There’s something about Kilimanjaro that draws you in long before you ever set foot on its slopes. Maybe it’s the idea of standing on top of the world’s highest free-standing mountain, 5,895 meters closer to the sky than you’ve ever been. Maybe it’s the stories of the trekkers before you, each battling their own limits as they push toward the summit. Whatever the pull, Fabienne and I couldn’t resist. It was time to take on this towering giant through the Lemosho route. It would be an 8 day adventure. Little did we know, the mountain had its own plans for us.

As we prepared for this challenge, one of the things that consumed our thoughts was packing. What do you really need to carry for an adventure like this? Every gram counts when you’re climbing Kilimanjaro. If you’re planning a similar journey, ’ll be writing a detailed post soon about what to pack: things I wish we’d brought, what we didn’t need, and the absolute essentials that made all the difference. For now, let me take you on the journey that tested us in ways we never expected.

The Ascent Begins

Excitement coursed through me as we prepared to start the climb, but underneath it all, a whisper of doubt lingered. After having a stroke ten months earlier and undergoing a heart procedure in July, I knew this climb was going to challenge me in ways I couldn’t yet imagine. It was the first time I’d be over 2,500 meters in altitude, where the air thins with every step, and the thought of testing my body against these elements was both exhilarating and intimidating.

*From left to right: Marco, Kim, Gaby, Holly, Fabienne, Sam, myself, and Chris*

As we drove toward Kilimanjaro National Park, I looked around at our group—our “family” for the next eight days. There was Holly and Gaby, two 60-year-old friends who could not have been in better shape. Then there was Kim, a 62-year-old who had hiked the Camino de Santiago, the Colorado Trail, and other adventures I couldn’t even remember. Chris, the 70-year-old daredevil from Boston, had completed the Everest Base Camp and spent a month in Bhutan trekking above 3,600 meters. It was hard not to feel humbled in the presence of such seasoned hikers. And then there was Fabienne and me—excited but undeniably less experienced.

Leading the way was Marco, our guide, a calm and reassuring presence who quietly assessed every detail. His confidence in the team, and the 36 porters supporting us, made me feel a more secure as we prepared to tackle Kilimanjaro. Yet, deep down, a question lingered in my mind: Could I stand up to the demands of this climb, both physically and mentally?

When we arrived at the base of Kilimanjaro, the sky was overcast, casting a dim light over everything. We handed our larger bags to the porters, who packed them into sturdy green duffel bags, ready to be carried up the mountain. With our daypacks on, we took our first steps into the Lemosho Forest, the humid air and towering trees enveloping us like a curtain closing behind us. This was it—the beginning of the climb.

The Forest Embraces Us

The mood on that first day was buoyant. The forest around us was alive with the sounds of birds and insects, the air thick with the earthy smell of damp leaves. We walked in single file, following the slow but steady pace set by Sam, one of our assistant guides. “Pole pole,” he would remind us, the Swahili term for "slowly, slowly." And slowly, we went.

*Uncle Sam, our assistant guide, pacemaker, and mood-enhancer*

Our first goal was Lemosho Forest Camp, at 2,650 meters. As we ascended, the lush forest served as a canopy. Everyone was getting to know each other, and laughter filled the air as we shared stories. Sam’s voice echoed through the group, reminding us to take sips of water—“Sipi, sipi, never miss Mississippi”—and so the rhythm of our steps was punctuated by the occasional drink from our hydration packs.

After about three and a half hours of trekking, we reached the camp, and I was taken aback by what awaited us. It wasn’t just a collection of tents—it was a full village. Our individual tents were set up with cots, sleeping bags, and linens, ready for us to rest. A small shower tent, toilet tents, a cooking tent, and a large meeting tent for meals and briefings completed the setup. I couldn’t believe the effort and precision it took to get everything in place before we even arrived.

As we entered the camp, we were greeted by the porters with a song in Swahili, their voices rising in unison, lifting our spirits. It was a warm, joyful welcome, and in that moment, it felt like we were truly part of something bigger—a shared journey, a common goal.

Anticipation and Restlessness

When the sun set, the temperature dropped. What had been a comfortable 22 degrees during the day plummeted to around 16 degrees, and we all bundled up for the night. Inside the meeting tent, dinner was served—starting with a warm vegetable soup, followed by a carbohydrate-rich meal to fuel us for the days ahead.

After dinner, Ayubu, another assistant guide, came around with a pulse oximeter to measure our blood oxygen levels and heart rates. It was a ritual we would repeat every evening and morning to monitor how our bodies were adapting to the altitude. At this stage, the numbers looked good, and there was a sense of relief among us all.

As I lay in my sleeping bag that night, I found it hard to sleep. My mind raced with thoughts of the days ahead. This would be the first time I slept in a tent since I was a teenager, and I had forgotten how uncomfortable it could be to balance between layers—too hot, then too cold, then needing to use the toilet tent every hour. The symphony of nighttime creatures didn’t help either, but I knew I needed rest. Tomorrow, we’d leave the forest behind and begin our ascent to Shira 1 Camp, where the real challenges would begin.

The Shift

Day 2 took us out of the forest and into the moorland. The landscape changed dramatically as we climbed higher—the lush greenery of the rainforest gave way to rocky terrain and shrubs. The sun, which had been a warm companion on our first day, was now obscured by fog and mist, casting an eerie, cool glow over the landscape.

The hike was steeper now, more technical, and required full concentration. Walking poles became essential as we navigated the rough terrain. Every step required thought, and I found myself repeating, “One step at a time, one day at a time,” in my head to keep myself focused. The climb was no longer just a physical challenge—it was a mental one too.

By the time we reached Shira 1 Camp, sitting at 3,610 meters, we were all feeling the effects of fatigue. My body felt fine, but Fabienne started to struggle. The first signs of altitude sickness began to creep in—nausea, fatigue, and a slight headache. Her appetite had started to thin. Despite her usual radiance, I could see the light in her eyes dimming, her energy slightly draining.

That night, the temperature dropped even more, and as we prepared for bed, my worries were palpable. We had a big day ahead—a 10-kilometer hike to Moir Camp at 4,200 meters.

When the Body Rebels

The rain started not long after we crawled into our tent. What began as a light drizzle soon turned into a steady downpour, and as the temperature dropped, the tent offered little warmth. I could feel Fabienne shivering beside me, but it wasn’t until she whispered, “I can’t stop shaking,” that I realised something was seriously wrong.

I reached over and touched her forehead—it was burning hot. Her fever had spiked, and though her body was drenched in sweat, she couldn’t stop shivering. Panic rose inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. I had to be the steady hand, the calm voice in the storm.

For a moment, I considered running to find Marco, but Fabienne insisted we wait and see if the paracetamol we had brought would help. I rummaged through our first-aid kit, found the pills, and gave them to her, praying that they would bring her fever down.

As the rain continued to fall, I stayed awake, watching over her, feeling the weight of helplessness pressing down on me. My mind raced with questions: Would she get better? What if she gets worse? What did we get ourselves into? But eventually, the paracetamol took effect, and her shivers began to subside. She drifted off to sleep, and for the first time that night, I allowed myself to close my eyes.

But sleep didn’t come easily. The next morning felt far away, and I knew that our plans might need to change.

A New Plan Emerges

When morning finally arrived, the rain had stopped, but Fabienne’s condition hadn’t improved much. Her fever had gone down, but her appetite had disappeared, and now diarrhea had joined the list of symptoms. Breakfast was served, but all she could manage were a few spoonfuls of warm porridge.

I sat with Marco and discussed our options. The original plan to hike to Moir Camp seemed impossible now—Fabienne didn’t have the energy for a 10-kilometer hike, let alone one that ascended another 600 meters. We needed a new plan.

That’s when we decided to head to Shira 2 Camp instead, a shorter, flatter hike that would still challenge us and give Fabienne more time to recover. The decision was unanimous—our "family" would stick together, and we would do whatever was necessary to help Fabienne.

As we packed up and prepared to leave, I felt a growing sense of gratitude for the group. Everyone offered what they could—electrolytes, medication, words of encouragement. Even though we were all here to conquer Kilimanjaro, we knew that some battles were more important than reaching the summit.

A Test of Courage

The walk to Shira 2 was slow and steady. Sam led the way, his calm voice offering encouragement to Fabienne with every step. “You can do this, Dada,” he would say, calling her by the affectionate Swahili term for sister coined by Marco. “Why not? You are a simba jike, a lioness.”

Despite the physical struggle, Fabienne’s spirit began to lift. There was a light in her eyes as we moved, step by step, toward our destination. The movement seemed to help, warming her up in the cold, damp air. I walked behind, carrying her daypack along with mine, feeling a mixture of helplessness and awe. She was pushing through with courage and I couldn’t have been prouder.

We arrived at Shira 2 Camp around midday, after about four hours of walking. The tents were already set up, waiting for us like a beacon of rest and relief. Even though we had made it, I could see that Fabienne was still struggling. Her symptoms hadn’t improved, and her body was running on empty. She hadn’t eaten anything substantial in over 24 hours, and it was starting to show.

Above the Clouds

Shira 2 Camp sits at 3,840 meters, high above the clouds. From here, for the first time, we could see Kilimanjaro’s Kibo Peak clearly, standing majestically in the distance. It was a breathtaking sight—one that almost made the summit seem within reach. But as beautiful as the view was, I couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at me. Fabienne’s fever had subsided during the day, but as the sun set, the temperature dropped, and her symptoms returned with a vengeance.

She lay in the tent, wrapped in as many layers as we could find, but still, she couldn’t get warm. Her nausea worsened, and the little food she tried to eat came back up. I brought her cups of warm tea, but nothing seemed to help. I watched as her face grew paler, her eyes glassy with fever, and I knew we were reaching a breaking point.

That night, as I made yet another trip to the camp toilet, I looked up at the sky. The stars were so close, so bright, it felt like I could reach up and touch them. It was a moment of pure beauty amidst the chaos, and for a brief second, I allowed myself to hope that maybe—just maybe—things would get better in the morning.

Right Decision at the Right Time

A spectacular sunrise welcomed us into the morning. With it, the difficult realization that we couldn’t go on. Fabienne’s condition hadn’t improved, and with no appetite and barely any energy, it was clear that continuing would put her health at serious risk. If we decided to proceed with the ascend, her diminishing energy levels may not be enough to heat up her body, which could eventually lead to hypothermia, with decreasing temperatures awaiting us.

Marco and I discussed the options, and the decision was made—Fabienne needed to be evacuated. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right call. The evacuation extraction point from Shira 2 was 1.5 kilometers away. Something that would still be manageable for Fabienne. The mountain would still be there, but Fabienne’s health had to come first. It now became a waiting game. Sam informed us that the rescue jeep wouldn’t arrive until 10:00, then later pushed to 11:00. That meant we had to wait for four hours.

We retreated into the ranger’s hut to wait out the cold. The hut was a simple, bare-bones shelter with wooden chairs and a few bunk beds. Despite the sun shining on Kilimanjaro, Fabienne’s body was battling the cold, her face pale and drained of energy. Each minute dragged on like an eternity as I watched her struggle, trying to stay warm under layers of clothing, while the wind whistled through cracks in the hut.

Fabienne made trips to a rudimentary bathroom nearby—a hole in the floor that offered little comfort. There was a toilet seat alternative, but it was not more inviting. The walk to the bathroom was slow and painful, each step a battle against her weakening body. I waited outside, feeling helpless, with ravens perched on the roof as if to remind me of the weight of the situation.

Inside the hut, Sam and I weighed our options. We knew Fabienne couldn’t wait much longer. Claudi, the ranger, suggested staying inside as long as possible, warning that the extraction point was colder and more exposed. The longer we stayed in Shira 2, the more it felt like the cold was closing in on us, eating away at Fabienne’s remaining energy.

Finally, at 10:00, I decided we should make our way down to the pick-up point. Fabienne’s body needed to move, and it seemed like the only thing keeping her warm was walking. We would not rush it. We would take it slow. Every step would feel like progress—one step closer to help, one step closer to safety.

Way Down We Go

We packed up our gear, and Sam led us down to the evacuation point. As we walked, there was a sense of relief in the air. The toughest part was coming to its end, and soon, Fabienne would be somewhere safe where she could rest and recover, allowing her body to heal. When we reached the extraction point, we waited for the rescue jeep, the sun breaking through the clouds every now and then, casting rays of light onto the mountain.

Fabienne, though exhausted, seemed to find strength in the knowledge that the end was near. She smiled, weakly but genuinely, as Sam continued to encourage her. “You did it, Dada,” he said. “You are strong.”

When the jeep finally arrived, we climbed in, ready to leave the mountain behind. The drive out was bumpy and rough, but we didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting to the lodge, where Fabienne and I could finally rest.

The Mountain Will Wait

We arrived at Mt. Meru Game Lodge in the late afternoon, both of us completely drained. Fabienne, with tears in her eyes, expressed her sadness at not being able to "conquer" Kilimanjaro. I reminded her that she had shown a different kind of strength—a strength that wasn’t measured by summits reached, but by the courage to keep going, even when everything seemed impossible.

One powerful lesson I learned from Fabienne during our Kilimanjaro journey is the true meaning of resilience and inner strength. Despite facing overwhelming physical challenges—fever, fatigue, and altitude sickness—she never gave up. Her determination to keep going, even when her body was at its weakest, showed me that true strength isn’t just about physical endurance. It’s about courage, perseverance, and the refusal to give up when the odds are stacked against you. Fabienne’s quiet bravery reminded me that sometimes, the greatest victories are not about reaching the summit, but about how we face the struggles along the way.

As I reflect on our journey, I realize that Kilimanjaro wasn’t just about reaching the top. It was about the lessons learned along the way—the importance of patience, the power of community, and the resilience we carry within ourselves. The mountain is still there, waiting, and maybe one day we’ll return. I’m grateful for the experience, for the challenges we faced, for the strength we found in each other, and for meeting our “family” in the mountain, who offered their unconditional support.

One thing I’ll never forget is the pride I saw in the porters who accompanied us. Their energy, their smiles, and the ownership they took in what they were doing—whether setting up camp, carrying our gear, or singing as they worked—lifted our spirits in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It was a lesson for me: whatever I do, I want to do it with the same ownership, to the best of my ability, and with a smile. That attitude doesn’t just affect me—it impacts those around me, as I experienced firsthand with the porters. Their joy in the face of challenge was contagious, and it made the tough moments on the mountain more bearable.

Kilimanjaro tested us in ways we didn’t expect. We may not have made it to the summit, but we came away with something far more valuable—an understanding of what it means to truly push beyond your limits, not just physically, but also emotionally and mentally. And for that, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Kilimanjaro: A Mountain that Humbled Us