Five of us girls were at Jen’s house playing Rook when her dad, Unkle Frank, came home from Nairobi all excited about climbing Kilimanjaro the next day with his boys. Not sure how it happened, but we were soon begging to come. Aunt Marge said maybe we could come to Oloitokitok with her, the mission station at the bottom of the mountain, and she’d hike a way into the forest with us while the guys went on up. We wouldn’t need cold weather gear for that. Instantly, we bolted for home to beg for permission.  In my mind this was epic!

Like trees, mountains were to me individuals. There were two that loomed especially large, Mount Kenya and Mount Kilimanjaro. Both were massive free-standing volcanos that shaped the landscape and the weather. They dominated the distant skyline and my imagination. 

In reading CS Lewis, I’d gained a less reductionist view of things in natures.  He seemed to explain that

we as well as other things in nature are more than simply what we are made of. In The Last Battle, when Eustace said stars in our world are only flaming balls of fire, the retired star he is talking with says, “No child, in your world that is merely what they are made of.” JRR Tolkien, another favorite author, treats Caradras as much more than a large lump of rock. It made sense to me. I remembered Isaiah 55, “For you will go out with joy And be led in peace; The mountains and the hills will break into shouts of joy before you.” Kili and Kenya were huge extinct volcanoes, great essences in my world made by our creator God.

From the ground between the mountains, we could see both as white peaks high in the clouds even from 100 miles away.  Kibo, the highest part of Kilimanjaro, is a volcanic cone with a crater, and looks rather flat on top from a distance. 

I’d been told that the name Kilimanjaro means little white hill. If that is the meaning, it seems to me it might have been a kind of ironical joke as well as a reference to the way Kibo looked in the far distance like a small white hill high in the sky. Quite the joke since Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain in Africa and the highest free-standing mountain in the world. It has a shape I could draw I my sleep, a smooth wide slope to a rounded “little white hill”, and swooping dip, and a slightly lower jagged peak. The second peak, Mawenzi, is the ragged remnants of an older cone and is very dangerous to climb. In contrast, Kibo could be climbed without technical mountaineering skills, but not without difficulty!  I’d heard that almost half of those who start up, turn back and don’t make it to the top.  I so wanted to try! Not Mawenzi though. There was a terrifying story of two European climbers who died on Mawenzi. They’d fallen on the rotten volcanic rock roped together, and their rope hooked on another out thrust. There they hung until they died.  It was too high for helicopters, and no one could get to them. There were similar stories about Nelion and Batian, the two highest peaks of Mount Kenya. These were not mountains to mess with!

Historically, the local people had held both mountains with fear and awe. Stories were told that the Kikuyu, Embu and other people groups had believed that God lived on Mount Kenya. I read that the local people were appalled when the European explorers first wanted to climb and told them anyone who climbed with be killed by the god who lived up there.  When one thinks about it, that makes sense.  The people around the mountain had never experienced freezing cold or high altitude. At over 17,000 feet altitude, with year-round snow on the peaks, either one of those mountains would kill anyone who tried to go up without adequate clothing or experience. The high altitude makes one feel sick and dizzy. Temperatures below freezing hurt and do damage to unprepared hands and feet.  If one thought this pain was from a vengeful god attacking it would be truly terrifying.

On both mountains, the landscape changes in wide bands. The lower slopes are farmland or grasslands. Then there is a deep band of forest with giant cedar trees, colobus monkeys, buffalo and elephants.  Above that it gets very strange, one is clearly in a different realm that can look very spooky. Both mountains have wide slopes of alpine tundra with plants seen nowhere else.  Some look like hairy gnomes, others like giant cabbages on crooked poles. There is often drifting mist.  Above that is scree, loose rock, jagged volcanic rock and snow along with a definite feeling of being out of this world entirely. One is often literally in or above the clouds.

Now there was a chance we could go part way up Kili! My sister and I ran into our house talking a mile a minute. Mom and dad calmed us down and listened. “Maybe I can climb with Frank!” dad said, and minutes later we were back at Frew’s house.  Frank had rented some cold weather gear in Nairobi but didn’t have enough for dad.  Otherwise, he was open to the idea.  Deb and Bec had gotten permission to come too. Dad stayed up late cutting up a wool blanket and sewing himself mitts and a balaclava on our treadle sewing machine.  Because mom had been ill and her lungs still weren’t great, she would come, but she’d stay with our friends at Oloitokitik.  Aunt Marg and us girls would hike with the guys to the first overnight and then come down. There was a scramble to be sure everyone found a sleeping bag to use. One the long drive down, we were as high as kites with excitement, and that night the girls slept in a row on the floor of the guest house; maybe slept isn’t the right word. We giggled so much that we were told very firmly to be quiet and go to sleep.

In the hiking photo, I’m in the lead. As I remember it, there was a lot of laughter and talking as we walked across fields, and then through tall dark woods. Some of the young men from AIC Oloitokitok church had happily agreed to be paid as porters, just for the first day I think, since they had no cold weather clothes either.  Toward the end of the day, the forest began to give way to mooreland. We were hiking in light canvas tennis shoes, and I was getting a blister on my heel.  The cave we were to stay in looked like a rough open mouth, a rock blister that had opened at one side. In the cave photo, I’m at far left by dad. The deep dust of the cave floor was not bad to sleep on. I watched the fire and listened to the Kenyan men singing and talking. I think they stayed up most of the night. The next morning, we drank hot milky chai in the cold misty dawn. We prayed with the dad and the guys, and they headed up. We headed back down through that glorious forest.  My blisters were worse, so I just pulled my shoes off and hiked barefoot.  The path was well-trodden, and my feet were tough, so it wasn’t a problem. The slightly damp earth felt good underfoot, but one had to be careful about roots and rocks. Back at the Oloitokitok mission station, we waited for news nor the guys. At each meal we prayed that they would be safe and would make it to the top.  I often looked up at the mountain and wished I was climbing. When they finally got back, I’d never seen dad look so scruffy and exhausted!  He was sore and his two big toenails turned black from hitting the end of his boots. But the guys were triumphant!  They’d done it!  Someday.  I told myself. 

A desire to climb the two mountains was part of the reason I decided to stay in Kenya for a year after high school.  Just after high school, I found a group planning to climb Kili. My father wouldn’t let me go with them because I would have been the only woman.  I was furious and frustrated! 

We moved to Nairobi because Mom and Dad were part of initiating an Africa wide initiative to develop Christian learning materials with African writing teams.  It was called the Christian Learning Materials Center (CLMC) and is still going strong. We were attending Nairobi Baptist Church. Mom and Dad urged me to join the choir there, so I did. I love music and singing but I’m not great at it. It was fun. I seemed to be able to do okay listening to those around me. As I remember it, one of the mission organizations had a program that young adults could join, committing to stay single as they served for three years overseas. One of these guys, Nate, decided to get a group together to climb Mt Kenya. The top peaks of Mount Kenya were very dangerous and a risky climb even for those with great technical knowhow and advanced gear. So our goal was the third peak of mount Kenya, Lenana, at 16,355 feet. There was one other woman going.  Dad said I could go.  I was over the moon with excitement.

I was the youngest of the group and had never back packed. I remember being mortified when Nate said the sleeping bag I had was too bulky. He helped me re-pack it and finally decided it was okay. The group of us decided not to hire porters since we figured we could carry our own packs. We stayed the night at the base of the mountain. A local missionary friend said he’d take us to the end of the road where the hike started. One problem, the rains started early that year!  The dirt road through the forest had signs that said, “Elephants have the right of way.” The land rover was soon struggling in slick mud. After we’d got stuck and pushed it out several times, it was clear we’d have to walk some extra miles.  Slogging in the slippery mud and rain wasn’t much fun, even with the added spice of listening for elephants. Soon the other woman decided to go back. She said since we were still on the road, she’d be fine, we should go on. The photo by the tree, I’m sitting with my back to the tree, grinning in spite of the rain. 

That was one long day!  It never stopped raining, but it was so beautiful.  Huge giant cedar trees gave way to a bamboo forest that rustled and clacked, to twisted giant heather, and then to high moorland.  The moorland was brutal, rocks, thigh high grass tussocks with running water in between. That area was called the vertical bog since the whole area oozed with springs. The slog went on and on. I remember chanting to myself, “never, forever, never, forever.”  I had a pair of those adidas with three stripes, they were soon soaked and began to disintegrate.  Nate put a strip of duct tape around them.  You can see the duct tape in the picture of me in the vertical bog. Gradually we emerged from the bog and came over the ridge into the Teleke valley. The rain stopped. I walked faster and began to catch up with the leaders.  Sore and tired, I was exalted, probably on a kind of runner’s high. Giant groundsel stood like strange aliens in the lion-colored moorland.  I could see a huge jagged black craig, and finally the “huts” where we would stay the night. Supper was half cooked freeze-dried food, but I didn’t care. The big day, the real test, would be tomorrow. I changed into somewhat dryer clothes from my pack and then went outside while the guys changed. We were still cold and damp. The six of us slept on a shelf in the wooden climbers’ hut. Laying in a row, we talked. One of the guys said we were so cold we should zip all the sleeping bags together to warm up.  I was uneasy. Then another guys whose name was something like Virgil Faloon, said “Virgin balloon is staying in his own sleeping bag.”  Whew!  I was so glad for his integrity. We talked a bit about our commitment to be Jesus followers and there was a silence.  “My heart is going like I’m running!” one of them said.  “Yah, me too,” Nate said. “It’s Just the high altitude.”  I don’t think anyone slept much. Nate’s alarm went off at 3:00. We were going to climb in the dark. The idea was to be at the top at dawn to see the view before the mountain built daytime clouds. 

The climb was through darkness in endless steep scree. It was sleeting, lava pebbles that slid under our feet. Nate had a head lamp, but we were mostly climbing in the dark.  The trodden path was slightly lighter in the night so one could follow it. Now in my mind I was still saying, “never, forever.” But with each forever I would pause so breathe. Step, breathe, step, breathe.  Despite getting up at 3:00 there were still clouds tearing past the jagged outcrops. Gradually it got lighter.  The sleet turned to snow that made a new layer on the existing soft new snow on the ground. The path came across a steep slope high above a deep blue alpine tarn. It got steeper.  Nate whooped in the distance. He’d made it. He yelled down to keep going. For the last part I was on hands and knees in deep snow, gasping and moving one hand and foot at a time with grim determination.  Then I was there. Hugging, whooping with joy!  Praising God.  I remember someone quoted Psalm 65, “You Lord formed the mountains by your power, having armed yourself with strength, The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders; where morning dawns, where evening fades, you call forth songs of joy.”

So much joy, but it was cold, windy and was snowing harder. One can’t easily stay on a mountain top. We weren’t high enough to be in the “death zone” on Everest. But that peak on Mount Kenya would have killed us if we tried to stay. I have no photos from the top, not sure why.  Maybe no one remembered to take any.

“We’ve got to keep moving, got to get off the mountain by dark.” Nate said. We started down in giant strides, skidding and grinning.  Once out of the snow, I sat on the ground for a drink and snack. The sun came out briefly, and there was a tiny musical tinkling all around me.  I looked and each pebble was on a little stalk of ice. As the sun it, each stalk started to melt and broke with a tinkling noise. So beautiful. I couldn’t stop smiling.  The vertical bog was hard. So glad that in those days I had good knees!!  We were late.  It got darker, and soon we were sliding in the mud and dark under the forest. Our momentum caried us on. The missionary was waiting in his land rover. He was very glad to see us even hours late. They’d made us a huge supper that we ate at midnight.  I remember trying to wash off some of the cold gritty mud we were covered in before we went in the house.  We had nothing clean or dry. Eating that meal was almost surreal.  So good! So warm!  I was floating at a pleasant distance.  We drove back to Nairobi that night.  I think the woman who went back drove while most of us sleept in a wet uncomfortable heap.  The next day was Sunday. Since I was committed to helping with Sunday school I got up for church. I remember it as a homey, comfortable, sunny, floaty, and very pleasant day. I’d made it up Mount Kenya and back down to home.

I never did get a chance to climb Kili that year, but two years later, I came back to Kenya on a semester long break from university. I think maybe my dad had helped link my sister and I connect with a group climbing Kili that semester. It was led by a third-generation man from one of the oldest AIM families. We didn’t know him or the others climbing, but there was another young woman near my sister in age. By then, there was a government in Tanzania that had legislated that one had to climb from the Arusha side, pay a fee to the Tanzanian Kilimanjaro National Park, and hire porters.  All we brought had to be packed into the proper loads for porters.  So different from the Kenya climb. The path to the top from the Arusha side took several days. There were mountain “huts” to stay in, and we met people from other countries.  I believe porters cooked for us. It was amazing how fit they were. Carrying heavy loads, they seemed to so easily ahead and get to the next stopping place early in the day. We’d come in late in the day before dark all tired out. I felt very humbled. One night, my sister and I and the other girl were sleeping on the ground in a tent. Someone shook my bed. I woke startled. How . . . I wasn’t in a bed! My eyes flew open wide. It had been a small earthquake. Kili was still alive and shifting a little.

The last part of the second day was spent on almost flat scree of the saddle.  Wide open and completely bare. Mount Kenya had felt jagged. Kili felt huge and almost round, solid. Yet so high. The place we stayed overnight was over 15,000 feet, much higher than we’d slept on Mount Kenya.  High altitude had another odd effect. I could put my finger into chai just off the boil. It was much easier for water to boil, and it did at lower temperatures.  It was odd to sleep with my heart beating heard just to get oxygen to my body. We’d been taught the symptoms of pulmonary oedema and told to rush downhill if any happened. Extreme shortness of breath and a feeling of suffocation. Since high altitude makes everyone short of breath, it was easy to worry.

Just after midnight we began the long climb up the cone of Kibo.  Miles of zig zag up steep gray scree.  Like Mount Kenya, it was a matter of taking a step, waiting a step, taking a step, waiting and breathing, taking another step, slowly, slowly.  I had a pounding headache and was dizzy. As we each went our own pace, gradually the group strung out.  I was completely focused on getting to the top and lost track of the others. My sister was with others including the other girl, so I didn’t worry. I felt joyfully alone against the sky on the huge, rounded slope. The air was clear, and the stars were so bright! So many! They seemed to be just over my head. A group of German climbers came by. Walking almost back to front in step, chanting “Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf” counting their steps. They were going faster than I was, so I got off the path and watched them. I felt rather sorry for them. How could they see anything like that?  I guess the momentum of the group could maybe help them all make it.  I’d rather see the sky.

A slightly curved orange line began to grow on the eastern horizon. I realized I was looking at the curve of the earth herself. I kept going, a step, a rest, a step, a rest. So tired, dizzy, kind of sick to my stomach. My hands and feet ached with cold! I barely remember the top, just the great relief of being able to rest. Two of our group were there already. A few minutes later two more arrived and said the others had turned back. The leaders decided not to hike around the crater to the very highest peak, a long almost flat walk.  I was good with that. I’d made it to the top of the “little white hill” and was glad to rest and head down.  On the way down, we started scree jumping. Taking long leaps in the loose gravel of the slope.  Again, I was soon not with the group. I have a clear memory of sitting on the slope, eating a chocolate bar, and signing “Sitting on the top of the world, watching the clouds roll away,” to the tune of Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.”   I was above all of Africa up here, well above the cloud layer and the dusty sky far below, sitting on the top of the world on this God’s most mighty African mountain. 

It's amazing to have had the difficult joy and privilege of walking on the skin of such mighty mountains!