When I went with the Board of Outward Bound to climb Kenya’s Mt. Kilimanjaro I was very, very, very scared. I had brought a bright pink parka for the occasion. We were all lined up before our ascent and the leader told us that in the"Outward Bound tradition" we would carry our own packs. My pack weighed 70 pounds. I started to sob loudly in my pink parka, curled blonde hair, full makeup and polished nails. I sobbed in front of all these people I did not know——these sturdy, seasoned hikers in brown parkas. I had only hiked upstairs at the gym. What was I doing? They wondered the same thing. Off we went the first day through woody flowery trails to the Rongai caves at 7000 feet. When we arrived I sobbed again. They seemed not to notice. Perhaps I would go away. In the "Outward Bound tradition" we got to cook our own dinner and dig our own latrines. No shyness here. The next day I felt quite nauseous as we pushed on to 10,000 feet with our packs on our backs. I tried to sleep that night in the large football field cave where the snores of fellow hikers bellowed out, bats played, and mice crawled. Instead, I sobbed very loudly. On the third day we took a stroll with just day packs up to 13,000 feet then came back down for the night, passing boulders and bushes burned in a fire — it looked like the moon and I sobbed. On day four we went to 12,800 feet and we laughed of all things. We slept in tents that night and I woke to find a porter had rolled down next to me as our tents were at an incline. By now, vanity was no longer important. Food was. I craved food and ate as one possessed. The altitude was burning calories very fast. My clothes were loose, my hair filthy, my nails dirty, my makeup non existent. My back had "pack pain." My feet throbbed and I lay awake sobbing and praying for sleep.

On the fifth day it was very difficult as we climbed to 15,500 feet. Planes fly at this altitude, for heaven sake. It was very steep and we took small steps "poley-poley" (slowly, slowly). We were all filthy and smelly and full of dirt. Our leader Lyn who ran up the mountain and was always happy got pulmonary edema and was taken hastily down by two porters. I was too tired to sob as we entered our hut to prepare for our midnight final assault. My fellow climbers asked what was missing and realized it was my noisy tears. They missed them.

At midnight the final assault under the stars and cold moon. The thick scree pulling at our legs like quicksand. Trying to put one foot in front of the other in the face of the 60 mph gales. Hypothermia strikes. We pass rocks and boulders and only see pricks of lights from climbers above, always above. I fall asleep standing up, the porters are leading us in old clothes, old shoes, berets while I am pink parkaed and wrapped in thinsulate. But we summit. We reach 18,600 feet — above clouds, above pain, above tears, I think, until I see that my pink parka has turned brown from dirt. The tears begin in earnest as I realize I resemble everybody else.

By Tina