Twelve

Any pretense that Kili was easy vanished within a few minutes. We’d all known this was coming, but the reality was staggering, nonetheless. The incline was steep, so shortly after we set out we were struggling to breathe. The irony here was that Stella Point was a scant few hundred feet higher than Base Camp on Everest. There, we’d returned repeatedly to it for the richer air as we built up our corpuscles in preparation for the summit assault. Base Camp on Everest was a haven, a sanctuary, a place to restore our energy for the grueling climb ahead. Here, it was our objective.

Today was very, very cold. The temperature was below zero as we set out, and each step up the mountain saw the temperature fall even more. It was also windy, the first real wind we’d had since leaving the lodge, and I didn’t like what it foretold.

We were wearing all of our climbing clothes. To keep the cold off our skin we wrapped scarves around our faces like desert Bedouins. With our goggles protruding from our face wrappings and our headlamp, we were a strange looking lot, though really no different than we’d look on any of the Seven Summits. Our guides were attired in a mishmash of assorted clothing given to them by various climbers after past summit attempts. Some of them looked underdressed, seeming to have not enough covering for the conditions. Being African, and despite the fact each of them had certainly climbed Kili before, it was obvious that none of them liked the cold. All the life seemed to have been drawn out of them.

The climb was more difficult now because the way was far more demanding. No longer did we follow a clearly demarcated path. We took a zigzag route that was not only much steeper, requiring greater effort, but it seemed that we were either struggling on loose scree, constantly slipping, even falling, bracing ourselves with our hands, or we were scrambling over rocks and boulders. “Scramble” was scarcely the word, though. It was more like a “crawl” over their slick surfaces. In some cases, we dragged ourselves over them, squeezing around whenever we could.

The scene assumed a surreal quality, since we were climbing in the dark, our way lit by our headlamps and the recurring flashes of the lights held by the porters. The beams randomly swirled about, moving in bobs and circles, occasionally shooting a straight line into the heart of the darkness.

Tom had not been a mountaineer when we first met, but over the last few years he’d worked hard to acquire the skills and had learned—the hard way—to be in shape for even a so-called “easy” climb. I was pleased to see how adroitly he moved, only occasionally encountering an obstacle that caused him trouble.

Tarja showed no difficulty as she moved up the mountain, handling the scree with little difficulty, slithering over the smaller boulders with no noticeable effort. She’d always been a graceful climber, and, in other conditions, watching her work a route was a real pleasure. When we reached a patch of ground snow over a short expanse of open space, she turned back toward me and shouted over the wind, “I should have brought my skis!”

Diana was another matter. From our first rest stop on, I could see that she was struggling. I kept a close eye on her. Altitude sickness can strike very quickly and turn deadly within minutes. She fought to breathe and stopped on her own far too often. This was especially disturbing, as our pace was quite slow, dictated as it was by the president’s group above us.

Hooker bothered me. He wasn’t much of a climber, and every time I heard him speak, which, fortunately, wasn’t that often, it was to complain. What troubled me was that he’d positioned himself just ahead of Diana, and not once had he looked back to see how she was doing or to offer a hand to get her over a tough spot. This was something everyone else was doing. Tom reached back repeatedly to ease Hooker over difficult spots.

Two Secret Service agents were bringing up the rear and were having no trouble staying with us. One was a woman, but she was clearly an experienced climber, attacking the route aggressively, the very opposite of Tarja’s approach. The whole idea of security at this elevation struck me as bizarre. What did they think? An assassination squad was waiting on the summit?

Actually, as strange as that sounded, it was exactly the kind of option Tony was compelled to anticipate. Despite all the security, it was always possible that climbers from another approach had managed to evade the Tanzanian military or had come over from the Kenya side and reached the summit ahead of us, expecting that they’d find there a diminished security presence. Tom had mentioned that several of the agents with the president were on point and would arrive at the summit some time ahead of the president to secure the area.

The third time we stopped I drew up beside Diana. “What’s wrong?”

She put a gloved hand to her chest. “Can’t breathe.”

“Go back. I can take you down.”

“No, it’s better. I just didn’t get ready for this like I should have. I wasn’t expecting to summit.”

“Don’t push this too far, Diana. You know what can happen. You’ve seen it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t. How’s Christopher doing?”

I looked up and ahead. He was huddled with Tarja. “Who gives a damn?”

And so it continued, for seven grueling hours. Twice I thought Diana would turn back, but each time, after a stop, she resumed her climb up the mountain. At one point I asked the agents about the situation with the president’s group. They were noncommittal. I guess it was none of my business.

My scarf was frozen to my face and frost clung to my shoulders. All of us were starting to look like white mummies. At the next stop I moved along the line and checked on each climber. No one was enjoying himself. But no one wanted to turn back.

After six hours we came to a prolonged stop. I glanced back at the two agents. One was talking on a device of some kind to the agents with the president. He spoke to the woman who approached me.

“There’s some trouble up front. They want you there.”

I told Diana that I was going to check in with the president but would be back. When I passed Tom I asked him to take care of her. Hooker was leaning against the face of the mountain, bent at his waist like a winded athlete, sucking air. He never looked up.

The president’s group was now only an extension of ours. No sooner did I move past our lead guide than I was given the onceover by two Secret Service agents. Calvin greeted me.

“The president needs to go back down. He won’t listen to me. Onesphory thinks he’ll listen to you.”

The president was a few feet away, surrounded by a circle of agents and climbers. He was sitting in the snow, his back braced against a boulder. One of the medical team held a face mask connected to an oxygen bottle over his nose and mouth. I dropped to my knees and leaned forward to get close enough for him to hear me.

“Where do you hurt?” I asked close to his ear, the wind wanting to carry away my words. I knew it wouldn’t work for me to just tell him the fact that he was taking oxygen at this relatively low elevation was sign enough he needed to turn back. I’d been down that road before with other climbers. I needed him to come up with a good reason. An injury beyond his control was the most obvious.

He pushed the mask aside. “Everywhere. My ankles, knees, legs, back. It really hurts.”

“Have you twisted anything? Broken something?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a few minutes. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

We were close, but on summit day “close” is a variable term. I straightened up and spotted Msingi. “How long?” Distance on mountains is measured in time.

He spoke through his wrappings. “An hour to Stella Point, maybe.” For many climbers this was the summit, though the highest point at Uhuru Peak was still at least another half hour on, in good conditions.

I knelt back down and told the president.

“So far?” he said. He slid the mask over his face and let the medic hold it there.

“Calvin wants you to turn back. You’re struggling too much.” The president shook his head. “A good climber knows when it’s time,” I continued. “I’ve turned back. Too often I’ve pressed on when I shouldn’t have. You brought me along for a reason.”

He moved the mask again. “I’m climbing it! I have to.”

“No, you don’t. That’s what Derek Sodoc said to me, and that’s what got him killed. You’re the President of the United States. You’ve got bigger things to do than climb this thing.” He shook his head. “The monsoon’s come early,” I continued. “It’s going to get a lot worse.”

“Another hour to the top, then a couple of hours back to camp. Tomorrow we’re at the lodge. I can do this. I’ve got a press conference scheduled.”

I spent several more minutes with him, arguing from one position and then from another, each to no avail. His mind was made up. I’d seen it before, unfortunately. Sometimes it worked out; sometimes it didn’t.

I finally gave up, left the circle, and went to Grant and told him my opinion. “You need to carry him down, if necessary. There’s no point in this now that the weather has turned. The summit is going to be very difficult and dangerous. He’s struggling too much for this early in the climb.”

“I wish I could, but we’ve got explicit orders,” he said. “He’s the ultimate boss. If he says we go, then we go. Are you sure you can’t talk him into turning back?”

“He won’t listen. I’ve seen it before. People raise expectations in advance and then, when things make an unexpected and dangerous turn, they think they have to tough it out. This is an election stunt. He thinks he has to do it or he’ll look like a wimp.”

Grant looked toward the president. “Maybe we can carry him to the top.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

It was another 20 minutes before we finally set out. Diana was a bit better by then but was foolishly insisting on continuing. I tried to get her to use her improved strength to make the descent, but she refused to listen. Summit fever had spread through the climbers like a communicable disease.

The wind was picking up a bit and I could feel it through my clothing. We were to be on the summit for sunrise. Usually you beheld a magnificent spectacle backed by the vast sweep of Africa below.

The route did not improve for some time. We continued sliding and struggling up scree, then scrambled over boulders slick with ice. The guides used ropes to assist us up, pushed us from behind when necessary, and, in general, did all the heavy lifting. Guides on all of the Seven Summits except Antarctica’s Vinson Masiff—where there were no indigenous guides—made these climbs possible. Very few climbers would ever have conquered Everest without a Sherpa.

Diana seemed to gain a second wind, as she struggled less now. The allure of the nearby summit often had that effect. I could not make out Hooker ahead but kept looking to pass him, as I was certain he’d have to drop out soon. Our route began to zigzag frequently. The climbing became repetitious, as it often does in these conditions. We climbed one leg, switched back, then climbed another, only to repeat the process. It was tedious and boring, lacking any sense of adventure.

We made what proved our last stop before reaching the rim. Again I moved along the line of climbers in our group and saw how much their condition had deteriorated. They looked like zombies, moving by sheer will power alone. Diana’s look frightened me for an instant, but she managed a fleeting smile that returned life to her features.

Hooker looked as miserable as I’d hoped. I’d concluded some time earlier that, from the looks of him, he worked out in a gym.

He’d likely practiced for this on a climbing wall somewhere and with runs around the reservoir in Central Park. But none of that had prepared him for the reality of nature. He was dog tired and needed to turn back. I didn’t suggest it, though. I was still looking forward to passing him along the way at some point, after he’d given up.

We next moved across a steep field littered with boulders, then reached an expanse of ice. It wasn’t far now. I knew we were nearly there when we reached a final, steep ascent. The wind eased, which I took to be a good omen. Maybe this was just a front, a precursor of the monsoon soon to come. We only needed a respite for the rest of today and for tomorrow. We’d be home free by then.

Once at Stella Point the steep pitch ends. All that remains after that to reach the true summit of Kilimanjaro is a relatively gentle slope ascending just 600 feet along the rim of the crater. This would take you to Uhuru Peak, and those climbers that managed it would be given a Gold Certificate to put on the wall. In normal conditions, such a trek could be done as little as 20 minutes. But this came at the end of grueling climb and usually took a half hour or more. Still many, though not most, of the climbers took the time to do it. Others counted Stella Point as good enough. They’d get a Green Certificate.

The president was, of course, going for the gold.

I glanced at my watch. We’d made the rim in a relatively slow seven hours and were at Stella Point. I glanced about and realized it would soon be daylight. The guides were breaking out portable heaters and preparing to brew tea, while the climbers rested where they could. More than one looked completely exhausted.

Onesphory, Ian and Brendan came over to me, exuberant in triumph. Their youth and vitality were immediately apparent, as they were lacking the haggard look so many others had. They were exuberant and joyful at having climbed the mountain to this point. After exchanging congratulations and hugs all around, uttering the words “bro” and “dude” more than I had heard in some time, I asked, “How’s your dad?”

“I don’t know,” Onesphory said. “The Secret Service agents, medical guys and guides were surrounding him this last hour. I think they were helping him up. I think he should have turned back earlier. I don’t want him to die. This was supposed to be fun, you know? Not dangerous, like. I sure hope he’s okay.”

Climbers were coming to life as guides gave them mugs of sweet, steaming tea. They drank, then began to talk among themselves, their spirits obviously uplifted. The wind had picked up, though, and it was very cold. There was a thick cluster about the president. Onesphory was moving around the edges with Brendan and Ian, looking on anxiously.

Just then a shaft of sunlight struck us. Everyone noticed it and maneuvered to find the sun, which was now rising in the west, out of the Indian Ocean. “Look!” someone shouted. Below, Africa was swaddled in darkness, but light was spreading across the Serengeti like a dazzling mantle. As we watched we received more tea, which filled us with heat, its vitality out of proportion to the reality. Over the next few minutes, vivid sunlight transformed our shadowy view into a vast, verdant plain teeming with life.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

I turned my head toward the voice and there was Diana, the morning sun striking her lovely face as never before. It had been a long road for the two of us. Ambition and circumstances had come between us time and again. For a moment I vividly recalled our feverish months together in Kabul, our passion stirred by the uncertainty and dangers of war and the knowledge that this might be our only time together. Later, we’d struggled to maintain what we had begun, but I’d watched it slowly fade away over time—though never entirely. We’d rekindled our passion and love more than once, most memorably over a vacation in the Bahamas. But since then I’d despaired that we’d ever find a way for us.

She gave me that look I’d learn to know so well. I took her hand and we stood watching as a new world was born.