Step. Pause. Step. Pause.... |
Not to worry; nothing about Kilimanjaro comes easy. Just getting to the trailhead can be a chore. On a warm Sunday morning we piled into two safari vehicles waiting outside our hotel in the town of Arusha, northern Tanzania's main starting point for bush excursions. The paved road soon turned into a dusty dirt road, which then degenerated into a bone-rattling succession of pot-holes.
After several axle-busting hours we began to head uphill. No more mud huts and stick-figure trees. We entered a kind of sparsely-populated, African-Alpine forest speckled with small but sturdy farmhouses made of wood. The vehicles eventually abandoned the track and bushwhacked off into thick undergrowth, plowing another mile or so before lurching to a halt in a crude clearing. The African-Alpine forest has transformed itself into a jungle.
Our Tanzanian crew is ready and waiting, decked out in mismatched clothing—hand-me-down gifts from previous climbers, I later learn. We exchanged introductory hellos using the all-purpose Swahili greeting jambo, devoured a quick lunch of fresh fruit and sandwiches, then slipped on our day packs as Scott issued last-minute instructions. We hadn't taken a meaningful step, he reminded us, yet we were already 6,500 feet above sea level. Drink plenty of fluids. Purify all water. And, most important, don't rush. Pole pole, the Swahili word for "slowly," was to be our precautionary mantra.
"Expend as little energy as possible, whenever possible," Scott added. "I want you to let your breathing control your pace, as opposed to letting your pace control your breathing."
He demonstrated the "rest step," a staccato walk designed to keep our metabolic kettles from boiling over in high-altitude conditions. The rest step is pole pole in action: step, pause one beat before pushing off the back foot, take another step, pause another beat.
Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. That is how we marched single-file into the rain forest to do battle with mighty Kilimanjaro. We looked like conga dancers crossing a minefield. A canopy of trees formed an umbrella overhead that obliterated the view. The mountain lay somewhere up ahead. Waiting. Looming. Scott chose to lag behind the pack; busy snapping photos and executing his rest step to perfection. He usually let assistant guide Alan Phillemon, a young Tanzanian with an excellent command of English and of flora and fauna, take the lead.
Alan also turned out to be an authority on international climbers.
"The Norwegians are the best," Alan told us. "They are tough."
Germans and Americans bear up well, while the Japanese, who believe they can will themselves ever higher, drive the guides crazy Alan knew a Japanese student on a tight schedule who tried to do the entire climb in one day. A rescue team scooped him up after he collapsed in a heap.
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