My First of the Seven Summits

Kilimanjaro: My First of the Seven Summits

Kilimanjaro was my introduction to the Seven Summit - a non-technical climb, but still daunting at 19,345 feet. For most climbers it’s the gateway mountain, and it was for me too.

My journey began with a flight to Amsterdam. I’d visited before and loved the city’s walkability, the Anne Frank House, and the Van Gogh Museum. This time, though, I was anxious. I’d climbed Mount Rainier at over 14,000 feet, but Kili was higher by a mile. In training I hiked Valley Forge’s Mount Misery and Mount Joy, and spent hours on a treadmill set at a 20-degree incline. I ran, cycled, and carried a weighted backpack - though in hindsight, my real training obsession came later on other mountains.

From Amsterdam I flew to Tanzania, with a stop in Nairobi. Africa intimidated me at first. Arriving in Arusha, I was met by my RMI guides and taken to the Dik Dik Resort, a Dutch-owned lodge that grew its own vegetables and purified its own water. The food was incredible - fresh fruit, vegetables, baked goods - and I had to remind myself that soon enough we’d be burning off whatever we ate.

Our team of twelve climbers met the guides and porters. Paul, our lead guide, was calm and experienced, with more than a decade on Kilimanjaro. We reviewed gear and picked up last-minute items in town while feral monkeys roamed the hotel grounds. On the third day we set off, loading our duffels into a heavy, top-loaded truck that carried everything - including live chickens and a freshly butchered cow.

At Machame Gate, elevation 5,800 feet, local guides recruited over 30 porters to carry our food, tents, and duffels. There’s no self-supported climbing here - the area's  economy depends on porters, and watching them carry 100-pound loads in sneakers or loafers was humbling. Our first day was a steady six-hour ascent through lush forest to Machame Camp at 9,900 feet.

That night I met my tentmate Jim from the U.K., who taught me cribbage- a game we played every night thereafter. Dinner was served in a tent with tables and chairs the porters had carried up the trail. I fell asleep listening to forest sounds, grateful for earplugs to block snoring but curious about the noises outside.

The next morning we rose with the sun. Breakfast - eggs, toast, bacon, and strong coffee - set the tone for the day’s hike to Shira Camp at 12,500 feet. The vegetation thinned, the air cooled, and breathing grew harder. The routine became familiar: hike 90 minutes, rest 10, snack, repeat. Camp setup, dinner, cribbage, and early sleep.

Day 3 took us up to the Lava Tower at 16,000 feet, then down to Barranco Camp at 13,000 feet - “climb high, sleep low” for acclimatization. The landscape was rocky and barren. Barranco’s beauty was marred by human waste scattered around, but our team’s portable toilet spared us that mess. The next day we tackled the Barranco Wall, a steep, exposed climb that had looked terrifying from camp. I hugged the rock face as porters scrambled past balancing impossible loads, some in sandals. Their strength and nonchalance amazed me.

After four hours we reached Karanga Camp at 13,100 feet, surrounded by high-desert dust and wind. The following day we pushed to Barafu Camp at 15,300 feet, our high camp before the summit. The climb was steady and silent - everyone conserving energy and wrestling with private doubts. I watched teammates slow under the altitude, grateful for my fitness and experience.

At Barafu, we ate an early dinner and packed for the summit push. The plan was to wake at 11:30 p.m., eat, and start hiking by midnight. Jim and I laid out our layers and skipped cribbage that night though we were too wired to sleep.

When my alarm went off the tent was freezing. Outside, headlamps snaked up the slope in a zigzag of light. We started climbing on loose scree the texture of beach sand. “Pole, Pole,” our guides reminded us - “slowly, slowly.” Every hour blurred into the next: climb, rest, sip tea, eat a cookie, climb again. Around 3:30 a.m. fatigue set in. I wondered why I was there, what I was trying to prove. Then, as dawn began to glow, our guide pointed upward. “That’s Stella Point,” he said - the crater rim at 18,600 feet.

Reaching Stella Point was overwhelming. I hugged Jim, tears freezing on my cheeks. The glaciers ahead glowed gold in the rising sun. From there it was another 45 minutes across the ice to Uhuru Peak, Africa’s highest point at 19,345 feet. The air was thin and brilliant. We took photos by the famous summit sign, laughing and forgetting our exhaustion.

But the summit is only halfway. We descended through soft gravel, half-sliding down thousands of feet to Barafu Camp, then continued all the way to Mweka Camp at 10,000 feet - a 9,000-foot descent in one day. Exhausted, we collapsed into our tents, celebrating with beer and stories.

The next morning we hiked through mud and trees toward the park gate. My boots were brown with dust, my knees sore, but I could hear cars ahead. As I stepped into the parking area, I saw Susan - my wife - waiting. I ran to her and hugged her, sweat, dirt, and all.

Kilimanjaro had been my first of the Seven Summits, and though the mountain itself is non-technical, it tested every part of me - physical, mental, and emotional. When Susan laughed and said I smelled terrible, I just smiled. I’d left part of myself on that mountain, but I’d also found something new: the quiet confidence that comes from climbing above the clouds.