If you’re a regular reader of my monthly blogs, you may remember that August was my Kilimanjaro month – the attempt to fulfill my years’-long dream of climbing the highest single free-standing mountain in the world, the only non-technical climb of the Seven Summits. Although that fact makes Kilimanjaro more accessible for average people, the altitude and unpredictable weather across the mountain’s five climate zones makes it a challenging and, at times, a grueling trek.
I was so, sooooo ready to climb Kilimanjaro. (Several previous blogs describe that process.) In my typical Type A fashion, I had trained for months and at the age of 68 was the fittest I’ve ever been. I focused on the mental preparation, too, and was sure I had found the right balance between pushing myself and listening to my body’s need for hydration, fuel, and rest. I had met every goal suggested by my informal trainer, who had summited Kilimanjaro and was certain that I would “rock it.” I resisted that swagger, but I was full of healthy confidence and determination.
From day one – an easy three-to-four hour hike through the rain forest with only slow, gentle climbs – I knew that something was off. I attributed the odd tiredness and heaviness in my limbs to jet lag and was sure I’d feel better the next day. Unfortunately, day two was worse: fatigue like I’ve never experienced (even with a struggle with chronic fatigue syndrome years ago), leaden limbs that felt like twenty-pound weights circled my ankles and wrists, and then dizziness that robbed me of being sure-footed. The muscle weakness was so profound that I had to stop and rest about every twenty minutes, which is taking the recommended strategy “Polé, Polé!” (“SLOWLY!“ in Swahili) to the next (unsustainable) level.
Finally, I told the head guide I had to lie down, even though we were in the middle of the Shira Plateau, a dusty barren moorland with no shade. I mentioned that this must be how hyperthermia patients feel when they just want to lie down and go to sleep in the snow. That statement definitely got the guide’s attention, and he figured out a way I could safely rest.
The next day I continued to fight the fatigue, now accompanied with a touch of nausea. The guides and porters were great with expert monitoring, brainstorming about what might be happening, kind patience, and encouragement. Altitude sickness was the easiest possibility, but we hadn’t yet been high enough long enough for that to be a likely factor. Something inside told me that altitude wasn’t the culprit, and I pressed on, more and more slowly. I gutted through each step using every mental trick I could think of to stay vertical and put one heavy foot in front of the other.
That evening of day three, which felt like I had been hiking much longer, we finally arrived at Shira 2 camp, almost 13,000 feet in altitude, and I collapsed in the tent. After a rest I rallied enough to see the sun set and the moon rise into the brilliant bath of stars, which was a feeling and experience I’ll never forget. The next morning, day four, I felt better (probably from that spiritual boost) and stood looking down on the clouds. Such an amazing sight! The realization that I had climbed there was surreal and humbling.
After breakfast our slow human caravan started off with an immediate steep rocky assent, and my breathing became increasingly difficult. In less than twenty minutes, I collapsed onto a rock, clearly done. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew that I couldn’t possibly navigate the more challenging next couple of days, much less the brutal push to the Kilimanjaro summit. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed my heart out. It felt unbearable that I had come so far, only to fail.
My adult niece was with me on the private climb, and she held me while I cried and kept repeating, “You’re so strong and I’m so proud of you.” The head guide, who was an equivalent of an EMT and a certified Wilderness First Responder, kept saying the same thing. He was concerned that my resting heart rate was very low, but after just brief exertion, it consistently more than tripled.
Dejected, I sat on that rock and thought of all the people I might disappoint if I stopped my trek. I ran down the list of those who had been my cheerleaders and supporters for this adventure, and I imagined their disillusionment in me for “quitting.” I beat myself up for my (unknown) failures that surely led me to this crumpled, crying state on this jagged rock. Oh, the stories we carry in our heads that viciously intrude, especially in times of significant stress.
Eventually, I believe a loving MamaGod brought me to my senses because, suddenly, I was keenly aware that I had been in this situation before. The external circumstances were vastly different, but the internal landscape of truth was the same: I had done every possible thing I knew to be successful, and the harsh reality was that there was some unknown factor that was preventing the achievement of something I desperately wanted, which in this case was the goal of summiting the 19,341-feet Uhuru Peak, the “roof of Africa.”
In the eerily similar scenario I had faced four years ago involving a personal relationship, I was also very concerned about what others might think if I made a choice to “quit.” In fact, I had wrestled with that fear (and other complicating factors) for several years and chosen to stay, until there was a clear defining point when I knew I simply could no longer continue in that situation. I was absolutely powerless, despite my very best efforts and enlisting the help of excellent professionals and supporters, to effect the outcome my soul had always craved. There were factors totally beyond my control. I chose to honor myself by leaving the relationship, which felt as terrifying as it was necessary. (As it turned out, it was a life-affirming, life-giving decision that has been viewed with compassion and respect.)
The clarity of that comparison made the options on Kilimanjaro very sharp. One, I could keep pushing myself and almost surely wind up in a dangerous medical situation that would require an emergency descent. Or I could make the harder choice, which was to honor myself by putting aside my fear of judgment and negative reactions and choose to descend before my situation became dire. It was the same decision I faced four years ago, and for the second time, I chose to prioritize my own well-being. Both decisions are among the bravest things I’ve ever done.
With that certain realization, I took a deep breath as much as my lungs allowed. I wiped my eyes and told the head guide that I didn’t know what wrong, but I did know that I couldn’t keep climbing Kilimanjaro and I needed to descend. Immediately, as was the case four years earlier, I felt immense relief when I made the choice I knew in my bones was right for me.
The guide fully affirmed the decision and expressed gratitude that I had made it myself rather than forcing him to make it for me. He explained that, were I to continue, in another couple of hours (at a normal pace) I would reach a point of no return. The trail would be too narrow and steep for porters to stretcher me down safely, and it would be impossible for a helicopter rescue. The team would have to push, pull, or drag me significantly higher up the mountain (another day at least) before there was space for a chopper to land. (When it comes to mountains, going down is almost always more dangerous and difficult than going up.) Either of those options felt too dramatic (even for me), and I felt peaceful about ending my trek where I was. After a half-hour’s rest, we even managed to get me standing to pose for pictures that celebrate climbing half of Kilimanjaro.
Fortunately, my descent was possible with the help of the associate guide and two porters, who literally held me “behind and before” as my niece called the plan, which is one of my favorite descriptions of God’s loving care and presence (Psalm 139:4). We were only forty-five minutes above the highest rescue road according to the guide, although with my stumbling pace and frequent stops, it took us almost three hours to get there. Finally, we met the rescue vehicle and drove another three hours to get off the mountain and then ninety more minutes to reach Arusha, the closest major city.
At the trekking team’s insistence, I went to the hospital (oh what an experience) where the doctor assumed I had suffered from altitude sickness. That diagnosis still didn’t seem right to me, because I wasn’t any better despite being down from altitude for almost nine hours at that point. But I could barely stay awake; I didn’t have the energy to argue or explore other possibilities. My sinuses were also very inflamed from all the swirling dust on the Shira Plateau, and they gave me a breathing treatment, which did help some. I was assured that I should be fine and advised to return if I didn’t feel better soon.
After a couple of days I felt even more fatigued than when I descended. At that point it finally occurred to me that it wouldn’t hurt to take a COVID test, which was on the required packing list and still tucked away in the bottom of my duffel bag. And boom! The test result was immediately and clearly positive. Good gracious! No wonder I couldn’t climb a frigging mountain!! Although knowing the reason didn’t remove the disappointment of being unable to summit Kilimanjaro, I was grateful to have a solid cause. As my trainer friend said, “Makes total sense. COVID is the only thing that could have stopped you!”
The best preparations don’t always yield the intended results. You’ve worked and planned and prepared and dreamed, and the outcome is very different from what you expected. Worse, those occasions are sometimes huge in their significance – yielding a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking kind of disappointment, like the end of a long marriage or the failure to summit Kilimanjaro after going to significant lengths and expense.
What’s equally true is that sometimes a “summit” doesn’t involve reaching a certain pinnacle. For me, honoring myself was the highest achievement on Kilimanjaro – the strongest and most courageous outcome I could have experienced. No, it doesn’t make for the typical summit celebration picture on Uhuru Peak, but I was graced with a spiritually powerful, life-affirming adventure.
As I’ve told the story first via text to my dear ones as the events unfolded and then since I’ve been home, the reaction has been 100 percent consistent. Instead of being a disappointment at not summitting Kilimanjaro, I’ve been called strong and brave, a “rock star” and “my new favorite super hero.” The summation I like the most, though, is my own description of what someone called this “epic” adventure: I think it’s absolutely badass to have climbed four days half-way up Kilimanjaro at age 68 to stand above the clouds at 13,070 feet with COVID! That’s the summit version I’m embracing, and others immediately agree.
Perhaps there is a “failure” or loss or disappointment that would be helpful to change your internal description about, too. A successful summit is in the eye of the trekker, and you get to decide your own rendering. I bet you, too, are strong and brave.
Marnie C. Ferree
Founder