How Kilimanjaro Almost Killed Me

by Joybelle Barlow (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Tanzania

We’re all drawn to the highs and lows of life - reaching the southernmost point of South America or racing to the top of Mont Blanc. It took me reaching my lowest point in life to commit to a high: summiting the tallest peak in Africa. Mount Kilimanjaro is the world’s highest free-standing mountain, Africa’s highest point, and one of the world’s largest volcanoes. Summiting Kilimanjaro sounded so impressive, so sexy. So, I raced full speed ahead through my quarter-life crisis, found the cheapest hiking guide with the best reviews, and made my way to Tanzania. The guide picked me up from the airport for a leisurely lunch, which resurfaced in the bathroom a few hours later. Food poisoning had taken over. I had heard that food poisoning was bad, but after eight hours of throwing up my hopes and dreams, I decided it sucked. I woke up the next day nauseous and shaky, slowly searching for the energy to tie my hiking boots and zip my backpack. I had come this far and wasn’t going to back out now. I forced down two hamburger buns, a banana, and a shot of espresso, and our trekking group set off. The next three days were bearable: four to five hours of hiking followed by hibernation in our tents. On day four, however, we woke up to pouring rain, and 30 minutes into our hike, we were soaked. The rain eventually became ice. By the time we reached the camp and got our tent set up, I couldn’t feel my feet and my legs were numb. Our sleeping bags were soaked from the downpour, and our spare clothes had frosted over. We remained exhausted and trembling until our guide, Nickson, prepped us with the itinerary for the following day. Beginning at midnight, we’d start our ascent to the top, Kilimanjaro’s Uhuru Peak. I began the summit hiking like a zombie from The Walking Dead. Hours dribbled on as we passed people vomiting to the left and defecating to the right. Others were being led back down by their guides, unable to go any further without serious risk to their health. As we kept climbing I started thinking about the man who passed away the day before from a heart attack near the summit. He was the seventh death this season. Nickson could see me weakening and assured me we were only 40 minutes from Uhuru Peak. But I had come to my limit, and was physically exhausted. I couldn’t feel my legs, couldn’t think straight, and couldn’t stand up. Nickson helped me up, cupped my face, and said, “You haven’t come this far to quit now. You are a strong independent woman. You can do this.” His words became my mantra - I am a strong, independent woman. I can do this. So we pushed on. One hour later, surrounded by clouds, Uhuru Peak reared its head. Framed with snow, it read, “Congratulations, you are now at Uhuru Peak Tanzania, 5895 M/1934 Ft.” Kilimanjaro is a world heritage site and wonder of Africa, but I was wondering how I made it to begin with. Yet here I stood; I had made it to the roof of Africa. For the remaining two days, we trekked back to civilization. When we reached the base, it was like Christmas on Kilimanjaro. To celebrate, I tore off my boots and sat down. Sitting felt like a miracle until I looked down. My ankles had turned into cankles, and my toes into balloons. As my feet dried, they turned red and filled with pus. I was diagnosed with “mild frostbite” from prolonged exposure to the cold. Though my chances at being a foot model were forever ruined, a deeper realization set in. Reaching Uhuru Peak transformed the way I viewed strength. Instead of chasing physical strength, maybe we should seek mental stability. Uhuru means freedom in Swahili, and in some ways, hiking Kilimanjaro gave me freedom. Freedom to realize if I can channel my mental strength to reach the summit when I’m at my physical limit, I can do anything. So, here’s to 2020, a new year, and the freedom to believe you can do anything. Even Kilimanjaro.