Summit One: Mount Kilimanjaro - Learning Altitude the Hard Way

Eighteen months after standing on the crater rim of Mount Fuji, I found myself boarding the longest flight I had ever taken. Twenty eight hours from Sydney to Tanzania. Destination, Mount Kilimanjaro, the roof of Africa. My first true Seven Summits mountain attempt and also my first real taste of solo international travel.

I was nervous. Excited. Uncertain. Was I fit enough? Capable enough? Experienced enough to attempt what I had quietly set in motion? The journey felt like a slow psychological build up. Sydney to Dubai. Dubai to Nairobi. A long layover in Kenya stretched out on the airport floor waiting for the final connection to Kilimanjaro Airport. Fatigue blurred into anticipation.

By the time I arrived it was well into the night. The visa process was straightforward. Passport stamped. Yellow fever vaccination card checked and accepted. Small procedural steps that somehow made the whole thing feel official.

I had arranged a transfer given the late arrival and the fact that this was my first truly solo international trip. The drive was dark. Pitch black. No visual cues of the culture I had just stepped into. No skyline. No context. Just headlights cutting through empty road.

When we pulled into the Stella Maris Lodge, I finally caught my first glimpse of Tanzania. The walls were covered in artwork from local school children. Bright colours. Painted animals, landscapes and Masai tribal traditions. The hotel itself was a key base for tour companies climbing Kilimanjaro and supported a sister school in the area.

It felt less commercial than I had expected and more community oriented.

The Lodge and the adjacent Stella Maris English Medium Primary School were built by the people of Mailisita in partnership with the Mailisita Foundation, a United States based organisation supporting orphaned and vulnerable children. Income generated from the lodge goes directly toward paying teachers and providing food for the students.

That context changed how I saw the place.

What initially felt like a simple pre expedition staging point was in fact part of a wider ecosystem. The walls covered in children’s artwork were not decoration for tourists. They were evidence of something being built. Education funded by the very climbers passing through on their way to the mountain. Before I had even stepped onto the trail, Kilimanjaro was already teaching me something about interdependence. About how the mountain economy feeds directly back into the community beneath it.

From the flat African plains rose a vast dormant volcano. Massive. Self contained. Towering in complete isolation above the surrounding terrain. There was no gradual build up. No neighbouring peaks competing for attention. Mount Kilimanjaro stood alone, dominating the horizon. The lower slopes were dark and forested, the upper reaches capped in white, suspended above the heat of the plains. It felt improbable. Almost artificial in its symmetry. A mountain detached from everything around it.

Up until that moment the climb had felt theoretical. A booking. A flight. A plan.

Standing there on that balcony, looking at it in full daylight, it became real.

And there was no turning back.

I ruled out the Marangu Route (the “Coca-Cola Route”), typically completed in 5 days, due to its rapid altitude gain and low summit success rates. Instead, I chose the Machame Route, a 7-day itinerary offering better acclimatisation through the classic “climb high, sleep low” profile. It was consist of 5 days of climbing and 2 days of descent.

We had a scheduled group meeting the following afternoon.

Climbers gathered from all parts of the world. A couple of Australians. A Kiwi from across the ditch. A Dutch couple. A Canadian couple. An American. A Brit. Different accents. Different reasons for being there. The same objective. Introductions were brief but telling. Some were chasing a personal milestone. Others ticking off a continent high point. A few, like me, were quietly testing something deeper.

The lead guide walked us through procedures and expectations for the days ahead. Daily start times. Hydration targets. Pace discipline. The importance of reporting symptoms early rather than hiding them. The phrase pole pole was repeated more than once. We were then required to weigh our duffel bags. Fourteen kilograms was the maximum allowed for porters to carry per climber. A regulation enforced by the national park to protect against overloading. Bags were clipped onto a hanging scale one by one. A small but sobering reminder that this mountain operated within a system larger than ourselves. Gear that felt essential the night before suddenly felt negotiable. The margin for excess was gone.

By morning everything would be packed and erased from the landscape as if we had never passed through. Looking back now, it is the image of porters moving effortlessly at altitude, some in flip flops, that stays with me more than any photograph.

The following morning we loaded into a minivan and drove toward the park gate.

Not long after entering the national park boundary we were swarmed by porters as the vehicle came to a stop. Gear was unloaded from the rooftop and the rear doors with practiced efficiency. Purple vests marked with G Adventures logos moved in every direction. Smiles wide. Energy high. It felt less like the beginning of a hardship expedition and more like the start of a coordinated production.

We registered with the park rangers, passports and permits checked and stamped. A small formality before stepping onto the trail. Lunch was simple. Basic snacks. Final adjustments to packs. Then we crossed into the first ecosystem.

We set off to the trailhead as part of a moving system rather than a small climbing team. Each group was supported by dozens of porters hauling tents, food, cooking equipment, and personal gear. Although regulations limit individual loads, the sheer scale of support was confronting. In hindsight it softened the logistical challenge, but at the time the mountain still felt overwhelming.

The air shifted immediately. Thick. Humid. Heavy with the scent of damp earth and vegetation. A dense canopy filtered the light above us. Bird calls echoed through the trees.

Porters moved past us at speed, some balancing heavy loads on their heads with an ease that defied logic. While we found our rhythm, they surged ahead, laughing and talking, disappearing into the forest only to reappear further up the track.

The climb to the first camp was steady and manageable. When we arrived, the scene felt surreal. A sea of rainbow coloured tents stretched across the clearing. Dozens of expedition teams. An armed ranger stationed nearby as part of standard park security. And our tents already pitched.

It was there that we first met John John. He may have been one of the most energetic people I have ever encountered. A grin that stretched from ear to ear. Enthusiasm that filled the camp. Dance moves that could shift the mood of an entire group. As the expedition chef he ran the food operation with authority and humour, calling instructions in Swahili to the kitchen team while somehow still finding time to entertain us. His presence changed the atmosphere. What could have felt transactional or mechanical instead felt alive. The mountain was serious. The system supporting it was equally serious. But the people carried it all with rhythm and song.

Meals were prepared before we had even taken our boots off. There was a strange tension between comfort and authenticity. The food was generous. Hot lunches appeared effortlessly. Drinks were plentiful. It felt almost indulgent for a mountain of this stature. Yet each afternoon, as we arrived exhausted into camp, the porters would already be there. Tents pitched. Meals prepared. Singing and dancing echoing through camp. Morale lifted instantly.

I shared a tent with Atlee, an older gentleman from the United Kingdom.

He was observant. Curious. Slightly reserved at first, yet clearly intrigued by the younger crowd around him. In the evenings, as we lay in our sleeping bags listening to distant laughter and the rustle of tents in the wind, he would ask thoughtful questions.

Do you think my nephew would enjoy something like this? Would a safari be better for someone his age? Is Africa too wild for a first big trip?

There was something endearing about it. He was not asking for himself. He was imagining possibility for someone else.

You have nothing to lose, I told him.

One experience like this can change the way you see the world. Even if it is uncomfortable. Even if it is unfamiliar. Especially then.

At that stage I was still discovering that truth for myself. Yet I believed it. Standing on the lower slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, I already sensed that this journey would stay with me long after the descent. Sometimes it is not about certainty. It is about stepping into the unknown and allowing it to shape you.

Elena and Mark were university friends from Europe who had somehow convinced each other that Kilimanjaro should be their next shared challenge. They powered throughout the day and often had recovered well when the guides tested our blood oxygen levels regularly before evening. There was an easy familiarity between them. Equal parts banter and quiet resolve. It was clear this was less about ticking a box and more about doing something demanding together.

Jackie and Tyler were a Canadian couple and childhood sweethearts. Tyler worked in project management and we connected quickly over construction, timelines, risk, and the strange satisfaction of watching plans become reality. It was a different context, but the language was similar.

Then there were the Aussies. Or perhaps one and a half Aussies.

Katie, open and warm from the outset. And Tremaine, a Kiwi who by the end of the expedition would feel like one of us. Reserved. Observant. The kind of person who speaks less but listens carefully. Over time his generosity surfaced in small ways. Sharing gear not only to myself, but the local porters. Checking in on others without drawing attention to it. The group dynamic formed slowly but naturally. Different backgrounds. Different motivations. Same mountain. By the time we left the rainforest and began climbing higher, we were no longer just individuals on a guided tour. We were a moving unit, learning each other’s pace, humour, strengths, and limits.

The First Signs of Altitude

It was on the third day, climbing toward approximately 4,600 metres, that altitude made itself known. My head began to throb. Appetite disappeared as I stared at my food for lunch, just looking at it made me feel sick. no discredit to Jon Jon, it looked and smelt amazing. All I wanted was to sleep and descend. The discomfort was unfamiliar and unsettling.

Thankfully the we had surpasses the highest point that day and, dropping and camping down at Barranco Camp. The descent toward Barranco introduced a completely different world. Vegetation returned, but not in the form I expected. The landscape was scattered with towering giant groundsels, thick trunks rising from rocky soil, their upper branches reaching outward like oversized fingers frozen mid gesture. They looked prehistoric. Almost sculptural. Large in scale compared to us, rooted stubbornly in an environment that seemed too harsh to sustain anything at all.

Dropping in elevation brought relief. Oxygen felt generous again. Head clearer. Appetite slowly returning. By the time we approached Barranco Camp, I could see the faint trail outline of the Barranco Wall rising ahead of us, a steep dark face cutting sharply into the skyline.

The following morning the scale of it became obvious. From a distance the wall was littered with coloured jackets. A long winding line of climbers inching upward like ants across rock. Stepping outside my tent, the scene felt chaotic. Climbers weaving through narrow sections of trail. Porters carrying heavy loads flowing upward with surprising speed. Occasional traffic jams where groups stalled, waiting for others to navigate tighter rock sections.

What felt imposing from below became manageable once we were on it.

Guides directing traffic through bottlenecks. Porters still somehow breezing past us with loads that would have slowed anyone else. By late morning we had cleared the wall and entered a more open, exposed landscape again. Mist began rolling through the pass, drifting across the desert terrain in slow waves. At times it felt eerie. Visibility narrowing. The mountain revealing and concealing itself in intervals. The descent from the previous day had improved my acclimatisation significantly making the day to Karanga Camp rather enjoyable.

The following day was a short push to high camp at Barafu Camp, the final staging point before the summit. The landscape had shifted again. Vegetation had long disappeared, replaced by a barren volcanic slope of loose rock and dust.

The afternoon was spent preparing. Sorting layers. Filling water bottles. Checking headlamps and spare batteries. Packing small snacks that might still be edible in the cold.

Dinner came early, though conversation was quieter than previous evenings. Everyone knew what the night ahead would demand. Afterwards we crawled into our tents whilst the sun setting tents to try and rest before the midnight wake up. However, sleep never really came.

Nerves hovered just beneath the surface. Every time I closed my eyes my mind drifted back to the climb ahead. I would drift off briefly only to wake again moments later, checking the time, listening to the wind brushing against the tent.

Eventually the call came. Headlamps flicked on across camp as guides moved from tent to tent waking climbers. .Standing outside in the cold darkness, doubts crept in quietly.

Was I prepared for this. Had I trained enough. Did I truly understand what the next six or seven hours would demand. There were no clear answers. But the line of headlamps had already begun moving upward into the darkness and there was no turning back now.

Summit Night

It was brutally cold. Far colder than I had anticipated for January. Wind howled across loose scree. Each step felt heavier than the last. Mentally, it was exhausting. Endless uphill in darkness, illuminated only by headlamps and the slow rhythm of boots crunching on volcanic gravel. My thinking dulled into a hazy, almost drunken state. Movement became automatic rather than deliberate. Gear choices mattered more than I realised. Some items failed. Others quietly saved me. At one point my hands were so numb I could barely open a frozen chocolate bar. The local phrase pole pole "slowly slowly" stopped sounding like advice and started sounding like survival.

I reached Stella Point at sunrise. The first light cut across the crater rim and brought just enough warmth to return sensation to my hands and face. I remember believing the effort was over, only to realise that the true summit of Uhuru Peak was still another forty minutes away. That final stretch passed in a fog. A slow swaying rhythm. Not quite steady. Not quite present. Just forward. As the sky continued to brighten, I experienced something I had never seen before. Looking out across the horizon, I could make out the curvature of the Earth. The glow intensified and the rotation of the world seemed to shift subtly with every step. It was quiet. Grounding. Humbling.

I was not the only one feeling the effects of altitude. Tremaine struggled as well. Quiet as he was, it was obvious something was off. His pace slowed. His breathing laboured. The guides moved closer, watching carefully, offering subtle encouragement without drawing attention to it. On summit night they stayed tight around him during the final steps toward Uhuru Peak, managing the pace and monitoring his condition. Altitude affected him heavily near the top. Despite that, he still reached the summit. There was no celebration in his expression. Just relief. Shortly after, the guides began escorting him down quickly to recover, not wasting time at that elevation.

Standing there myself, relief washed over me as well. The weight that had built through the night lifted almost instantly. The hazy drunken state that had dulled my thinking began to fade with every step downward from the roof of Africa. It was remarkable how quickly clarity returned once we began to descend.

Looking out across the upper slopes, the terrain felt alien. A high altitude desert stretching outward in muted tones of brown and grey. Unfamiliar. Stark. Like stepping across the surface of Mars. And yet there I was.

We returned to The descent from the previous day had improved my acclimatisation significantly. My body no longer felt foreign to me. The headache had eased. Energy steadied. Confidence returning quietly rather than dramatically.

It was only a short walk from there to Karanga Camp. A brief rest stop in the broader ascent plan. and collapsed into our tents for a brief rest. It was not real sleep, more a short surrender of the body after the midnight push. After lunch we packed up and began descending further down the mountain via the Marangu Route, commonly known as the Coca Cola route.

Along sections of the trail were wheeled stretchers that resembled narrow industrial trolleys used for transporting equipment. At first they looked out of place, almost mechanical against the volcanic slope. We were told they were used to evacuate sick climbers suffering from severe altitude complications. It did not look comfortable.

The descent began to take its toll. Knees aching. Quadriceps burning. Fatigue layered from the midnight summit push and barely any real sleep. I found myself tuning out, placing one foot in front of the other without much thought.

By the time we reached Mweka Camp, the rainforest had returned. The summit now hidden above in cloud and canopy. It was our final night on the mountain. The air thicker. The oxygen generous again. On our last morning at camp, Tremaine’s gratitude surfaced in an unexpected way. He stepped forward and performed a haka as a farewell and thank you to the Tanzanian porters.

The response was unforgettable.

Wide eyes. Laughter. Applause. Then imitation. For the remainder of the descent, porters moved down the trail with tongues out, chests pounding, arms swinging, shouting in rhythm as if they had briefly become Kiwi Maori themselves. It was one of the most genuine cultural exchanges I have ever witnessed in the mountains. The summit was significant. But that moment of shared laughter on the way down felt just as important.

The haka was Tremaine’s gift back to the porters. For days they had lifted our spirits with song, rhythm, and dance as we arrived into camp tired and dusty. They had carried loads ahead of us. Cooked our meals. Watched our pace. On summit night they had helped manage him through moments where he was barely present. The haka was his way of giving culture back to culture. Strength for strength. Energy for energy. He did not stop there. In a gesture that felt deeply personal, he generously gave away his speaker and some of his gear to the guides as a thank you for their assistance when he had been in a near unconscious state near the summit. It was not transactional. It was gratitude.

We returned to Stella Lodge that afternoon, descending out of the forest and back into heat and dust before driving toward town. That final night we shared a room again. This time without altitude headaches. Without wind. Without layers of frost inside the tent.

Air conditioning. Showers. Real bathrooms. We both passed out quickly, exhausted in the way only a mountain can produce. Yet there was an underlying appreciation for being back in civilisation. Clean sheets. Still air. Stable ground.

The next morning I began repacking for my onward journey. Everest Base Camp was next. As I shuffled gear across the floor I noticed something alarming. The strap on my hiking pack was hanging on by a thread. One more day and it likely would have failed completely.

Without hesitation, Tremaine offered me his pack. He was flying home. I was flying toward Nepal. That backpack travelled with me to some of the most remote places in the world for years after. It became part of my system. Part of my expeditions. A silent reminder of generosity given freely.