My Adventure Diary:
Kilimanjaro
01 CHAPTER
INNER DIALOGUE
I go to the mountains because I am an anxious person. And somehow, it is in the mountains that I manage to quiet the endless stream of anxious thoughts and simply focus on the goal.
In the mountains, the goal is always the same: reach the summit. And, of course, make it safely back down.
So, you just keep going. You breathe. You take one step after another, each time persuading yourself to take just one more step. And then another. And then one more…
And in this almost deceptive way, you suddenly find yourself somewhere above the clouds, in a place where turning back no longer seems possible.
Kilimanjaro became a particularly serious step for me. For my anxious nature, it was a real test. Nearly six thousand meters is quite a conversation to have with yourself, and convincing my anxious self that I needed to be there was not easy.
And yet, as in any mountains, all that is really required of me is very simple: to keep moving my feet.
Step by step.
Breathe.
And remember the goal.
Getting to Tanzania wasn’t easy. Almost at the last minute, Ethiopian Airlines – the airline I was flying with to Kilimanjaro - changed my route. Instead of departing from New York, I was reassigned to fly out of Washington, D.C. What was already a long and tiring trip turned into something even more exhausting: an extra connection, several additional hours in airports, and that familiar, subtle anxiety that always creeps in when plans suddenly shift. So, with a few small obstacles, my journey to Africa’s highest peak – Mount Kilimanjaro has begun. But then again, nothing about big mountains ever comes easy.
The layover in Ethiopia passed in a blur, almost like a dream where you’re constantly running but never quite sure where you’re headed. I had just an hour to make it to my gate. The speed at which I slipped through customs, an endless line that somehow didn’t slow me down, felt unreal. I weaved through the crowd, tossed my things onto the conveyor belt, then grabbed everything in one sweep and kept going. It was as if the entire process had suddenly sped up along with me. And at the very last minute, I made it onto the plane. Already on board, I let out a breath of relief. The longest stretch was behind me, and only a few hours remained before I would land at Kilimanjaro International Airport. In that brief moment between exhaustion and relief, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction: I made it. I got through my own small but important stretch of the journey.
As I tried to steady my breath, the man who took the seat next to me immediately caught my attention. He was loud and clumsy, constantly muttering to himself or striking up conversations with random passengers, exclusively in French. And if anyone tried to speak to him, he would respond the same way, only in French, completely unfazed by the fact that no one understood him, continuing his monologue regardless.
He was skinny, neatly groomed, wearing tight jeans, with a face that seemed to shift constantly, like a tiny theater of emotions. His eyes were framed by round glasses with delicate rims, and his slender, expressive lips never stopped moving, turning every word into French curses. His entire body – from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, seemed to have a life of its own: leaning, twitching, bouncing in the seat, giving the impression it might detach from him entirely at any moment. His low-baritone voice broke out in unexpected tones, sometimes almost a whisper, sometimes commanding, while his face, lips, and eyes continued reacting to everything around him without pause.
When he was asked to put his bag in the overhead compartment instead of holding it in his arms, he looked as if someone had just asked him to give up his life. He spent ages trying to stow the bag, only to look disappointed when he realized he’d left something in it. With sighs and quiet curses, he first tried to pull the bag back out, and then, just as slowly and stubbornly, shoved it back into place. The whole process was ridiculously comical, and I wanted to laugh but held myself back. I thought to myself: “Where on earth is this man going? Is he climbing Kilimanjaro by any chance?” Remember this character, he will cross our path again.
The moment we landed, and I stepped onto the boarding stairs, a special, adventurous spirit of the place hit me immediately. A light, almost childlike confidence bubbled up inside me – everything was going to be fine, Hakuna Matata! I looked around at the faces of the young people nearby, just as excited, full of an enthusiasm that felt contagious, and suddenly my fatigue seemed to vanish. I was filled with a sense of approaching adventure. And at that very moment, a rush of energy surged through me!
When I decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, I carefully considered which trail to take. It turned out there are seven official trails to the summit at Uhuru Peak. Each has its own character: some are shorter, some more challenging, some more crowded, and others – almost the complete opposite, they offer a sense of solitude.
There’s the old Marangu Route, also called the Coca-Cola Route. It’s the only trail where you sleep in wooden huts instead of tents. It’s shorter than the others, usually five or six days, but because of that, acclimatization is not as effective.
Then there’s the Machame Route, famously known as the Whiskey Route. One of the most popular trails on the mountain: beautiful and varied, but in places quite steep.
The Lemosho Route is long and incredibly scenic, considered one of the best on Kilimanjaro. It usually takes seven to eight days and is known for excellent acclimatization and a high success rate.
The Rongai Route approaches the mountain from the north, from the Kenyan side. It’s drier, and there are noticeably fewer people.
The Northern Circuit Route is almost nine days long, circling the northern side of the mountain, and is considered one of the most successful in terms of summiting.
The Shira Route is similar to Lemosho but starts at a higher altitude, which makes acclimatization more challenging.
And finally, the Umbwe Route – the shortest and steepest of them all. Only very experienced climbers take this path.
Although there are seven official routes, in practice, most people climb just a few of them. The most popular are Lemosho, Machame, Marangu, and Northern Circuit.
I spent a long-time studying maps, reading reports, comparing elevations, days, and distances, and in the end, I chose the Lemosho Route. The more I learned about it, the clearer it became: this was the path I truly wanted to take.
First and foremost, I chose it because of acclimatization. The route is designed almost perfectly from a physiological standpoint. In the first few days, the altitude increases very gradually, and then the classic mountaineering rule comes into play: climb high, sleep low.
For example, on one day the trail leads up to Lava Tower, at about 4,600 meters, but the overnight stay is much lower, at Barranco Camp. This rhythm greatly reduces the risk of altitude sickness and helps the body adjust gradually.
But it wasn’t just that.
The route starts on the western side of the mountain, at the Londorossi Gate, a section considered one of the wildest on the entire mountain.
Dense, untamed jungle, almost no people, humid air, and the strange sensation that you’re not on a popular trekking route, but on a real African expedition. This is also where you’re most likely to spot black-and-white colobus monkeys, leaping high above your head from branch to branch over the trail.
From there, the trail opens onto the vast Shira Plateau – an ancient volcanic plain at around 3,500–3,800 meters. The first sweeping panoramas of the mountain appear here. On other routes, the summit sometimes remains hidden until almost the very end, but on this trail, it comes into view early.
The Lemosho Route also has another important advantage: in the first few days, there are hardly any people on the trail. The busiest routes on Kilimanjaro are Machame and Marangu, where dozens of groups can be climbing at the same time.
On Lemosho, however, the first two or three days can be almost empty, just your own team and the sound of footsteps on the black volcanic soil.
Because the altitude gain is gradual and gentle, by the time the group sets out on the final push from Barafu Camp, most participants are already well acclimatized. That means the chances of reaching the roof of Africa – Uhuru Peak, are much higher.
But for me, it wasn’t just about reaching the summit. I wanted to experience the entire journey and truly enjoy it.
DAY 1
SOAKED BOOTS
The first day on the trail turned out to be short and a bit blurred. Half the day was spent on preparations, travel, endless stops, and formalities. First, we had to get to the western entrance of Kilimanjaro National Park – the Londorossi Gate, where all the necessary paperwork for the climb was processed. From there, we had another hour-long bus ride. Finally, we made it to the Lemosho Trail, the place where everything was meant to start. But even there, we didn’t set off right away. We waited.
The guides slowly gathered their equipment, shuffled gear, and talked among themselves. During that time, the weather changed several times: first a downpour, then sudden clearing… and then clouds rolling in again. Other groups came and went. And we… just waited.
When we finally set off, the trail had already turned into sticky, clinging mud. Our boots, quickly caked in dirt, looked instantly unappealing. Moisture seeped everywhere – into our clothes, our backpacks, even our thoughts. Instead of enjoying the local exotic surroundings, I kept my eyes on the ground, trying not to sink into the muddy streams. All I wanted was to reach the camp and dry my things as quickly as possible.
Everything around us felt dull and monotonous. And yet, there were the jungles, dense, alive, vibrant. Somewhere behind the curtain of leaves, black-and-white colobus monkeys with long white tails moved about, like something out of a fairy tale. But that day, they remained invisible to us, as if existing in another reality.
Exhausted and soaked, we finally reached Forest Camp.
Altitude: 2,700–2,900 m
Distance: 6 km
Time: about 4 hours
JOURNAL, DAY 2
PROVE IT
The second day of the hike greeted us with rain. And the rain didn’t stop all day, as if it had a purpose of its own.
Slowly, it started to feel like this wasn’t just bad weather, but a test of endurance, of patience, of how serious we really were. As if the mountain itself was watching us.
You want to reach the summit? Prove it.
Tolerate the cold. Keep going in boots soaked through. Fall asleep in a damp sleeping bag. Spend the day in clothes that will never quite dry. Accept the rain as something inevitable.
You won’t turn back? Then let’s keep going.
Today, we were heading up to the Shira Plateau. At first, the trail led us through dense forest, where the trees gradually grew shorter before fading into thick shrubs. Further on, the rocks along the slope grew larger, and with every step, the views opened up into something breathtaking – the kind that makes it impossible not to stop, even just for a moment.
By lunchtime, we reached the first Shira camp – Shira 1 (3,610 m). The dining tent felt like the warmest, calmest place on the entire route: outside, a heavy downpour raged on, while inside, our soaked rain jackets hung in a row, like a small army ready for the next push.
After a short rest, we continued on toward Shira 2. The final ascent felt especially tough. We were soaked to the bone. But when the horizon suddenly lit up in fiery sunset colors, it became clear – this is exactly why people go to the mountains. To witness something that can’t quite be put into words, something that stays with you in memory and in your heart.
After arriving at camp, I happily curled up inside my tent. It felt so cozy and familiar that, for a moment, even the harshness of the trek didn’t seem so harsh anymore. And in the quiet, to the sound of rain, surrounded by rocks and wind, I drifted into a deep sleep…
Elevation: 2,900–3,900 m
Distance: 14 km
Time: about 9 hours
JOURNAL, DAY 3
STILLNESS WITHIN
Today was generous with views – the kind that need no words and don’t tolerate haste. The weather was harsh, the kind that keeps everything grounded, yet within that severity, there was a certain clarity. Everything unnecessary fell away, leaving only what mattered: the mountains, the thin air filling your entire being, and the quiet act of moving forward.
I caught myself thinking that this is exactly why I return to the mountains – for this feeling: when your gaze drifts into the distance, and something inside you grows still. When, step by step, the fatigue begins to recede, and the hardships – the struggle, the discomfort that inevitably come with the mountains, lose their weight, as if they no longer matter.
Nothing compares to these views. The difficulties slowly dissolve – not disappearing, but becoming part of the journey, almost unnoticeable.
And at some point, a simple realization settles in: you’re standing before something greater than yourself.
Gradually, the trail led us to Lava Tower (4,630 m), to an altitude where breathing becomes more deliberate. It’s a massive rock formation, created when lava once forced its way to the surface, back when Kilimanjaro was an active volcano (though it now lies dormant). The molten mass rose, then cooled and solidified, remaining here as this heavy, self-contained form.
Formations like this are called volcanic plugs. In other places, in other volcanoes, they can trap immense pressure beneath them, holding it until it is released in the most destructive way. But here, strangely enough, nothing happens. Despite this hardened “barrier” within its own body, Kilimanjaro remains calm…
The tower rises about ninety meters, not much when you look at it from below, and yet the climb is dangerous. People used to attempt it, taking risks, especially in colder conditions when the rock was coated in ice. Now it’s prohibited.
We stopped at the base of the tower for lunch. The landscape feels unreal, not because it’s overwhelmingly beautiful, but because there is nothing extra in it – only rock. At this altitude, your body responds differently, a slight weakness for some, a quiet stillness for others, as if everything has been softened. But staying here for a while is necessary: an hour or two, so the body can adjust and understand where it is. Later, we’ll descend to Barranco Camp, at 3,900 m, where breathing will come easier again. But for now, we simply sit beside this motionless lava, getting used to the altitude.
Strangely enough, you begin to understand the mountains not on the climbs, but at night, while lying in your tent, negotiating with your own body.
We lived in tents that were set up on “flat” ground, though that was often up for debate. Some nights, I’d literally slide down in my sleep and wake up in a completely different corner. My body would go numb, stiff from the cold, and by morning, it was hard to tell where my body ended and where the mountain began.
Over time, that orange tent began to feel like home. Each evening, I’d return to the same small patch beneath the open sky, already familiar after a few days on the mountain. Kind of ironic, feeling safe and comfortable in a place with nothing around but fog, rain, and bare slopes.
Sometimes sleep wouldn’t come at all. I’d lie there and listen to the rain. It fell almost every night, steady and unrelenting. It rained nearly every night. The tent would drum under the steady downpour, and I’d lie there thinking (nothing too dramatic) that if it got just a little heavier, it might wash all of us down the slope.
Sometimes the tent leaked, and everything turned damp. Clothes, sleeping bag, even the air, everything absorbed the moisture. I’d fall asleep shivering, no matter how many layers I wore. The cold always found its way, in its own quiet, almost elegant manner.
And yet, there was something almost funny about it. This nightly struggle with the slope, the rain, the rocks, slowly stopped feeling like a struggle at all. It became a form of coexistence.
It simply became part of the journey.
You stop questioning it.
You just accept it.
By a strange twist of fate, over the course of the trek, we all changed in small ways, as if the mountains themselves had left their mark on us.
Our raincoats, almost fused to our bodies, became a second skin. Thanks to them, “humps” appeared on our backs - our backpacks mirroring the shapes of the local dendrocristums, those extraordinary plants that thrive where life seems barely possible.
The raincoats didn’t just shape our appearance; they became part of the rhythm of our movement. They rustled in the wind, soaked up the moisture, and bore the weight of the rain with patient resilience.
At some point, we stopped disturbing the landscape. Instead, we slipped gently into its quirks and folds, as if we had found something familiar here: the same forms, the same stubborn ability to adapt to a world that offers no promises of ease.
Elevation: 4,200 m – 3,960 m
Distance: 7 km
Time: about 6 hours
JOURNAL, DAY 4
IT HIT ME
Day by day, I climbed higher: the forest gave way to rocks, the air grew colder, and my steps slower. Somewhere along the way, I realized this journey was not just about reaching the summit. It was about a quiet conversation with myself, one that can only be heard high in the mountains.
Today we made our way up the Barranco Wall – tall, nearly vertical cliffs that seemed almost alive. For the first time, I felt a real surge of adrenaline. For the first time, I tried rock climbing. And for the first time, I truly understood what fear meant – that feeling when one wrong step could send you over the edge. The rocks were sharp, the trail narrow, and the crowd around us was almost like city traffic, as several routes converged here. We moved slowly, carefully, as if every step required a silent negotiation with ourselves. The climb took over an hour, and during that time, my body seemed to gather all its energy and push it to the limit. It was terrifying yet thrilling in a way I hadn’t expected.
Just as we scrambled over the rocks, the sun peeked out for a brief moment, warming the cold stones. As soon as we finished the climb and started descending, the weather turned. Heavy rain poured down, erasing the warmth of the sun.
Once I got back to Karanga Camp, the altitude sickness hit me full force. As my body finally began to relax, it sent a clear message: intense nausea, as if trying to get rid of everything I’d piled on it during the day. It clearly had no idea why I was putting it through all this. I threw up several times in the tent, too weak to hike the 15 minutes to the nearest toilet, a crude wooden shed perched on the hill. At that moment, real fear settled in: what if I don’t make it to the summit? What if it gets worse?
I spent the rest of the evening in the tent, in a kind of blur, feeling both exhaustion and anxiety. Our guide assured me it was normal, that the body was simply reacting to the altitude, and that all I needed to do was monitor how I felt. He told stories of strong climbers getting violently sick before the summit push, yet still making it to the top. I believed him. Gradually, I calmed both my mind and my body and finally fell asleep.
Elevation: 3,960 m – 4,035 m
Distance: 9 km
Time: about 5 hours
JOURNAL, DAY 5
BELIEVE IN YOURSELF
By morning, I felt better. At least the exhausting nausea was finally gone. The sun was shining, and somehow, it made everything inside me feel brighter too.
Before we set out, our porters sang us “Hakuna Matata”, a simple song reminding us that everything would be okay. Encouraged by their song, we started walking.
We were heading to Barafu, the last camp before the summit. We knew that once we arrived, we would need to rest and gather our strength, since we’d be starting the climb to Uhuru Peak at eleven that night, nearly six thousand meters, an altitude I had never reached before.
At first, it looked like we’d have a sunny day. We even considered a short acclimatization hike. But the mountains had other plans. Rain began, and then, almost without warning, snow. The first snow on this trail. It fell quickly, silently, covering the tents and erasing our footprints, as if rewriting the world around us. We had no choice but to rest for the rest of the evening.
Most trails converge at Barafu. Kibo, the volcano’s massive conical summit, can be reached from only a few routes, so climbers coming from different directions all end up here.
The summit starts at night for several reasons: the snow becomes firmer, the wind dies down, and the biggest draw – the sunrise at the top. In the darkness, hundreds of people stretch into a glowing chain of lights. Guides say it looks like a river of light flowing up the volcano’s slope.
The climb itself isn’t technically difficult. But the altitude takes its toll: it quietly drains your energy, testing not just the body, but your inner agreement to keep going.
After the summit, we would return to Barafu for a short rest, then descend further to Mweka Camp.
Honestly, I could hardly imagine how it would be possible to walk all night: no sleep, little rest, barely any food. We had already trekked a full day, and sleep had been scarce – either from excitement or simply too little time before the summit. I hadn’t really slept at all, and my body was already exhausted before the climb even began.
Still, at eleven sharp, we began the climb. In the dark, our headlamps lit only parts of the trail. Behind us and ahead, a long chain of glowing lights stretched up the slope, winding, disappearing around turns. I’d heard Everest had queues, but that night, this felt no less crowded. The flow of people was constant. Along the way, we met climbers of all ages, from different countries, with all kinds of body types. For a moment, it felt like the whole world had decided to walk in the same direction.
There was something strange about it: the feeling of being a first-time discoverer had vanished. The mountain didn’t feel untamed or isolated anymore. And yet, the journey remained deeply personal, because each step was a step inward.
The night dragged on endlessly. At some point, you stop thinking about the summit. It feels too far, almost unreal. All that matters is the step in front of you. Then another. Your mind drifts, dissolving into the rhythm of movement, and your body takes over. It just keeps going – slowly, stubbornly. Each turn reveals another, and it seems as if the summit will never come into view.
And then, at some point, everything changes. We reach the edge of the crater. The slope eases, and something inside us loosens along with it. Walking becomes lighter. Snow begins to fall. In the distance, morning is slowly stirring, filtering gently through the clouds. The light is still faint, hazy… but it’s there.
And then it hits me: I made it.
The summit marker comes into view. Suddenly, all the fear, doubt, and exhaustion seem to melt away. Everything feels strangely calm. Nothing hurts. My mind is clear. There’s no trace of the anxiety I thought I would feel.
And then, almost as if from another life, I saw him.
It was the same Frenchman I had flown with on the way to Kilimanjaro. I recognized him instantly, without a doubt: still a little fussy, talkative, with that restless energy, even in the same tight pants, as if they were part of his character.
He marched past me. Quick, content, utterly happy. As though the altitude, the cold, and the exhaustion were just more reasons to keep going. I don’t think he even noticed me.
I just stood there and smiled.
What strange, almost amusing coincidences happen in this world, I thought. People who cross paths sometime in the ordinary life, suddenly meet again, here, at the summit, at an altitude where you expect to be left alone with your own thoughts.
And somehow, that thought left a quiet warmth behind.
Kilimanjaro Summit – 5,895 m
I did it!
So many worries, doubts, and fears. Physical exhaustion, harsh weather conditions, relentless focus, and pure willpower…
And here I am, standing on the highest mountain in Africa and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world - Mount Kilimanjaro, still unable to believe this is real. This is my personal record - 5,895 meters (19,341 feet) above sea level. And I am endlessly happy that I turned this dream into reality.
On the drive from the airport, the mountain briefly revealed itself through the heavy clouds hanging over it. And I remember thinking: “Soon, I’ll be standing on its very top, looking down at the world below.” That thought felt almost audacious. Nearly impossible. But I believed. I believed I could do it. That I am strong enough.
Believe in yourself - and everything is possible!
Elevation: 4,570–5,895 m
Ascent time: Approximately 9 hours
JOURNAL, DAY 6
HALF THE JOURNEY
Getting to the summit is only half the journey. The real challenge begins after that.
Many people think the hardest part of Mount Kilimanjaro is the climb to Uhuru Peak. But guides often say the opposite: the descent is the most difficult part. And there’s a quiet, almost invisible logic to that.
The summit attempt begins around midnight (in our case, closer to eleven). Seven, sometimes eight or more hours of climbing in darkness and freezing cold, sustained almost entirely by willpower. A brief moment at the summit, like a flash, and then a long, exhausting descent. In total, fifteen, sometimes even eighteen hours of movement with almost no sleep. At some point, your body stops pretending this is easy.
Dehydration adds to it. At altitude, you drink less than you should, yet lose more, with every breath, with every step. Weakness creeps in, along with headaches, sometimes nausea, a quiet reminder that the body has its limits.
The descent itself turns out to be no easier and, at times, even harder than the climb. In a single day, you have to lose more than two thousand meters of elevation, and your legs inevitably pay the price.
And there is something else people rarely think about in advance. On the way up, the goal holds you together; it keeps you focused, keeps you from falling apart. But the moment you reach it, something inside lets go. And with it comes the real, accumulated exhaustion.
Even as you begin to descend, relief doesn’t come immediately. The altitude doesn’t release you all at once. Your body comes back slowly, as if it doesn’t quite believe the pressure is finally off.
That’s why, here in the mountains, there is a simple rule everyone repeats again and again: the summit is only half the journey.
What matters most is making it back down.
We reached the summit only around seven in the morning, and even that time felt relative, because for each of us it was measured not in hours, but in our own pace, our own fatigue, our own determination. A night in motion left its toll on us. The spirit was in complete euphoria, while the body had nearly stopped responding. I was moving on pure will alone, and it was then that I understood just how powerful determination can be when there is almost no strength left.
And then the hardest part began: the descent to Barafu. Earth and sky blurred into an icy mix of snow, mud, and rock, making every step feel almost impossible. People dropped to the ground and slid down on their backs, surrendering to gravity, while I crashed onto the trail again and again, my legs betraying me at the worst possible moments. I fell behind, stopping almost every minute to catch my breath, to somehow revive a body that no longer felt like my own.
A local guide walked ahead of me, moving steadily, while I followed behind. He waited patiently, though I could see both fatigue and impatience in his eyes. I moved slowly, step by step, and every stone, every ledge felt like a new challenge. And just when the camp was within reach, the sky decided to add one more test. First a drizzle, then a heavy downpour. A slippery, rocky stretch – the final meters to the tent. My legs barely moved, and the urge to simply sit down and stop was almost a physical cry. And yet, soaked through, I made it to my tent. Those last steps were the hardest of all…
The descent turned out to be harder than the ascent. After a couple of hours of rest, something almost miraculous happened—my body recovered just enough for me to move again, though with effort. We continued down to Mweka Camp in complete darkness, in the rain, over slick, rocky terrain. And then, at a campsite in the jungle, I fell asleep instantly… and woke in the morning in the very same position, as if the night had fixed me in place, a quiet memory held in the jungle.
Elevation: 5,895 m – 3,050 m
Distance: 12 km descent
Time on the trail: approximately 6 hours down
JOURNAL, DAY 7
BON VOYAGE!
Today, only the final stretch remained. After resting in the rainforest, I felt an unexpected surge of energy. The altitude had dropped, and the air grew denser, warmer, and gentler on both lungs and legs. After breakfast, we set off again, descending toward Mweka Gate.
Walking felt easy. The rainforest shared its secrets: moss, tropical plants shimmering in every shade of green, the whisper of wind, raindrops glittering on the leaves. I stopped to rest, lifted my head, and saw movement. Among the branches, a playful little face flashed by, followed by a long white tail – a colobus monkey. Above me moved a graceful African primate, as if made for dancing along the branches. It leapt from branch to branch, paying me no attention, as though I was simply part of the landscape. And then, catching my gaze, it froze for a brief moment and, completely unbothered, sent down a thin stream in my direction, as if drawing the final boundary: this was its world, and I was only a passing guest. I laughed. The jungle hadn’t just accepted me, it had answered back.
Local guides passed by. One of them carried an exhausted tourist on his back, she could no longer continue. Watching the strength and determination with which he moved downhill, I felt both deep respect for him and a quiet pride in my own hard-earned endurance.
A couple of hours later, we reached the exit of the national park. Above the gate hung a sign: “Bon Voyage!” And with a hint of sadness, yet also joy, I realized my journey had come to an end. Nearby stood a small shop selling cold beer. The first sip melted away all the tension and fatigue. My body softened, and in its place came lightness and joy: I did it.
Next, we had the transfer to Moshi, rest, and a long-awaited shower. Back at the hotel, I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time. My body felt unfamiliar: sunken cheeks, eyes burning with fire. Who are you? I asked my reflection. And suddenly, tears began to roll down my face. I immediately called my mom to share the moment: “I’m alive! I climbed the highest mountain in Africa and the highest free-standing mountain in the world!”
Well then, if my pants are feeling loose, it means the trip was a success. That feeling of victory, exhaustion, and freedom will stay with me forever.
