Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro

I didn’t plan to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.

Honestly, it wasn’t even on my radar.

My uncle had tried twice before around 2020. The first time, his ankle gave out and he turned back. The second time, he lost a glove and watched everyone leave for the summit without him and went back to sleep. So no, I didn’t grow up dreaming of this mountain.

One night, while doom—scrolling on my phone, I saw a post about a Kilimanjaro climb. It was through Live A Great Story, a community I'd been following online. I wasn’t training for anything in particular, didn’t have a big trip lined up, and thought, “Hey, this could be fun and unhinged.” I submitted my name on impulse.

A week later, I got the message: "You’re in."

That’s when the realization hit.

Nine months of preparation followed. I read Training for the New Alpinism, consulted Reddit threads, built a varied training plan using ChatGPT, and trained like I was building a machine. Sprints, long cardio, mobility work. I learned that Usain Bolt doesn’t train just by running 100 meters—and I didn’t train just by hiking.

I also had to acquire nearly all my gear from scratch. From base layers to a hiking bag to making sure I had a headlamp powerful enough to cut through the midnight dark. I didn’t even own hiking boots when I signed up.

I wasn’t a hiker. I was barely a camper. But I was someone who wanted to challenge himself.

Day 1: One Team, One Dream

There was Billy from New York, Maiah and Alex from San Francisco, Erica from Southern California, Zach and his girlfriend Lucia, and me. We didn’t know each other before traveling to Tanzania, but we’d come to rely on one another in ways we couldn’t yet understand.

We met our team from Kili Backpackcountry Adventure, our guiding company, at the hotel in Moshi with shared nerves and over—packed duffels. There was Stephen, our lead guide; assistant guides Elly and Mudi; and 32 other porters we hired that would be our lifeline for the next seven days.

It felt real now. After months of preparation, we were about to take our first steps toward the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

From the moment we loaded into the van to the trailhead on the Machame Route, we were greeted by song and chant on the way to the Machame Gate. Pure energy. It was joyful, electric, and almost spiritual. The music carried us up the dirt road through farmland, small villages, and toward the jungle. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know the words, we clapped along. We smiled at each other. We became a team on that ride.

The Machame Gate sits at just under 6,000 feet, and our first camp, Machame Camp, was nearly 10,000 feet. That meant five hours of hiking through dense rainforest, a stunning corridor of tangled vines and towering trees enveloped in the clouds.

Mudi taught us our call & response chant, “One Team. One Dream. Non—Stop. To the Top!”

Everything dripped with moisture. The trail was slick and earthy. Green was the only color that mattered—green moss, green ferns, green shadows.

We passed blue monkeys in the trees and heard birds we couldn’t name. Every now and then, a porter would glide past us carrying a duffel on his head or back, moving faster than seemed humanly possible.

There’s something incredibly, humbling about being passed by someone carrying twice your weight while you’re still adjusting your pack for the tenth time.

Just before camp, the clouds suddenly fell away, we crested a ridge and there is was—Kilimanjaro, her peak cutting through the horizon. That was the first time we saw her clearly. The summit felt both impossibly far away and strangely within reach.

Camp was already set up when we arrived. Tents anchored in the jungle. A mess tent ready. Tea already poured.

Dinner was hearty—rice, vegetables, and a curry sauce. It was hard to tell if I was tired or just overwhlemed. But I was here. Day One was done. As I zipped up my sleeping bag, I could still hear the echo of Mudi’s chant in my head.

One Team. One Dream. Non—Stop. To the Top!

Day 2: Scrambling Through the Clouds

I woke to the sound of a faint knock on our tent. “Tea or coffee?”

It was still foggy and damp outside, but something had shifted—maybe it was the altitude, or maybe it was the reality setting in: we were doing this.

After breakfast and a quick gear check, we began the steady ascent to Shira Cave Camp, climbing toward 12,500 feet. Today would be shorter than yesterday—only about four hours—but the terrain would start to change dramatically. We were leaving the jungle behind and entering the Moorland, one of the most photogenic and unique zones.

The fog stayed thick for the first few hours, swallowing the trail and muting every sound, except for our boots on rock. But then, like a curtain lifting, the mist cleared—and for a brief moment, we were standing above the clouds.

We turned to look back, and there she was again—Kilimanjaro’s summit—floating like an island in a sea of white.

It’s hard to describe what that moment feels like. You’re sweating, breathing heavier than normal, trying not to trip over the rocks beneath you—and suddenly, the sky opens. The peak is no longer some abstract goal—it’s right there, sharp and unreal against a blue horizon.

That view hit all of us.

The landscape began to shift beneath our feet. The lush greens faded into grays and browns. Craggy volcanic rock littered the path. Strange hearty plants clung to the ground—desinged by nature to survive the wind, cold, and exposure.

We navigated through a maze of boulders and switchbacks with quiet confidence. The porters passed us again, always cheerful, always moving with precision. “Jambo. Mambo? Poa.” They moved like shadows—graceful, fast, and essential.

Halfway to camp, we reached a rocky outcrop with a panoramic view that looked like something from another world. You could see the path behind and the trail ahead. We were literally hiking above the clouds, each turn revealing a new surreal slice of terrain.

We reached Shira Cave Camp around midday. It felt like landing on Mars. The wind howled through the campsite. The ground was dry and cracked. The tents looked like they were holding onto the Earth for dear life.

Lunch was what would become a quick favorite for all of us, a legendary chicken soup—savory, peppery, comforting—prepared by our amazing chef Chuku. Every bite revived us.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, I stood at camp and looked back from where we came. The rainforest was gone. Obscured by clouds. Civilization was far below. We were not longer visitors on a hike—we were now part of something else. Something wild.

We’re really up here.

And we’re only just getting started.

Day 3: Lava Tower

I barely slept.

The wind ripped through camp all night, shaking the tent like it had a grudge. By morning, a fine layer of dust coated the entire inside. Everything felt gritty—my mouth, my sleeping bag, my mood.

Outside, the sun was rising, but it did little to warm the alpine air. The only thing that helped was the steam rising from my instant coffee. I splashed warm water on my face, took a deep breath of thin air, and tried to shake off the chill.

Today was a big one.

We were headed from Shira Cave Camp to Barranco Camp, a journey that would push us higher than ever before—up to Lava Tower at 15,190 feet—and then descend over 3,000 feet to our camp for the night.

As they say on the mountain, “Climb High. Sleep Low.”

The landscape was shifting fast. We left the Moorland behind and entered the Alpine Desert—a wide, empty expanse of volcanic rock and wind. The ground looked like a dry coral reef, eroded and brittle, dotted with these bizarre, hearty plants that looked like they'd been designed for a sci-fi movie.

Steps became slower, more deliberate. The trail stretched on, snaking over ridges, then dropping before climbing again.

Eventually, we merged with the Lemosho Route just before Lava Tower. That’s where the altitude really started to hit for the first time.

Headache. Loss of appetite.

Even standing still felt like a chore. You’d breathe in, and it was like half of it never reached your lungs. The sky felt closer, but your body felt like it was made of cement.

We stopped at Lava Tower to eat lunch, shielding ourselves from the wind. I remember the soup. Again—Chuku’s miracle chicken soup. It tasted a little different this time—maybe spicier, or maybe my taste buds were just in survival mode. No one said much. You could feel something different in the air.

That stop was short—just enough to trick your body into thinking it was resting—then it was time to descend. And this is where things got brutal.

The trail dropped fast and hard.

We entered a valley, descending through rust-colored rock and narrow ridgelines that crumbled underfoot. Every step down jarred the knees. My legs felt like they were carrying someone else’s body. Still, the air grew thicker, which made breathing slightly easier. Trade-offs.

Then, we saw it: a natural stream carving through the landscape. And flanking either side of the path were the Dendrosenecio Kilimanjari—these strange trees with thick, shaggy branches that looked like giant pineapples wearing fur coats. Otherworldly.

That was the entrance to Barranco Camp.

We arrived after hours of movement, completely spent. The trail had emptied us.

We washed up. Had tea. Stared blankly at the horizon. I could feel the fatigue in my bones, but something else, too—a quiet pride. We were doing this.

Tomorrow, we’d tackle the infamous Barranco Wall.

But tonight, we slept like rocks under the stars, high on a ledge in the sky.

Day 4: The Wall

We woke to a world sealed in frost.

The tents were stiff with ice. Every zipper fought back, metal teeth locked with cold. My breath hovered in the air like steam off a kettle. I didn’t want to get out of my sleeping bag. None of us did.

But today was the day of the Wall—the Barranco Wall. A nearly vertical scramble that looked more like a rock face than a hiking trail. We’d seen it the night before, looming over camp like a dare. Now we had to climb it.

Breakfast was quick—just enough to get something in our stomachs. Then we strapped on our gear, braced against the cold, and started the ascent.

The trail narrowed immediately, forcing us into a single-file line. We hugged the rock face, keeping our bodies close, feeling the cold stone against our gloved hands. At one point, we passed the famous “Kissing Rock”—a bulge in the path so tight you have to press your body to the wall, cheek-to-granite, to squeeze by. It’s both comical and a little terrifying.

Above us, Elly and Mudi scrambled upward, encouraging us one by one. I remember them smiling, always checking on us, calling back with a simple “pole pole” every few minutes—slowly, slowly.

Every foot of elevation felt earned.

And then we were at the top.

The view opened up like a secret the mountain had been keeping. Clouds churned far below. The summit peak popped through the sky in the distance. The wind bit at our cheeks, but we couldn’t stop smiling. The whole world felt beneath us—and in that moment, it was.

We paused. Took a few photos. Pulled out our trekking poles for the first time—knowing the next part would punish our legs just as much as the climb had tested our nerves.

From there, the route was a cruel mix of descents and climbs—down steep ravines, then back up again. At one point we could see Karanga Camp directly across from us, but getting there meant descending way down and climbing it all back.

It was leg-burning, soul-tiring stuff.

But then we arrived.

Karanga Camp sat like a plateau, perched above the clouds again. Every step reminded us how far we’d come. Every breath reminded us how little oxygen there was to go around.

That night, just before dinner, we joined the Kili Backcountry team for a moment none of us expected.

It started with Mafuta leading “introductions”—dancing, clapping, singing. One by one, the 35 porters and crew members shouted their names, grinning wide, arms in the air. It was joy—pure, unfiltered joy—and contagious.

Then it was our turn.

They clapped. Some cheered. And in that moment, we weren’t just hikers and porters—we were a team.

We took a group photo, then went off to our tents to rest.

Tomorrow, we’d hike to Barafu Base Camp.

The day before the summit.

The mountain wasn’t done with us yet.

Day 5: Barafu Base Camp

The cold hit harder this morning.

Karanga Camp was coated in frost. Tents shimmered like ice domes under the early light. Even zipping my jacket felt like a chore. My fingers had to warm up just to get moving.

Today’s hike to Barafu Base Camp wasn’t long in distance, but it was steep—and now, every foot of elevation came with a cost. We had moved well into the Alpine Desert. Gone were the hearty plants and strange trees of yesterday. What remained was a dry, cracked world of dust and rock. The kind of place where nothing grows.

Each step forward was slower. Heavier.

We passed by clusters of everlasting flowers, their yellow blooms defiant against the barren terrain. They were the last signs of color before the summit—the last softness in a landscape that was becoming more and more brutal.

When we arrived at Barafu Camp, it was early enough to collapse into our tents and nap. Everyone did.

Even lying down, it felt like I was gasping. Just sitting up required focus. At this altitude—15,300 feet—breathing was work. You could feel your body spending energy just existing.

After lunch, Stephen called us together for the summit briefing. No more dances. No more clapping or laughter. The tone had shifted.

This wasn’t just another hike. This was the final test.

We’d wake up at 11:00 pm, gear up, and begin walking by midnight. The goal was to reach Uhuru Peak—the summit of Kilimanjaro—by sunrise.

There would be no sleep that night.

No comfort.

Just the cold. The dark. The wind. The mountain.

We went through every detail: layers, gloves, snacks, water bottles, oxygen levels. Anything missing now could be the difference between summiting or turning back.

I lay in my tent afterward, staring at the roof of nylon, wide awake but exhausted.

The weight of the mountain was starting to feel real.

Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed.

Day 6: Summit Night

I don’t remember falling asleep.

But I remember waking up.

At the mess tent I checked my blood oxygen: 65%. Not good, even for up here.

I layered up—base layer, fleece, down jacket, shell. Two pairs of socks. Glove liners. My headlamp flickered on like a lighthouse on the mountain. Everything beyond it was void.

We stepped into the night.

Three guides. Two porters. Seven of us.

The wind bit hard from the start. The first few steps were deceiving—then the climb began. Relentless. Up. Up. Up. No rhythm, no switchbacks. Just loose rock underfoot, frozen dust on everything, and a pitch-black trail ahead that could’ve been a hundred miles or a hundred feet. It was impossible to tell.

I started struggling early.

Breathing was like drinking through a straw with a weight on your chest. My legs were heavy. My vision narrowed. The guides swarmed me silently and took my pack. No questions. Just action. That’s how tight we’d become by now—no time for ego.

It felt like a fever dream. A found-footage memory.

Everywhere I looked, up and down, I saw headlamps flickering up ahead like distant stars. People curled in on themselves, resting, quitting, regrouping.

Every 10 minutes, I craved a water break—and every time I took a sip, I felt worse.

I started talking to myself in my head. About how I have frostbite on my nose, but how I can just get plastic surgery to fix it. And about how absurd those thoughts were.

Anything to distract myself from how hard it had become just to move.

At some point—maybe 4 or 5 hours in—the sky began to change. Not light, exactly. But less dark. The trail crested, ever so slightly. The endless vertical push began to flatten.

Then came the sunrise.

Not like a flip of a switch. It was slow. Beautiful. Gold and blue spilling across a down comforter of clouds.

A sliver of the sun broke the sky in two. And somehow, in the middle of that pain, I remember thinking: This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

It meant we were close.

And finally, we reached Stella Point.

I broke.

Cried, maybe. Or laughed. I don’t know. I was hollowed out—physically wrecked—but the emotion came up all at once. Took in the view. Regrouped.

But we weren’t done.

Uhuru Peak—the highest point in Africa—was another 45-minute walk along the crater rim. But at that point, nothing could stop us. We were running on fumes, but we kept moving.

The landscape up there was alien. Glacial ice walls. Frozen scree. Sky so thin it barely held the sun.

And then—we were alone at the top.

No one else there.

Just our team. Just us.

We took group photos. Individual ones. Delirious, I turned to soak in the view—but Zach tapped me on the shoulder.

“Can you get this for me?” he said quietly.

Then walked away, posed for a photo with Lucia, dropped to one knee, and proposed.

I snapped away. It was surreal.

Knowing what my state of mind was at the time, I hope they came out good.

In the place where I felt closest to breaking, someone else was starting something new.

But the mountain wasn’t done with me.

The descent was brutal. Two and a half hours down on a trail we’d never seen in daylight. Loose scree. Dust. Collapsing legs. My cough worsened. Breathing tightened.

Joseph helped first. Then Mudi and Octavian tapped in. They moved like shadows beside me, catching me every time I slipped, making sure I stayed upright. It was a real life Weekend at Bernie’s getting down this thing.

Still, I barely made it to Millennium Camp. It was another 2-hour hike after the descent to Base Camp. I had no appetite. Just collapsed into my sleeping bag after 36 hours awake and 18 hours of movement.

The climb was over. But the fight wasn’t.

Day 7: I Need to Get Down

I don’t know if I ever really slept.

More like drifted in and out of consciousness—lungs tight, heart racing, thoughts looping. I kept waking up, feeling the weight in my chest. Not metaphorical. Real. Heavy. Crushing.

At some point in the night, I remembered Colm who I met on a trip in Egypt. He’d tried to climb Kilimanjaro too before we met in Cairo, but didn’t make it. His climb ended early—pulmonary edema. Fluid in the lungs.

The thought hit me like cold water.

Is that what’s happening to me? Am I actually going to drown in my sleep at 12,500 feet?

I tossed and turned. My body ached. My throat was raw. The tent sloped downhill, which made it even harder to sit up or move. Every shift knocked the wind out of me. Even peeling off a sock sent me into a coughing fit.

By morning, I was worse.

Erica said I sounded like I was gasping for air in my sleep. I stumbled out of the tent and nearly collapsed. Fortunately I caught myself on a natural ridge. My lungs felt like they were whistling from the inside.

I turned around, panic rising, and found Elly, our assistant guide.

I didn’t sugarcoat it.

“I need to go down now.”

He didn’t hesitate. He looked me in the eye, nodded, and we were moving within minutes. Just the two of us, flying down the trail.

Erica caught up and insisted on walking with us. She wasn’t going to let me go alone.

The trail to Mweka Camp—steep, slippery, shaded by trees—should’ve been easy. But I could only go in short bursts.

One minute on. Stop. Catch breath. Try again.

Every few steps, I’d bend over, trying to fill my lungs. Every few minutes, Elly would ask, “Okay?” I’d nod. “Yeah.”

But I wasn’t okay.

We made it to Mweka Camp in about two hours, then pushed another 3–4 hours to Mweka Gate, the official trail end.

I sat down on a wooden bench in a daze.

I immediately bought a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, sweating in the heat. I don’t even drink soda.

But it was the best Coke I’ve ever had.

The sugar and bubbles hit my blood like medicine. It was the first time in 24 hours I felt human again.

While I waited for the rest of the group to descend, I had my boots washed. I watched the dust and mud rinse away, a strange sense of finality building in my chest.

I was down.

I was safe.

But something was still off.

My breathing wasn’t back to normal. The cough hadn’t stopped. My lungs crackled like wet leaves underfoot.

I didn’t say much to anyone. Just got back to the hotel. Ate a little. Showered. Laid down.

Something’s not right, I kept thinking. But I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Day 8: The Aftermath

I woke up at the hotel in a sweat.

I was clean and on flat ground, but my breathing still wasn’t right. Each inhale felt like it had to work harder than it should. I could hear it in my chest—this faint crackle like static on a radio. Something was still rattling deep inside me.

I didn’t want to wait it out. I’ve pushed my body plenty before, but this felt like a line I shouldn’t cross again.

So I went to a local clinic.

It was small and simple. No frills. A doctor listened to my lungs, and they ran a blood test.

Diagnosis: bacterial pneumonia.

Likely triggered by a brutal cocktail of altitude, cold air, and volcanic dust that we’d inhaled during that 8-hour push to the summit. My lungs had taken a beating—and now they were filling with fluid as a final insult.

I paid $34 out of pocket.

A diagnosis.

A prescription.

And a reminder that sometimes adventure comes at a price your body didn’t agree to.

My Kilimanjaro summit had come with a little asterisk: yes, I made it—but I also got wrecked in the process.

And yet, there was no regret.

That mountain demanded everything I had—physically, mentally, emotionally—and then asked for more.

I gave it all.

I didn’t summit because I’m some elite climber or fearless adventurer.

I summited because a group of strangers became a team.

And because the mountain let me through.

That’s the part I’ll never forget.

This wasn't a story about conquering something.

It was about surrendering to the experience. About asking for help. About finding my limits, then going a step past them—with others at my side.

P.s. What the Mountain Left Behind

When I first saw that post to climb Kilimanjaro, I wasn’t looking for a transformation.

I wasn’t chasing some life-altering breakthrough or trying to “find myself.” I just thought—this could be a cool adventure. Something different. A good story.

But now that I’m home, sitting in a familiar chair with clean air in my lungs and no summit on the horizon, I realize the mountain left something in me.

It wasn’t just about the altitude, the exhaustion, or the thin line between physical limits and personal willpower. It was the collective of it. How a group of strangers leaned on each other—quietly, humbly, without ego. How asking for help wasn’t a weakness, it was part of the way forward.

I didn’t come back “changed,” exactly. But I did come back clearer.

Slower.

More intentional.

A little more aware of how far I can go, and how much farther I can go when I don’t try to carry it all alone.

And now when I hear “pole pole” (slowly, slowly), it’s not just a hiking mantra.

It’s a life one.

If you’re thinking about doing this climb—do it.

But don’t do it to prove something.

Do it to learn something. About yourself. About teamwork. About silence. About what matters when the air gets thin.

The summit is just a point on a map.

The real climb happens on the way up.

And if you’re lucky, the mountain will let you through.