, treated fabrics, and water repellent and wind resistant clothing which we hoped would take us to the summit? It didn't take long to find out.

We were each assigned a personal porter who placed our individual duffel into an old burlap bag, hoisted it on his head, and began making his way up the trail as if he was strolling through the park. Other porters carried the tents, food, pots and pans, and other accouterments necessary to sustain life, albeit with a certain degree of comfort, on a six-day trek.

Beginning the climb in a thick tropical setting at about 5,500 feet, we slogged along behind our guides picking our way over tree roots and shoe-sucking mud that reduced our pace to about one mile per hour. We suffered the embarrassment of stopping numerous times during the day and moving off the muddy trail to allow the porters to whiz by us at a pace that made us marvel. Even with the lighter day packs we carried, we would have been hard pressed to maintain the pace at which they climbed with 30 pounds balanced on their heads.

Humiliation gradually turned into acceptance, however, and sunset found us in a level area at around 9,200 feet where we would camp for the night. The porters had our tents set up and hot tea was waiting. A pan of warm water was removed from the fire and brought to us for a refreshing wash-up before dinner. The temperature which, during the day, had hovered in the 70's at our lower elevation, gradually dropped as we climbed higher, and it plummeted with the setting sun. The crystal clarity of the evening sky meant that the mercury overnight would dip into the low 40's. Crawling over, under, and on top of each other in the painfully tiny mess tent, we quickly devoured the mounds of pasta, chicken, and cabbage the porters delivered. The entire feast was washed down with the ubiquitous tea we would come to know so well and from water taken directly from mountain streams. After musing over the day's events and the requisite hypnotic gazing into the campfire, it was off to bed by eight o'clock.

DAY TWO
Following the first of many nights which would be punctuated by Richter-scale snoring resonating from our cluster of tents, we devoured a huge breakfast of fruit, toast, and eggs liberally sprinkled with the ashes that invariably find their way into camp cooking. We were on the trail by eight. The ascent was noticeably steeper now through moorland as we were above the treeline. We were treated to splendid views of the plains of Tanzania below us stretching endlessly to the horizon.

Our unvarying trail lunch for the next six days consisted of a hard boiled egg, banana, white bread sandwich, and cookie. After making quick work of those delicacies, we climbed a rock face that required more skill to negotiate than we had anticipated. We then traversed the Shira plateau, a rocky, wind-swept promontory that afforded us incredible views of Kilimanjaro's peak looming 7,000 feet above us as a full moon rose in a flawless sky. We were at 12,200 feet now and the thinner air had become icy. I felt sure it would carry the evening's cacophony of snoring even better than the heavier air below. We had climbed about 7,000 feet and felt pretty good, but we knew that the most difficult 7,000 feet still lay between us and the summit.

DAY THREE
On the trail early again the next morning, we were now moving at a much slower, measured pace set by our head guide, Gaudence. The terrain, now resembling a classic moonscape, was littered with rocks and boulders ranging in size from smaller than a fist to larger than a barn. Had we seen a NASA crew training in a lunar rover for their exploration of the moon's surface we would not have been surprised.

Lunch was at about 15,200 feet, higher than any of us had previously been. We passed a volcanic plug called Lava Tower above which Kibo Peak soared almost 4,000 feet. Mind boggling views surrounded us as we began a descent into the Barranco Valley. Each of us felt pangs of regret knowing that the 3,000 feet we had worked so hard to gain that morning would now be lost as we descended down to 12,500 feet to Camp Three.

After an exhausting eight hours climbing and descending, we arrived at the campsite near a stream in the valley below Kibo Peak's breach wall. Despite heavy clouds swirling up through the narrow defile from the lowlands, the views of the mountain were magnificent. From our vantage point, however, we wondered how our route of climb the next day would take us around the near vertical Barranco Wall that towered forbiddingly on the other side of the valley.

DAY FOUR
We had discovered by now that the war stories we had heard of how altitude affects the body are totally true. Attempting to keep the brain supplied with oxygen, the body shuts or slows down many of its other functions. Sleep, if it comes at all, is brief and fitful. Appetite is non-existent, and we had to force ourselves to eat to maintain adequate strength reserves for what lay ahead. Headaches and nausea are common.

We learned that our route of ascent would be straight up the Barranco Wall, a 665 foot rock face that appeared to us to be impossible until we saw our porters slowly making their way up the cliff. Luckily, we discovered that the lava rock had good natural hand and foot holds and, after an hour and a half of hand-over-hand anxiety, found ourselves on the top. An eye-searing sun in a cobalt blue sky made even more dazzling the southern icefields and glaciers of Kibo Peak which were now directly above us. This peak, like mountains in general, had the power to inspire the loftiest thoughts in the lowliest of mortals.

A long afternoon through the Karanga Valley and up ever steeper slopes brought us to Camp Four. At 15,500 feet, we were now 1,000 feet higher than anywhere in the continental United States. Sleep, again, was elusive, and we had to force ourselves to eat before wrapping up in our sleeping bags.

DAY FIVE
Our guides rustled us out of our tents at eleven p.m. after resting for only about five hours. The final ascent of Kilimanjaro begins at midnight in order to arrive at the summit in early morning. Then comes the descent back to Camp Four and further down the mountain. It becomes an 18-hour day for those fortunate enough to have reached the top. I honestly could not remember, even during three years in the army, ever dreading leaving a tent as much as I did that night.

Despite our layers of expedition clothing, we shivered and stamped our feet in the frigid single digit temperature waiting to begin the ascent. An incredibly bright full moon illuminated the mountain and its brilliant snowfields stretching down its slopes like long, slender fingers beckoning us to the top. Switching on our headlamps, we fell in line behind Gaudence and began slowly plodding our way ever upward, each of us struggling with our own personal lactic acid dragon. Whereas on the previous four days we had talked, sang, laughed, cracked jokes, and played trivia during the day's climb, the next six hours would be as silent as a tomb. The only sounds were our labored breathing and the crunching of our boots in the volcanic scree underfoot.

The icy fingers of the wind found their way into my parka as we climbed a cliff toward the Rebman Glacier. Entering a gap between two glaciers, we now had the full effect of the wind blowing across ice rather than rock. I tried to focus on more pleasant thoughts - hot food, Florida beaches, cold beer, etc.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sun finally crested the horizon. None of us had ever beheld a more welcome sunrise. While it brought little heat to our frozen world, the sunshine boosted our spirits as it rolled back the long, painful veil of the night. At seven am, Gaudence dropped his pack and removed a thermos of hot tea. His toothpaste-commercial smile was even more heartening.

"This is Stella's Point," he announced, "the rim of the crater. Only 340 feet more to the summit. We all make it."

Buoyed by his confidence, we snapped a few photographs of the unforgettable sunrise and gulped down our tea. Other than the headaches and nausea from the altitude, we felt like we were in good enough shape to go on. An hour and a half later we hugged, danced, and high-fived each other on the roof of Africa. The 360-degree panorama bankrupted the English language and took the breath away. The giant glacier with its blinding whiteness on one side and the crater of the extinct volcano falling away on the other. Snowfields, ice, and wind-carved boulders all around. And a marker on the highest point of the peak announcing the altitude. All of Africa stretched at our feet. We savored the moment, silent acolytes in this temple of the gods.

The descent to our last camp took only about two and a half hours. We breezed down the steep slope that we had taken six hours to laboriously wheeze and gasp over on the way up. After a brief rest and a little soup, we continued on for four more exhausting hours to Camp Five at 10,200 feet. The altitude sickness that had so mysteriously crept over us during the ascent was just as mysteriously vanishing as we descended. The following day, eight exhausted and extremely dirty climbers proudly signed the guest book of the Mweka Gate at the foot of the mountain. Our chests jutted out slightly farther when we found that the three parties consisting of 14 people that were climbing the same route we were on had failed to put a single member of their teams on the summit.

The campfire of our special journey has now dwindled to crimson coals. The long hours on the planes returning us home gave us time to put the events of the last week in perspective. We harbored no illusions of having accomplished anything spectacular on the trip. Scores of people climb Kilimanjaro every year. We were certainly not the first nor would we be the last to summit the peak. But a great many more fail to do what we had done and, tragically enough, a handful die every year attempting it.

But each of us, the Animals as well as the Mortals, brought something back from the mountain. We had not conquered Kilimanjaro - we had experienced it. It is said that the human body contains 637 muscles - we had become reacquainted with each and every one. We learned a great deal about a beautiful country and a wonderful people. And, in the process, we learned something new about ourselves.

Entertainer Danny Kaye once remarked that "Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can". A great deal of paint had been splattered on each of our individual canvasses during those days on Mount Kilimanjaro.