a life hypoxic

we settle into the hotel in moshi at dusk, dimly conscious of a dark, hulking form towering nearby. just a few miles to the north, rising to 19,340 feet.

kilimanjaro. uhuru peak. freedom peak.


i have been fantasizing about a trip here for many moons. now we are sitting in her shadow. her presence is humbling and exciting, and it fills me with many new awkward emotions.

kind of like pretending to ignore the hot girl across the room in junior high.

my friend micah and i are nervous and don't know what to do. so we choose the obvious, natural, manly route: avoidance.

down to the bar it is for a pair of pre-climb, frosty, vitamin-fortified and delicious castle milk stouts.

the glacial brunette succulent sap flows down our oral crevasses. i feel a familiar twitching of the ol' divining rod in my pants. starting to come to life.

through the hotel gate, an entourage of 5 outdoorsy ladies approaches; supervised by only one male. speaking french.

micah and i exchange glances. already this promises to be a great climb.




******



the next morning we rally and meet up with guide, cook, and 3 porters. from the machame gate, we will be climbing 4 hours through a dense cloud forest toward camp 1 at 10,200'. everything is green and swampy and hot.

numerous climbing parties are gearing up. some appear prepared, experienced, and motivated; others don't seem to have a clue what they have signed up for. really, i can't believe how many people are on the mountain. we intentionally chose the harder, longer, less popular route and still it's crowded. frustrated, we join the line snaking it's way up through the jungled flanks of uhuru.

finding our pace, micah and i overtake a group of 8 middle-aged single women. cougars all. this pack (pride? litter? gaggle? what's the correct term?) of raging estrogen steps aside. each feline sports trekking poles: the mark of amateurs.

the ladies all seductively say hello in turn; mentally undressing the two american youngsters passing them by. our full 2-week beards loudly and proudly display our sexual maturity and breeding potency to each luscious but lethal cat.

coming up next, on "when animals attack".

winding through the trees; gaining altitude through the heavy, warm, comatose humidity.

arriving at camp 1 ahead of the rain, we stuff ourselves with a hot dinner of soup, rice and vegetables. our cook, brown, isn't sure what to make of our vegetarianism. he can't believe i haven't eaten meat in 8 years. and it's been 20 for micah. in his dark eyes swim doubts about our strength to summit.


continuing up the changing landscapes; onto the opening shoulders of the shira plateau. the pace is sometimes brutally slow, with rest breaks much more frequent than micah or i would prefer. it's fairly distracting and interruptive to our rhythm, but our guide james insists. he's constantly repeating the kili mantra: "pole, pole."

damn americans. always in a hurry.

james is a local who has climbed uhuru over 150 times in his 16 years guiding. we assent to his wisdom.

the porters do everything we do, but with 40 pounds balanced on their heads. in the mornings they stay behind to tear down camp, and then race ahead to have tents set up before we arrive. they fetch water and help prepare meals. it's not really micah and i's typical style of self-supported climbing, but the tanzania parks require this. it's a much-needed source of income for the locals.


settling into camp 2 at 12,600', just before the rain and hail starts. the company has given us a shitty, leaky, mesh-sided tent designed for fat texas families on a park picnic. the sleeping bag is a summer bag for desert camping. thinner than ms. tanorexia california herself. it's gonna be a cold week.

micah and i take stock, and i reluctantly conclude that we have enough extra layers between us to keep me warm despite my sheet of a fartsack. i will fill my bag with 3 hot water bottles before bed. plus we can always spoon.

it starts to rain. and hail. i feel sorry for all the groups who got a late start. they will have to climb through the pelting coldness.

it's only noon. we are way ahead of schedule. down time.

20 hours in a tent with another dude brings out male immaturity in force. jokes, farting, general fucking around. laughing like drunken hyenas. most of the groups are too tired to move after a day of hiking, but here we are breaking into song (britney, beyonce, rihanna, shakira, all the greats).

i'm sure the porters are wondering what the hell could be going on in our tent. i'm sure our guide was not expecting the von trapp family singers. all are surely marveling at our energy reserves. vegetarians.

what do you guys eat, anyways? rabbit food?

the rain stops. i poke my head out of the methane chamber; stumbling into the slanting afternoon light.



watching an incredible sunset, a lone french girl approaches. one from the previous variety pack of hot. they are on the same route as us. the ol' divining rod comes through again.

comment allez-vous? we begin speaking in broken franglais. keeping up foreign relations. communicating.

by sheer dumb luck, we are camped next to them. french girls with no morals. oh wait, that's redundant.

but micah and i are reverent climbers; we would never dream of making sauce on the slopes and disrespecting the mountain gods. bad juju. spooning and farting in the tent is another story.

the next day we proceed on the southern circuit, from the west side of the mountain, up and over the lava towers at 15,100' and back down, skirting the hulking form of rock and ice on her southern shelves. a bit of acclimatization on our way to camp 3 at 12,800'.

it's humbling to realize the summit still rises 6,500 more feet from our current location. the wispy clouds shroud our slim, dim, goat-brained awareness.

the next day is a long, hard slog up barranco wall. some class 3 scrambling, and a few exposed spots. i pause at one particularly scenic drop off and drop my drawers. all of camp 3 should have a nice view of my pasty white ass from here.

"look, micah. double exposure."

back down, back up; down and up, gaining and then losing precious elevation, til we arrive in karanga camp. most of the poor bastards were smart enough to make this a 7 day trip, but not US! we're not stopping for the night like most groups. just time for a quick lunch, and then upward (always upward!). high above the clouds and onto the eastern ridge at barafu.



along the way, climbing across a talus field, micah and i continue to sing and tell jokes to keep spirits high.

ooh baby when you talk like that/hit me baby one more time/underneath my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh.....

"hey beavis, did you like bring that oxygen bottle?"



we arrive at camp 4, high camp, and relax. at rest, our hearts still pump hard to supply oxygen demands. we're eating dinner at 15,100'. no big deal.

both of us feel strong, and in good spirits. to this point we have worked hard to make sure there was positive feng shui in the tents; arisen early each morning for our sun salutation yoga; and nearly passed out from belting power ballads all the way up to 3 miles above the salty seas.

he don't eat meat/but he sure likes ta bone

dinner. 5pm, early bedtime. our summit push starts at midnight. james wants us to go to bed. but i don't want to go to bed yet, mom.

i hike up to a scenic spot (coincidentally near the french tents, how did that happen?) watching the beginnings of a spectacular sunset above the cloud deck.


sometime around 9 micah and i fall asleep. we awake after a fitful hour or two of sleep. someone has a radio on, inundating all the happy campers with unwelcome talk radio blabber. even up here, there's no escape from our fellow australopithecus dipstickus.

"hey beavis, how dope would it be to have a bullhorn right now?"

"or we could play rihanna's live your life over a megaphone: ay ee/ay oh/ay ah/ay oh oh...... imagine it blasting down from the heavens like god issuing a proclamation to the sodomites."

we laugh ourselves hypoxic and surely wake up most of the surrounding tents in the process. the image is just too funny.

dressing in layers. some hot chocolate and cookies. dried cranberries. a moment of silence. clicking on our headlamps, we depart; joining the snaking lines of other groups. each member is just a tiny dot of light on the blackest chasm of rock.

we walk on.

to the left, the smoky charcoal plains sleep in pulverized darkness. straight ahead, the massive silohuette of a slumbering volcano; poking her sleepy rock and ice sheets into the heavens. still nearly a vertical mile above me.

i switch my headlamp off. sweet hot blood is singing through my ears. far above, glittery cold stars wink their indifference at my slow progress.

i start to feel the lack of oxygen, stumbling around like a wino.

low in the north sky, the big dipper hangs upside down, spilling her precious whiskey into the cosmos.

the galaxies are drunk. no wonder everything is so fucked up.

i think of my friend at home in the desert, keeping vigil with his wife over their firstborn premature son. he is struggling with his own breathing; with his own hypoxia. i silently dedicate my efforts to the little guy, sending all my positive vibes and energy from the heart of africa; halfway around the world. mentally hitching it to the shooting star passing overhead.

a look behind: black ridgebacks poke their rocky spines up through fog banks; snaking their way up into the colder, more stable air.

the 3/4 moon is bright enough with her halo to illuminate our path. micah and i are feeling strong. our guides need breaks before we do. one by one, team america slides past numerous earlier-starting groups, into the pole position.

you men, always turning a pleasant outing into some kind of "who has the largest penis" competition.

the altitude squeezes tighter on my neurons. at 18,000', you have just half of the oxygen available at sea level. i feel my vision narrowing to a dim tunnel. my thinking becomes slow like a lizard's. one step, one breath.

it's cold. my toes are numb under two pair of wool socks. it feels like blocks of ice in my boots. the hands are also getting chilly. i have gloves in my bag, but it doesn't occur to me to put them on. my brain is mostly occupied with the task of walking. then i find the pockets on my fleece. pockets! what a great idea! as one e. abbey has noted,

a man without pockets is like a......like a what? like a kangaroo without a pouch? like a man without a kangaroo? without a woman? that's it: a man needs a place to put things.

the pocket discovery is a liquid injection of good 'tude. climbing mountains is largely a mental affair.

behind us, a trail of headlamps. men adrift in an inky sea; bobbing on waves of talus. a string of tiny christmas lights tossed on the hillside. glowworms oozing their way up the peak; leaving behind a trail of slime.

we slog away under the stars; passing numerous frozen turds and used toilet paper. right there on the trail. i fantasize about kilimanjaro, dormant volcano, awakening from her geologic catnap in a molten rage; melting the entire planet back down to it's glorious pre-human purity.

ok, kids, put the play-doh back in the correct color container and let's try this all over.

darkness curves space and warps perspective. a ridge that appears to be within a few minutes climb proves to be hours and thousands of feet away. the reverse is also true. you think the crest is far off, and then suddenly you top out.

we arrive at stella point (18,700') a full hour and a half early. this is where we are supposed to watch the sunrise, but it's only 4:15 am. it's bitter cold, even for the montana and colorado mountain boys. our strong pace has left us in the sooty frosty vacuity of space.

we pause briefly for water. after putting on our final remaining layers, micah and i are still both too cold to just sit and wait. we decide to push on for the summit, still 600 vertical feet and a mile distant.

i take a rest step and stare at the east. slowly, by my sheer willpower, the horizon line separating men from gods begins a dull glow. stars extinguish themselves one by one, as the shivering world rolls over on her axis toward the plasmic fires of the good sun.

the heavens smile down upon thine servants micah and patrick, rewarding our efforts. suddenly, we can go no higher.

alone, on the roof of africa, my friend and i watch the eastern horizon ignite into a backdraft flare-up of universal truth. communion above the clouds.




after a few pictures, i find a quiet spot away from the true summit.

kneeling onto the peace stones. reaching into my fleece pocket. i retrieve a small bag. i take off my gloves and reach inside to the chalky grey ashes of my grandfather; feeling them between my fingers in the biting cold. his son once stood here on this summit; now his grandson does as well.

but as my uncle before me, i too will leave this place. grandpa can stay, keeping watch over us all.

spreading my fingers, he tranquilly flows onto the cold smooth rocks. now grandpa can watch the firey african sunrise every morning. that molten nugget swimming up from the dark abyssal plains; blasting the horizon with a splash of emblazoned kodachrome color. here, in the cold lonely silence of interstellar space.


after 40 minutes alone on the summit, we spy the headlamps of additional groups approaching. time to go. micah and i still feel strong, and we cruise through the thin air. the colors increase their intensities as we descend; hearts full and humbled by this journey.



******



i pause at 16,000' to shed some layers. just like my ex-girlfriend used to after a glass of merlot (grandpa would smirk).


running, sliding, gliding down the scree. descending 4,200 vertical feet in 1/5 the time it took to climb. we make it back to camp 4 around 8 am. no other groups show up for 2 hours.

our crew looks impressed. we have silenced the porters' mumblings about vegetarian pussyism once and for all.


the day finishes with a hike down to mweka, with camp 5 at 10,200'. the air is so thick and delicious now that we feel we could run a marathon. stuffing our fat american gullets with an enormous meal and crawling into our slimy fartsacks. passing out inside the gas chambers at 6 pm; sleeping hard and deep.

the last morning from mweka, i spend a few moments in awe of the commanding perspective of kili. we are now nearly two vertical miles below the summit. what a place to brush your teeth. i could never live in a city.


it's always tough to come down from where the gods live; dropping, splashing, swirling around the toilet bowl and flushing down into the sweating, stinking, throbbing, copulating masses of syphilization. back into town.



******



it may be too late to save the disappearing snows of kilimanjaro. the twirling, whirling mating dance of glacier ice with global warming. surely there must be a peace treaty between hot and cold.


we celebrate our climax with frosty south african beers and feverish french women.