Long-distance backpacking bleeds trapped steam out of the radiators of the mind. It's a welcome opportunity to commune with nature and say howdy to your inner self. Still, there are twenty-four hours in a day, and we were spending more than a week on Kilimanjaro. Frankly, how many of us found either nature or our inner selves that interesting? During our six-night, seven-day sojourn up the mountain, we encountered just six other people: all Austrians, all of whose outer selves spoke no English. Thus, intra-group banter was the lime we sucked on to stave off scurvy.

Unfortunately, Tom and Pam, our North Dakota love birds, were not natural comminglers. (In some ways a blessing, since Tom had contracted a scabrous rash that was rampaging across his neck and chest like a Malibu brush fire.) David had a knack for jump-starting conversation, but was wildly unpredictable in his choice of subject matter. One day he'd get us arguing like radio call-in crazies about gun control or street crime. The next day we would be passing through a gorgeous sprawl of East Africa and he'd pipe up, "So, Lloyd, tell us about your medical insurance plan."

Thank heavens Scott was always good for an anecdote about drinking goat's blood or a quick tip on how to dig out from under an avalanche. Chatting with Lloyd could be a grab bag of surprises. While rest stepping along, he nonchalantly noted that Australia boasts the longest uninterrupted stretch of perfectly straight, perfectly level railroad track in the world: 250 miles. Out of the blue he would ponder how Romulans, those macho archenemies of Star Trek's Captain Picard, might climb Mount Kilimanjaro. "Probably one rest break a day," Lloyd mused. "And they'd put some extra rocks in their packs."

"I'm putting all my pictures on CD-ROM and editing this stuff out," he declared one day as we enter our ready-made camp. "You think I'm gonna show my friends this?"

The climbing gods don't fancy big talkers. A few days later, as David bent over to puke at the side of the trail, I found it hard to resist asking whether he was still in the mood to pitch a tent. But nobody had the energy or the inclination to be so mean. David may have been the first to feed the flowers, but not the only one to exhibit the adverse effects of high altitude.

I considered myself lucky. So far my main symptom had been insomnia. I tried every lubricant I could think of to slide into unconsciousness: reading, chamomile tea, homeopathic sleeping pills, prescription sleeping pills. My eyelids remained window shades stuck in the up position.

In many ways, high-altitude trekking amounts to taking a long walk toward senility. Body and mind slowly crumble. With the notable exception of Scott (whose upside down biochemistry makes him as perky as a weather girl when oxygen is in short supply), we were turning into geezers. Ratty beards sprouted. Fingers swelled. Faces grew puffy and wrinkled. Our rest steps slowed to a funereal pace. We got gaseous. Conversation became obsessively focused on one topic: health.

Why do people put themselves through this wringer? In addition to the obvious attraction of a stunning, easily accessible super-mountain, personal sirens have beckoned each of us to Kili. David yearned to climb the highest peaks on all seven continents. North Dakota Tom and Pam are backwoods buffs who wanted a rigorous honeymoon experience they could both enjoy. Lloyd likes to saunter up mountains.

I live in Washington, D.C., which has all the topographical diversity of a manhole cover. My high-altitude experience had consisted of jogging up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Although I knew that Kilimanjaro was not beyond the capability of a reasonably fit novice, I did not yet know about the Western Breach.

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