It is exactly 10 years since I stood on the highest point in Africa – after a dizzying couple of weeks in Tanzania that really did have its ups and downs.
My dad Alex and I, along with our friend George, had decided to tackle this once-in-a-lifetime trek to one of the seven summits, at 5895m (19,340ft) above sea level – the world’s largest free-standing volcano.
We organised a two-week trip with KE Adventure, taking in Mount Meru in the first week as part of our acclimatisation before the ascent of Kilimanjaro.
In a team of 12 clients, plus guides and porters, we had an amazing time. It wasn’t easy, and the altitude took some getting used to, but all seemed to be going well as we got to the top of Little Meru and Mount Meru.
After a day in the safari park, we travelled across the plains to begin our attempt at Kilimanjaro. Day by day we had new experiences, ate like kings thanks to the incredible team of porters who carried the vast majority of our gear from camp to camp, and saw new views as the snow-capped summit got nearer and nearer.
It was only during the night before the summit attempt that my dad was affected by the altitude, having avoided all symptoms of it to date. He told me after our return to the UK that he had been experiencing crazy hallucinations that night as we tried to sleep before the final push to the top. He was given some pills to battle to odema he was suffering and was helped back down to a lower altitude where he waited for the rest of us to return.
Meanwhile, myself, George and the rest of the group had ever so slowly plodded up the giant volcano through the pitch black to the crater rim, following the stars and the head lights winding up the ridge above. As day broke we reached the rim and started to make our way towards the summit, donning crampons en route as the ash was replaced by ice.
The feeling on reaching that summit sign – since updated with a new version – is almost indescribable. It was a really emotional experience, combined with sheer exhaustion, euphoria, concern for my dad, thoughts of my mum who had died 16 months earlier, then how to get down as quickly as possible before the lack of oxygen started to affect me as well.
I don’t remember much of this descent now other than screeing down the ash and arriving at the last night’s camp to find my tent – which I was sharing with my dad – and bag missing. The tent had been taken down to a lower camp overnight with dad, while my bag was quickly located, and George and I collapsed in his tent, sharing our own experience of what had been a very long night.
After a well-earned but brief lunch, we had to continue down the path and ended up that night at camp reunited with dad, and we heard all about his very different experience of the night before.
I don’t know if not getting to the top still plays on his mind but it would have been nice to share that moment at the top of Africa with dad – but we had some memorable times on this trip that will always be special to both of us.
Kilimanjaro slideshow – more photos from our trip