World Wittering

And so it was that the fateful day finally arrived.

Having trawled Arusha the previous afternoon for final essential supplies – chocolate, high calorie snacks, glucose energy drinks, a couple of extra warm layers and yet another pair of sunglasses for Lee (her sixth of the trip) – we were finally ready. Naturally, I had dyed my hair bright red.

We made our way to the office to sort out the finalities with Pantsuit Snr (wearing his classic navy two-piece short sleeved number with the tribal trim) – this entailed handing over large wads of dollars, Tanzanian shillings, travellers cheques, coloured beads, tokens etc in a scene highly reminiscent of every drug deal you’ve ever seen in the movies. It’s not that the trip was particularly expensive, more that the Tanzanians could do with adding a couple of extra zeros to their banknotes so that they’re worth more than a few pence each. Oh, and that sticker on the office window that says we accept Visa, Mastercard, American Express? What that actually means is that we accept cash that you’ve withdrawn from the ATM in town with any of those cards.

Nevertheless, by mid morning we were ready to depart. As the equipment was loaded onto the bus, we were introduced to our companions for the trip, our head guide Rasta and a trio of Irish twentysomethings – Shane, Ronan and Niamh – all fresh from several months of charitable work in a Masai village and who’s only decided to take on the challenge the day before – impressive. Like me, Shane had realised that challenges such as this should not be attempted without the right hair and was sporting an impressive Travis Bickle mohawk.

Finally, ready to depart the hotel, we climbed aboard the bus full of optimism, but tempered with undoubted trepidation. We then spent a couple of hours driving to various shops around Arusha so the guides could pick up food supplies and other bits and pieces and the rest of us could sit on the bus and complain about why they hadn’t bothered to do that beforehand.

Eventually we really were ready for departure and set off on the road towards Moshi, the journey uneventful as we all sat in nervous introspection, ipods blaring (Pixies natch) and staring out of the window in quiet contemplation, save for a brief stop at a police road block to make way for the president of Tanzania’s motorcade to sweep by. Taking our cue from the locals, we waved dutifully at the great man and he waved back, which was nice.

The next stop was at the village of Machame to pick up some fresh meat and then we really were at the gate and unloading. While Rasta sorted out the dozen or so porters with their ridiculously oversized loads, we sat nervously munching a picnic lunch, tying and retying boots, tightening pack straps, trying to work out how to fit gaiters, adjusting walking pole lengths and a hundred other minor details to take our minds off the wait.

Next we queued at the gate office to register and then Rasta stepped forward to pay the gate fees. As it turned out, this was a long drawn out process as the authorities insisted that Sarah write her life story on each of her individual travellers cheques and Rasta had to fill in a log giving the serial number of each dollar bill handed over. The rest of us milled about, getting to know the Irish contingent and generally grumbling about the delay.

At just after 3pm we were allowed through the gate and onto the trail, starting at an altitude of 1500m. The path led through dense rainforest and was quite steep in places, but the endless faffing we’d endured so far that day meant that the pace was high as we were all eager to get going. Nick, Sarah and the Irish lot raced off, but Lee and I took things a little more gently, nevertheless we had soon worked up a decent sweat.

We caught up the others at the frequent breaks to take on water – we were all being fanatically dedicated to staying hydrated – and the resultant stops to pass it, and then, after an hour and a half or so we took a group rest with Rasta informing us we were at the half way point. This was very pleasant news indeed as we hadn’t found the going too strenuous, maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all? It was just at that point that we saw our first mountain casualty, a young, healthy looking man being led down by a porter and looking like the living dead, we all averted our eyes and tried not to think about it.

A couple more hours of quick trudging along the muddy path brought us out of the lush green forest and to the end of the day’s trail – Machame camp at an altitude of 2980m. The guide books all say that this distance is 18km – I find that hard to believe considering we covered it in around three and a half hours and it was all uphill – suffice to say it was a very nice feeling indeed getting the first day under our belts and reaching the sanctuary of camp.

After signing another register, we located our corner of the wooded campsite and were delighted to find that the tents were already pitched and the kettle was on. The campsite was crowded with other groups, all of whom had started several hours before us. We pottered about arranging our bits in the tents, changing out of sweaty clothes and adding warm layers as the temperature dropped with the setting of the sun. Above us there was still no sign of the peak, just a large mass looming above us shrouded in thick cloud.

We gathered in the dining tent – sounds glamourous yes? – a slightly larger domed tent with folding chairs, and tucked into coffee and tea. The hot drinks added to the buoyant spirits and there was a general feeling of optimism seeping through the group – except for Ronan who was as white as a sheet, a slightly green tinged sheet, perhaps one that hasn’t been changed for quite a long time.

The wonderful porters served up an equally wonderful dinner which we all tucked into heartily – except Ronan who made a quick exit from the tent and headed straight for some nearby bushes where we could hear him violently throwing up – not good. We got him dosed up on paracetamol and then, after Rasta had run through the plan for the next day in his wonderfully understated way – “Oh yes, tomorrow is very easy, very short walking” – we all headed for bed. Sarah, Nick and Lee tucked themselves up into their lovely -20 degree arctic sleeping bags and I crawled into mine – provided by the trekking company – a nasty nylon monstrosity from the 1970’s with the thermal qualities of toilet paper. That’ll be me sleeping in my clothes all week then.

We awoke with the dawn, not that I’d actually had much sleep in the cold conditions, and the sounds of activity throughout the camp as a couple of hundred people from various groups and countries dragged themselves from their tents to greet the sunlight. The day was started perfectly as Steven, our allotted porter, brought us tea and coffee to the tent, followed by a bowl of hot water to wash in. Once again we convened in the mess tent and were served a fantastically comprehensive breakfast of fruits, toast, sausages, omelettes and the like, together with several more cups of tea and coffee, prompting us to marvel at the culinary skills of the porters in such basic surroundings – a sentiment we were to echo pretty much repeatedly at every mealtime. Fortunately Ronan was feeling much better and in a fit state to continue.

Amply fed and watered we spent a final few minutes preparing for the day’s trek – I bound my feet in tape to head off the blisters – and then, leaving the porters to pack up the camp, we set off for Day 2, the target Shira camp at an altitude of 3840m.  After a short while, we left the forest behind and on through an area of moorland. By now everyone was better acquainted and there was a bit more team spirit flowing through the group. The Irish kept bursting into traditional song in a not at all stereotypically jaunty fashion and we kept ourselves amused with jolly games such as listing famous actresses we would like to sleep with, top comedies, worst films, names of Simpson’s characters etc., oh how we laughed.

Unlike the previous day, we were now able to see the various other groups on the trail, regularly stepping aside as the porters, often carrying two packs, culinary and camping equipment hanging off their backs, shoulders and balanced on their heads, jogged past, seemingly oblivious to their huge burdens. Unfortunately, we were able to smell them too – fragrant.

With a brief stop for a packed lunch under our belts, during which we were amazed to see other groups being ridiculously mollycoddled with huge folding picnic tables and chairs, we passed out of the moorland and started to traverse a rocky ridge towards the Shira plateau. By now the group had spread out a little and I was walking with Nick and Shane who were engaged in a titanic ethical ding dong – Nick’s classic American libertarianism, the product of the finest US business schools and banking institutions, versus Shane’s youthful radicalism, honed through years of selfless volunteer work including a year in Gaza – right on – I sat back and watched the fireworks, contributing only when I could think of something incredibly pointless to say. A little way back Lee, Sarah and Niamh were talking about knitting or something, I expect.

By early afternoon we’d reached camp and there was little to do but carry on hydrating – four litres a day equates to a toilet stop approximately every twenty minutes or so, leaving the girls frequently complaining at the lack of adequate cover – and staring up at the mountain above us, still shrouded in cloud but with the summit threatening to peek out at any moment, Shane ramped up the political atmosphere by adorning his tent with a Palestinian flag, Lee and I retired to our tent to have an argument about something inconsequential, Sarah told Rasta he had a beautiful face and we all took the piss.

Another astonishing meal was rustled up in the mess tent, a stunning sunset lit up the mountain like a postcard and then we just stood staring as the stars came out, the clouds finally cleared and we got our first breathtaking glimpse of the peak. This led Sarah and Nick to argue vehemently over the terms of a bet they’d made about whether the cloud would clear that day and whether that included after dark – value of bet? roughly twenty pence. With a stalemate reached on this big question of the day we returned to trance-like gazing upwards and saw shooting stars and satellites passing overhead. Rasta took this opportunity to brief us on the following day’s climb – “This is medium day, not too much walking” – Time for bed. Alas, sleep proved elusive, not just for me freezing in my hopelessly inadequate sleeping bag, but for anyone else within a half mile radius of a group of Christians camped nearby who felt it necessary – I jest not – to sing Kumbaya around the campfire until the early hours of the morning. Thanks. For. That.

Day three’s target was to be Barranco camp at an altitude of 3950m, only a measly hundred odd metres ascent you may say. Alas, to get there we had to go via the Lava Tower at an altitude of 4630m, the idea being that your acclimatisation is aided by reaching the higher altitude and then coming back down to sleep lower.

We set off early after another hefty breakfast, the mood more serious – even the morning drinks and hot water, brought to the tent by the wonderful Steven, had failed to offset the grumpiness caused by relentless repetition of He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands. Someone enquired as to the availability of lions on the mountain.

The landscape by now had become lunar-esque,  as we trudged “pole pole” (slowly slowly)  up the steep incline. We marched stolidly for hour after hour up through the rock field, only deviating from the path intermittently for the frequent, indeed growing more frequent by the day, pauses for bladder relief. The girls began to complain more and more about the unavailability of suitably large rocks to use for cover, a point borne out simply by looking back down the hill where people were clearly visible dotted about all over the place conducting their business seemingly unaware that they could be seen from above.

It was also at this point that people began to gleefully point out that my hair dye had begun to run, surly this wasn’t the first time I’d broken sweat on the mountain? Nonetheless, I was to spend the rest of the day mopping attentively to avoid looking like I’d suffered some sort of serious head injury.

Eventually, after a particularly steep ascent, we reached the lunch stop and huddled behind sheltering rocks to try and get relief from the howling winds. Banter had by now fallen by the wayside and some members of the group were beginning to develop a thousand yard stare, a manic disposition as extra layers, gloves and hats were donned and teeth gritted for the assault on the lava tower. Still, we were doing better than members of some of the other groups, one teenage boy in particular was stumbling along in front of us looking like death warmed up, yet his guides and fellow group members seemed oblivious to his difficulties. In contrast, Rasta and his assistant guides, Simon and August, couldn’t have been more attentive, constantly checking to ensure everyone was ok, advising us to slow the pace or rest and generally keeping us in a fit state to continue.

Pushing on, Rasta promised us “only a couple more hours” – a blatant lie – we carried on up an even steeper field of boulders, mist swirling around us, until we finally reached the highest point of the day, the Lava Tower. By this point Sarah was looking in a pretty bad way and the Irish hadn’t done any singing for a very long time. They all opted to carry on and start the descent to camp straight away with Simon to lead them. Lee, Nick and I decided to take the opportunity to summit the tower itself with Rasta in attendance. This was a bit more of a climb rather than a walk and care and concentration was needed to prevent a nasty fall. The effort was amply rewarded though as we gained spectacular views down over the side of the mountain with its glacier formed gorges and huge lava rock formations. Far below us, a dense layer of cloud obscured the base of the mountain and the plains beyond. Indeed, throughout the trek, whenever one looked back it was always slightly unbelievable to see just how far we’d climbed.

Scrambling back down to the path, we quickly caught up with the others, our pace increased by the proximity of the dreaded Christians, whose jaunty singing could be heard rolling its way down the valley towards us. By this time Shane had fallen heavily and twisted his knee and Sarah was very pale and feeling nauseous. Nick and Lee also found the descent hard going and slowed down as the going got steeper.

I, on the other hand, felt pretty good, a little tired but eager to get to camp and found the descent fairly easy. I trooped off at a good pace, accompanied by Simon and leaving the rest behind. I made camp just over an hour after the tower, found our tents, waved to the porters, changed into dry clothes and pulled up a chair to gaze expectantly up the trail where I felt sure the others would appear imminently.

One by one they trudged dolefully into camp, the first appearing about half an hour after me, the last a full hour after that. Sarah went straight to her tent and only came out again whenever she needed to vomit or pee, which was quite often. Whenever we passed her tent we’d ask how she was doing and be answered by a weak, other worldly voice “not good”. The porters attended to her every need, administering their miracle cure of ginger tea and paracetamol and taking her plates of food that she couldn’t eat.

The rest of us hunkered down in the mess tent and were soon acquainted with a major setback. Alas, our tardiness in leaving that morning had delayed the porters to the extent that they’d reached camp late and been left with a bum deal when it came to pitching the tents – directly downwind of the latrines. As dinner was served, we had to continually cover our noses so as not to inhale the awful smell, the toilets were swiftly christened “the bogs of eternal stench”.

Within a few minutes it had all got too much for Nick, who’d looked quite pale and not a little crazed for most of the afternoon. A strong waft of nastiness billowed into the tent and he bolted, showing an impressive turn of speed to reach some bushes and projectile vomit. He retired to his tent soon after and was soon receiving the magic ginger tea paracetamol healing cocktail.

The plight of these two prompted the rest of us to start tucking into the rehydration salts but, despite all this, Shane, Niamh and, particularly, Ronan kept our spirits high throughout with their incredibly dry, self-deprecating and uniquely Irish humour – questioning why they’d decided to put themselves through this ordeal, speculating as to what point they’d keel over and be unable to continue. With evening drawing in and energy levels low, it was time for Rasta to deliver another of his deadpan untruths – “oh, tomorrow, not so hard, not so long” – and then we retired to the tents to listen to Nick’s chainsaw snoring, interspersed with violent puking.

Sarah, meanwhile, was lying shivering in her -20 sleeping bag, wondering if she was going to make it and intermittently struggling out of her tent for the inevitable wee. Apparently she finally started to feel better around around 3am, squatting behind a rock, when she gazed up and saw the clear star studded sky and the mountain, once again, shook off its skirt of cloud and revealed all its glory.

And so to day four and the ominous Barranco Wall which had loomed over us all night, a huge imposing rock face which we’d stared at in trepidation since Rasta had casually pointed out that it was to be the day’s first obstacle. Sarah and Nick reported fit and raring to go, testament to the restorative properties of their special tea, and we got off to a good early start. Unfortunately, so did everyone else at the camp and the sheer rock walls became a Piccadilly Circus of porters, equipment and, seemingly, brainless trekkers.

The route up the wall itself, although treacherous, was not too technically difficult, but the ascent was continually complicated by the sheer number of people trying to climb at the same time. Established mountain etiquette dictated that we give way to porters, who had heavy loads and could climb much faster, but some (mainly American!) trekkers would try to take the opportunity to pass as well and tempers became frayed at times. Throughout, our group stuck to the pole pole mantra. With Rasta, Simon and all in attendance radiating calm and peacefulness and we were soon at the top and appreciating the finest views yet in the crisp morning sunlight down over the rocky mountain slopes.

With this huge obstacle conquered and lunch taken, we then plodded on, down through the Karanga Valley, a seemingly endless descent where every corner would reveal another endless stretch of rocky scree to be negotiated. The final section of descent entailed crossing a stretch of rocks made slippery with a rushing mountain stream. Nick was the first to attempt the traverse and made us all recalibrate our focus as he made one wrong move and fell heavily. It was growing increasingly necessary to concentrate and keep our wits about us – at one point Lee began to panic about having lost her sunglasses, only for us to point out she was wearing them.

Finally reaching the bottom of the valley, the day’s final hurdle lay before us, another frighteningly steep ascent to a ridge towering above us, upon which we could see the camp perched. One by one we dragged our exhausted bodies up the gravel strewn hill, eventually reaching our target, at altitude 4550m, more than eight hours and 13km after setting off. On this occasion the porters had reached camp in good time and our tents were awaiting us in a prime location on the upper side of the vast sprawling camp, leaving us slightly less of the difficult rocky terrain to cover on our summit attempt.

We flopped out in the mess tent as we were brought hot drinks and, yet another, astoundingly good meal. Rasta came to brief us and an intense discussion broke out over the plan of action. Our options were to take a rest day and go for the summit the following night, or go for it that night and have the possibility of a second attempt if we were unsuccessful. In Sarah’s words a “testosterone frenzy” ensued and so it was agreed that we would go that night. Rasta advised us to prepare our kit and get to sleep as soon as possible, we’d be awoken at 11pm and leave at midnight.

I donned all the clothes I’d brought, save for the outer layer, and bedded down. Sleep again proved elusive, unsurprisingly, as it was only about 7pm and we had a lot on our minds. I managed to get a few hours, some, like Sarah, got as little as one, leading to state of confusion resulting in an extra sock being worn on one foot, causing severe discomfort as the climb progressed.

Finally the appointed hour came.

Jerked back into consciousness, my first feeling was one of overwhelming, unremitting dread, that I simply didn’t want to do it, Lee readily concurred. Nevertheless, we dragged on our waterproof top layers, tied boots and gaiters, downed energy drinks, packed supplies of drinking water and snacks and then crawled out of the tent to join the others.

Despite the hour, there was plenty of light, a bright full moon casting its milky glow upon us and illuminating clearly the monstrously imposing shape of the mountain above us. With the minimum of talking, we made final checks and adjustments and then commenced the slow trudge upwards, ever upwards in the footsteps of the Rastaman.

Above us we could see a trail of lights, the torches of the trekkers further up the path, marking the way and showing just how far there was to go – our ascent would be 1345m, 7km of relentless, monotonous, snail paced trudging.

A couple of hours in and people were already starting to feel the combined effects of the lack of oxygen, low residual energy levels and the strength sapping qualities of the surface scree. At one of the frequent toilet breaks, Lee became disoriented, agitated when the rock she was squatting behind turned out to be right next to the trail and a group of other trekkers nearly fell over her as they came past. She began calling out to me to bring toilet paper, almost in panic, and then, when I was slow to arrive, getting tearful. She rejoined the group and then started to shout out that her pack was missing, demanding to know who’s moved it. Once more, we pointed out that she was wearing it. She confronted Rasta, confessing to feeling angry and emotional, voicing the doubts we were all feeling. Fortunately, a long hug and a shoulder to cry on from me seemed to do the trick and she was ready to continue.

The rest of us were faring no better, to be honest, my only motivation for keeping going at that point was simply not wanting to go all the way back down again and have to do it all all over again the following night, plus a certain little plan for the summit that I’d had up my sleeve for several months. Niamh was fighting back the tears, Ronan was white as a sheet once more, Nick, Sarah and Shane grim faced and silent. Still, we gave each other as much encouragement as we could muster and Rasta was masterful in his control of the group, appointing his assistants to look after particular members, relieving the females of their packs and always encouraging us to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, pole pole.

Over the next several hours we carried on plodding, meditating on the hypnotic effect of the slow pace, focusing only on the footsteps of the person in front, trying to place our feet in the same places. We rested frequently, taking on water and as many calories as we could, all the time keeping our own doubts and negativity to ourselves and trying, instead, to lift and encourage the group whilst avoiding eye contact with those that hadn’t been able to make it from other groups as they were escorted down, looking like ghosts, with alarming regularity. As we gained altitude and the temperature dropped, feet, hands and the water began to freeze and we were forced to bash plastic bottles against rocks in an attempt to get the contents out.

Six or so hours in we were in a wretched state and commencing the hardest part of the climb, a steep field of ankle deep scree that took back three quarters of every step taken in a heart breaking theft of morale. By this point I had entered a strange alternate reality and christened my trusty Masai omilileek, which I was using instead of walking poles, Sir Sticky Stickford of Sticklesex. Fortunately, it was also at that point that the first signs of the dawn began to show on the distant horizon away to our right. As the sun gradually broke through and illuminated the mountain above and clouds below, it seemed to infuse us with new determination and I was moved to announce that I knew we’d all make it now.

But the scree was never ending. Although we could see Stella Point, the false summit, above us in the distance, the end of the steep ascent, it never seemed to get any closer. The casualties seemed to be coming down thick and fast now and our group had started to deteriorate. Lee, Ronan and Niamh were all physically sick, Nick seemed to have retreated into himself and was exhibiting the vacant stare of a shell shocked combat veteran, Sarah was just trudging in a wordless trance and Shane was lurching about like he’d been on the devil’s buttermilk.

Simon offered to drag Lee up the final stretch by her walking poles, telling her once she’d reached Stella Point she’d have conquered the mountain, it was hers, galvanising her for the final push and driving her onwards and upwards.

After eight hours of sheer hell, one by one, we dragged our bodies up through the evil scree and over the lip, onto the flat of Stella Point – the hard part was over.

We slumped against rocks which provided completely inadequate shelter from the vicious cold winds whipping across the volcanic crater. Rasta and his assistants served us with tea – no coffee – ARSE! – and then they began to gently coax us into the final effort. Lee was steadfastly refusing to go on, but I was insistent, telling her there was no point at all in coming all this way and then not making it to the summit proper. Obviously, I had an ulterior motive in my pleadings.

After ten minutes or so of rest, we were finally able to drag ourselves off the ground and make the final, hour long, trudge to the top of the mountain. This proved to be the most picturesque part of the journey as we passed spectacular ice formations and glaciers. The sun was fully up by now and everything was infused with a wonderful clear light, the sky above us a deep turquoise blue, the ice glistening jagged blue white crystalline formations, the seven of us looking like zombies, white faced and haggard, stumbling on to our goal, ignoring the panoramic view across the bowl of the crater, a massive expanse of virgin white snow with titanic, equally white cloud formations in the distance behind.

Finally, at 9.07 am, the summit was attained, a tatty looking sign proclaimed we had reached Uhuru Peak, 5895m above sea level, Africa’s highest point and the world’s highest free standing mountain. Even more amazing, we’d all made it, a testament to Rasta and his team’s fantastic professional guiding – by comparison, the Christians had started with twenty one at Machame gate and seven summited – “where is your God now eh?” somebody muttered.

As the rest of the group collapsed in a heap around the sign and tried not to fall asleep, I tried to sort my head out and gather my composure. Then I tried to grab Lee and get her to focus on me long enough to hear what I had to say. This was easier said than done as she was almost completely incoherent and staggering about like a drunkard. Finally, I managed to get her to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds and dropped to one knee, my hands resting upon her shoulders.

Instantly, the well rehearsed speech describing what she meant to me and conveying accurately the depth of my feelings for her was lost and my mind went completely blank. All I could manage to utter were the words “You’re an amazing woman Lee Smith, will you marry me” (weeks later we discovered this was almost word for word the proposal at the start of Team America, oh how we laughed).

I waved a box with a ring in it that I’d managed to pick up in Mumbai when Lee was otherwise engaged and then burst into tears, the emotion of the whole thing way too much for me to handle. Lee followed suit and, for a seemingly endless moment, we just held each other tightly, our bodies racked with huge sobs and tears rolling down our cheeks.

“Well?” I demanded. Lee managed to get just enough composure together to indicate the answer was in the affirmative (presumably resisting the urge to punch me in the face as she’d, presciently, told Niamh she would if I was “stupid enough to propose on the top of this bloody mountain”) and I slipped the ring onto her finger and then we just stood there holding each other with the rest of the group completely oblivious to what had just happened.

Eventually, the world started turning again and we were thrown back into reality. We rejoined the others and stood posing in front of the sign for photos. Around us, the rest of the group looked like refugees from some sort of natural disaster, unable even to force a smile at their moment of triumph. Shane managed to unfurl his Palestinian flag and Ronan made a grim faced entry into his video diary, describing the horror of the previous hours in a low, shaky voice.

Without further ado, it was time to begin our descent and we staggered off, retracing our steps towards Stella Point. Nick raced off into the distance and each time I turned around the rest of the group seemed further and further behind.

Back at the lip of the abyss, Nick and I slumped to the ground and waited for the others to arrive but found it impossible to stay awake. Rasta, concerned at the effects of the altitude, advised us to carry on downwards, assigning Simon to lead us. It didn’t feel right leaving Lee to follow behind having been engaged for under an hour but Rasta insisted we couldn’t hang about.

We started striding down the loose scree, picking up speed and generating huge clouds of thick grey dust. Within a few minutes, I turned to look back and seemed to have lost everyone else in the mist.

Consumed by mountain madness, I decided there was nothing else for it but to carry on down. All I wanted was to get off the cursed mound of rock and back to my tent as quickly as possible. Soon I was taking huge bounding strides, bouncing my way closer and closer to the sanctuary I craved. Periodically I would pause to take great heaving breaths, my altitude crazed mind desperately searching for landmarks and praying I was on the right path.

After an hour or so I caught up with another descending group who confirmed I wasn’t lost, the guide asking me where the rest of my party were, “I’ve lost them” I declared, suddenly realising just how stupid I’d been in doing so.

At 11.15am, just as hail stones began to fall, I crashed into camp, waved weakly at the porters huddled in the mess tent and dived into the waiting luxury of my own little home.

Inside, I thrashed around like some sort of dervish, trying desperately to remove all my clothes in one go and getting tangled to the point of immobility. After trying a more measured approach, I was finally able to remove the sweat soaked layers and crawl into my wafer thin sleeping bag. Within minutes I was shivering with cold and forced to put some of them back on as I had nothing else to wear. This achieved, I collapsed and blessed sleep took me in her tender arms.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group were making more measured progress down the mountain, Lee and Shane vomiting again, everyone unsteady on their feet and on the verge of collapse. As it started to rain, and then hail, Lee reverted to the state of a small child, explaining to Rasta that she simply couldn’t walk any further and would need to be rescued, Rasta just calmly repeating that she would walk to the camp in the same deadpan voice we’d all become accumstomed to.

Two hours on the dot after me, Lee weearily scrambled into the tent and we held each other tightly, unable to believe all that had happened in the previous hours. Lee confirmed that all the others had made it  and we drifted into unconsciousness together.

Sarah had apparently only made it as far as taking her boots off and awoke hours later half in and half out of her tent.

Rasta had originally anticipated that we would have a couple of hours rest and then continue down to a camp at around 3000m. The group unanimously thwarted this course of action and it was decided instead to do the full descent the following day.

Lee and I didn’t leave the tent until the following morning, managing only to eat a little soup which the lovely Steven brought us. Lee was unable even to find the energy to go further than the tent’s porch when nature inevitably called.

All too soon it was morning again and, after possibly the deepest sleep of our lives, we rejoined the others for breakfast and to swap tales of the previous day’s exploits. By now the news of our engagement had spread through the group and we were offered congratulations from all, together with the inevitable jokes about catching Lee when she was too confused to say no etc etc.

After breakfast, we sorted out the porters’ tip and donated unwanted equipment to them. They performed a traditional song and dance in return and then we all posed for a group photo before we started the plod down.

The long and winding road from the scene of our triumph seemed to take forever. One by one the Irish crew were gripped by the same madness that had taken me twenty four hours earlier and they ran off ahead, disappearing into the distance, leaving us for dust. The path made its way from the lunar boulder fields, back through moorland and then down into dense scrub and shrubbery, steep in places and requiring stern concentration, taking its toll on knees and ankles.

After the longest two hours of our lives, we reached the hut at 3000m and queued to sign the register. Here we met a minister who performed weddings at the summit but didn’t consider availing ourselves of his services for a moment, knowing it would be impossible to convince anyone to attend. From there we were back into the verdant greenery of the rainforest again, among huge ancient trees covered in vines and creepers and hearing birdsong for the first time since day one.

Lee and I walked alone, ahead of Nick and Sarah, accompanied by the ever-smiling Steven who encouraged us in our final efforts to reach the elusive gate. Just as we were despairing ever reaching it, and freedom from this self-imposed torture, Steven indicated it was around the next bend and it was all we could do not to break into a sprint. Instead, we just held hands and wallowed in the sense of achievement as we strode into the car park.

Shane, Ronan and Niamh were in a shelter in the far corner of the car park in various states of undress and full of jubilation. We all hugged enthusiastically, ignoring the smell of five days without a proper wash, and joined them in changing into dry clothes and finally casting off our heavy boots. Nick came strolling out of the jungle shortly after and was followed by Sarah moments later, collapsing on the benches with smiles as wide as sunshine.

We quickly procured some ice cold beers (what else?), Steven providing one last valuable service as he stepped in and negotiated a less ludicrous price. All that was left was to purchase exhorbitantly priced, low quality commemorative T-shirts and make our final entry in the register to confirm we’d finished alive. Rasta handed us all official certificates to mark the achievement, which, we were slightly disappointed to find, we had to fill in ourselves, and then we climbed aboard the bus and got the hell out of there.

On the bus, we carried on our celebration, Nick and Shane had a final dust-up over the morality of foreign owned coffee plantations and then Ronan sang a beautiful traditional Irish song to Lee and I to commemorate our engagement. Soon enough, we reached Moshi and were dropped at, supposedly, the best hotel in town, fitting reward for our efforts. Finally, we shared genuinely emotional goodbyes with Shane, Ronan, Niamh, Rasta, Simon, Steven and the rest.

We luxuriated in the hot shower, washing a week’s worth of grime and stench from our bodies, bagged up all our clothes for the laundry and then reconvened in the bar to drink toasts to our achievements long into the night.

Truly, an amazing experience, by far the hardest thing that any of us had ever done, but totally rewarding. We were so lucky, both in sharing the company of Sarah and Nick, who both travelled vast distances especially for that reason and, with whom, the laughter never stopped, and also the Irish contingent, Shane, Ronan and Niamh, who proved to be the finest mountain companions we could have wished for, a true credit to their nation with their endless good humour and real spirit.

We couldn’t have been better looked after by Rasta, Simon, Steven and the rest of the guides and porters. They managed to carry ridiculous loads, conjure magnificent meals out of nowhere and display infinite patience and professionalism to get all seven of us up and down the mountain in one piece – believe me, we saw the shoddy treatment of other groups who were evidently paying more than us (metal picnic tables and chemical toilets!!!) yet were clearly not receiving the level of personal care we experienced. Our guys were head and shoulders above the rest – we owe you a huge debt.

Finally, I owe an even greater debt to my dearest betrothed, the fantastic Lee who, not only battled her way to the summit of a mountain she never wanted to go anywhere near, but consented to become my wife when she got there, despite a lack of oxygen and clearly being in a confused state of mind. Like I said, you’re an amazing woman Lee Smith.

I never ever, ever want to climb a mountain again.