Climbing Kilimanjaro, Kmart Style

Porters haul the gear for most hikers on Kilimanjaro

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So, with more than our fair share of reservations, we set off to conquer Kilimanjaro with gear whose only purpose would be to provide hours of amusement for fellow climbers. The"glacier glasses" were made from the lightest shade of plastic currently in manufacture. My ensemble was augmented by a rust-orange snowmobile hat, pink reversible nylon jacket, and some first-generation aquamarine Lycra pants that could only have been purchased by a Frenchman; they clung tighter than most designer jeans and the fly was sharp enough to draw blood.

We picked up John and Clair, a young English couple, en route. Apparently, they would be joining Jason and me on our "private tour." At the drop-off point, our guide, Lucas, sent us all ahead with a porter named Tumaine (pronounced "Two-man") while he sorted out the rest of the porters. He explained that we would require two porters each; one to carry our gear, the other to haul the tents and food. This seemed ostentatious, but after 30 minutes hauling my own gear and making little progress, I realized the futility of the decision and handed over my pack.

The first five hours of trekking took us through rain forest along a mud trail more than a foot deep in most places. With each step, we made a comical sloppy suction noise.

John was a loquacious 20-year-old. He had an entertaining, albeit totally irrelevant, quip about everything. Here are a few of my favorites:"I like bite-size Snickers so much better than regular size;" "We should have a catapult on this mountain, and shoot people into a net suspended in the clouds;" and "I'm going to see how many days I can go without changing my boxer shorts." I don't think he stopped talking for more than a few seconds during the first day, and that occurred while he was drinking.

With our packs coming up behind us, along with lunch, we only had two canteens of water and a few chocolate bars among the four of us. We finished off the water, thinking Lucas and the porters would catch up, but they never did. Dehydrated, we pressed on, trying to reach the 10,000-foot camp before dark. No luck. After an hour of stumbling up the trail without flashlights, we reached Muchamie Camp. Six or seven other, better-organized tour groups had already set up their tents and had dinner hours before.

After a quick meal, I climbed into my sleeping bag, which was perfect . . . for a seven-year-old. It came up to my stomach. And that's only when it was half unzipped so I could squeeze my waist in. It never really got much higher than my knees because the porters—basically nice guys who clearly did not have the world's most desirable jobs—set up our tent, a model that may have been cutting edge in the early 1960s, on a slope better suited for skateboarding. I slept in my hat, gloves, scarf, and jacket and still managed to freeze. Around 2 a.m., I cuddled up to Jason, praying he wouldn't wake up and notice.

The next morning began with our first view of the summit; it was stunning but farther away and steeper than I'd imagined. Lucas explained that the top usually clouds up during the day but clears by sunset. My eyes remained transfixed on the peak until it disappeared.We only had a few hours to walk to the next camp, Shira, at 11,500 feet, where we would stay for two nights to acclimatize; a fairly tame itinerary so far. The bigger problems (and bigger blisters), I had a feeling, were still ahead.