Mt. Meru write-up

A few hours on the trail and I knew I was back on track again. We entered Arusha National Park early but had to wait a long time to pay our park fees. The ranger grudgingly accepted our US dollars since we didn’t have a Visa debit card, which is the only other way to pay. All park fees are paid in USD, which was quite a hassle for Alena and I since neither of us had come directly from America. From the first gate, we drove an hour past baboons and buffalo to the second gate, where we paid more fees, this time in Tanzanian shillings for the entry fees of our crew. Michael, our ranger with a gun, came up to us and introduced himself. After a sack lunch, we started—a group of four, Alena, me, Michael the ranger, and Philip our guide. Our walk started on level ground; Michael always had one hand on his gun while we passed the buffalo. As if that wasn’t enough, he started telling us about the times when he had to actually shoot to kill. This time though, they remained calm. Our ascent started through acacias trees that giraffes like so much and past sodom’s apple plants with the little yellow fruit hanging like tree tomatoes. We went pole-pole, slowly-slowly, gaining altitude slowly and stopped for snacks often. When the rain started, we covered up and kept going. The porters all went faster than us but we kept seeing them since they would stop for breaks. I practiced the Kiswahili greetings I learned from Alena.

I had expected a hut, not a small village. There were 8 or 9 buildings up at Mirikamba huts—concrete and with tin roofs, but solidly built, with no gaping holes or rickety doors like the ones I stayed at in India. There were 3 huts for the tourists, 1 dining hut, and various other buildings for cooking, and for the porters, guides, and rangers. The bathrooms were clean (and flush!) and there was even running water in the sinks to wash our hands. At night there were light running off of solar power. If I wondered where all the park fees went to, here was the answer. The dining hall had cushioned wooden chairs—all carried up individually by porters, because they don’t use animals in the park. Michael, our ranger, warned us not to go beyond the buildings in the camp, because there were dangerous animals there. I did not need to be told twice. We cleaned up and sat in the dining hall with Michael listening to his tales of poachers in the park over hot chocolate. I was so excited about wilderness Tanzanian style after my conversation with Michael.

The next day was a four hour climb through lichen-laden forests to the Saddle Huts. The weather was cloudy the whole way, so we had no views, but climbing was quite comfortable. We sang songs for a while, trading Little Mermaid lyrics back and forth. The climb was four hours, including stops for super macro photos of dewy flowers. After hot chocolate at the hut (or set of huts), we climbed pole-pole up to little Meru. The peak was swathed in clouds so we couldn’t quite see where we were going, but the point of the climb was the elevation, not the view (though, certainly, that would have been a nice bonus). I busted out patito the rubber duck, who hadn’t seen much of Tanzania yet and was itching to get out of my pocket. We went to bed early, before 8pm, so that we would be ready to wake up for our summit attempt at 1am.

1am came too soon, naturally. We layered up (I counted 6 layers on top) and downed hot chocolate and cookies for energy. We put on our headlamps and started pole-pole up the mountain. Going to sleep I had high hopes for clear skies, but the Saddle Huts were shrouded in fog. We trudged so slowly up the initial switchbacks that a couple that started later than us passed us up. Despite the slow speed, I warmed up quickly and shed layers. Climbing up, I didn’t feel tired, just robotic. There was little conversation as we were all focusing on making out the trail in front of us. The fog created a new kind of darkness. My LED headlamp could not cut through the dense air that came up around me and hugged me so tight I could not breathe. The darkness was complete. There was no hunt of stars or a moon, no shadow of the mountain we were climbing. For a moment the clouds around us lifted and the heaviness left me as I looked up at the starry sky. When the clouds returned it was not that the stars disappeared but rather that we all disappeared from the world—four solitary figures for whom nothing exists except the four feet of illuminated trail ahead of us. Past Rhino Point the loose dirt of the path shifted under our feet. My guide cautioned me to stay on the center of the path. I didn’t even dare consider the sharp drops that must await the careless climber. We started scrambling across rocks around 3am. I turned my headlamp on high beam, certain that my guide had lost the trail. Tanapa (Tanzanian National Parks) wouldn’t really create a trail where four contact points were necessary to cross at the darkest hour of night. So instead I doubted Philip’s sense of direction, even as I remembered the sign at Momela gate: “Always listen to your guide; he knows more about the mountain than you do” (ok, maybe the sign didn’t boast such a perfect usage of a semi-colon, but that was the general gist). But then, as my headlamp searched for flat ground and the “real” trail, I started to notice the green paint splotches on the rocks. I pointed these out to Alena—they had to be the trail markers. She hadn’t noticed them or had thought they were moss. We agreed that green (rather than some reflective orange or red) had to be the worst possible color choice for the trail markers (although I do concede that brown seems equally problematic). We moved out of the cloud, the darkness lifted, and I could make out the shadow of the false summits up ahead that encouraged me to keep going. I could see a shadow of Kili, clear for the first time since I arrived in Tanzania. The bobbing lights of the other groups ahead of us and the faint glow emanating from Kili’s base spurred us on and up.

At sunrise we were still climbing. We paused for a few moments to enjoy the streaks of color then moved between rocks on the western side of Meru where we were hidden from the sun. There was a layer of frost covering all the rocks and the angel hair vertical ice formations that had impressed me so much on the Dzongri trek in Sikkim made a reappearance here. The last stretch we were behind two other groups and their guides. I thought I could push ahead, get to the top to catch the last colors of sunrise, but the exertion of moving past the group was too much. I stopped, embarrassed and nauseous, as they all passed me up again and summited. I could see the flag fixed at the top and a figure in silhouette against the morning sun, but I just couldn’t go any father. I wanted to just fall asleep right there. After a rest, I pushed on, moving more pole-pole than I thought possible. The nausea disappeared as I pulled myself up to the summit. Alena signed our name in the book kept in a weather safe box by the flag, and in the spirit of the Tanzania hotels that ask us our tribe upon registration, I added: “tribe: University of Puget Sound… go loggers!” We took pictures with the socialist peak sign that announced our success, but the sun now high in the sky caused such a glare that the pictures didn’t really come out. When I was at the top, I whipped out my phone to call home. “We made it to the top, mom, its all downhill from here, so you don’t have to worry.”

We started down in high spirits after a requisite chocolate bar to keep up our energy after 5 hours of hiking. We snapped photos of the trail following the ridge and the ash cone, all invisible on the dark hike up. We captured Kili floating on a down comforter of clouds. My legs shook from the descent—how did we ever climb all of this, I wondered. I was tired, irritable, and hungry. Just after 11am, the tin rooks of Saddle huts were peeking through the shrub. The sight was not as picturesque as a stone cabin with smoking chimney, but I was sure glad to see it. We washed and ate brunch with gusto, especially the chipsi-mayai, the Tanzanian equivalent of tortilla Espanola or switzerland’s rosti. Michael and Philip were keen on ordering a rescue jeep to meet us at Mirikamba huts. They assured us that it was very common for travelers to feign injury so as to avoid walking down the whole way. But as long as we could walk, we would hike.

Porters pointed out elephants, but I could barely see them. More exciting were the colobus monkeys we saw shaking tree branches. I was sure the last section of the trail would be quick, considering the speed with which we ascended, but my exhaustion was complete. The valley finally stretched out before us and I shook off my foul mood to enjoy the view of a winding stream, and water buffalo and giraffes all grazing for dinner. We stuck close to the guy with the gun. The giraffes weren’t very interested in us but posed obligingly. When we came close to the buffalo, Michael said “whatever you do, don’t run.” We stayed right behind him, snapping photos quickly while the buffalo stayed in temper. Nearby warthogs were rummaging around. We crossed the bridge and left our walking safari behind, arriving at Momela gate just before dark. Alena and I unbraided my hair while waiting for our ride back to Arusha town. I fell asleep in the car clutching my certificate of successful ascent of Meru tightly in my hand.

Mt. Meru