Starting a final ascent

DAN LEVITT

In September 2011, 10 Vancouverites began their journey to raise awareness of the impact of Alzheimer disease by hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, considered to be the highest freestanding mountain in the world and the highest mountain in Africa. To date, the group has raised more than $125,000 and, since the Ascent Team program began in 1998, more than $2 million has been donated. This is first half of the third diary instalment in a three-part series from one of the trekkers.

It’s Sunday, Oct. 2, 10 p.m., and we’re at Kibu Camp, at 15,400 feet above sea level. On my way back from the outhouse, I look up to the heavens and see that it is a beautiful, clear night and the unfamiliar Southern Hemisphere constellations are shining brightly. As I peer up at the outline of Uhuru Peak, I try to imagine myself on Kilimanjaro’s summit watching the sunrise.

I open the zipper to my tent and lay back in my sleeping bag. In the dark of the tent, I concentrate on getting my breathing back under control. The simple act of taking my runners off has left me breathless. Only a few minutes later, I hear Sue waking everyone up. It’s time! We scramble out of bed in slow motion, dressing ourselves in multiple layers of wool, down and Gortex.

By 10:30 p.m., we’re all sitting in the dining tent drinking tea and eating cookies. Realizing that this is the last chance to sit down and eat until lunchtime, I try to eat and drink as much as I can. It has only been four hours since our spaghetti bolognese dinner and my digestive system is already packed tight. I manage to force myself to eat half a dozen digestive cookies and down three cups of tea. A few minutes before 11 p.m., Elios, the head African guide, enters the tent and asks if we are ready. With a smile on her face, Sue lightens our collective apprehension. “It looks like a lovely evening for a midnight stroll,” she says.

We leave the dining tent with our insulated drinking systems tightly hugging our bellies to keep them from freezing in the sub-zero temperatures. With our as-light-as-possible backpacks strapped over our shoulders and our headlamps turned on, grasping our walking poles through our thick winter gloves, we are ready for the final ascent of the mountain. Sue reminds us that the summit is optional; the descent is not. We are required to come back in one piece.

We begin the trek up the remaining 4,000 feet to the top of the world’s tallest free-standing mountain. We fall into line and weave our way upwards. Elios reminds us in Swahili “Pole, pole, pole” (“Slowly, slowly, slowly”). We’re like zombies in a wedding procession, marching up the switchback trail into the freezing night. My heart is racing as I force myself to take big breaths, carefully planting my walking poles ahead of me and cautiously placing my feet solidly on the gravel moonscape surface.

Elios has taken the lead position as we slowly trek up the winding snake’s path. Following Elios’ lead, all I can see is the back of the legs of the hiker ahead of me. We find ourselves in a melancholic rhythm of placing one foot in front of the other. There is a slight pause after each step, as we carefully place our hiking books on the scree slope of rock fragments. The trail is dry and dusty. Angling the spotlight from my headlamp, I look down at my boots and gaiters that cover my Gortex pants below my knee, and I notice that the mix of gravel and loose dirt has already left my gear covered in a layer of dust.

There is a calmness among the group. Every 10 minutes, there is a call from someone in the middle of the pack reminding us to drink water. I clumsily attempt to find the drinking nozzle of my water system, I can hear the sound of the hiker directly behind me sipping water through their Platypus drinking system. The hose of my drinking system is tangled up and I am unable to find the nozzle. There is a sense of urgency as I am aware that I have to drink. I look back and see our guide Tom and I ask him for some help. I pass him my hiking poles, which frees up my hands, which are insulated by bulky gloves. I feebly find the end of the hose to my drinking system and try to sip, but I have forgotten to twist the valve from the closed position to open. On the verge of frustration, I somehow manage to twist the valve and take a long sip of water. After stuffing the hose back in between layers of down and Gortex to keep it from freezing, I reflect on what is occurring, as the minutia of taking a sip of water becomes a struggle. I feel a sense of bewilderment that I have temporarily become incapable of managing my own activities of daily living (ADL). I now require assistance for the most basic of tasks. Much like Alzheimer disease, I have to rely on others for my basic needs. I start to think of the seniors I know who are living with Alzheimer and their caregivers – the families who struggle every day on their own personal journeys with this debilitating degenerative disease. I think about how my group of trekkers has lost our sense of independence as we’ve journeyed from the comforts of our privileged North American lives to the uncomfortable reality of subjecting ourselves to the effects of altitude sickness in the freezing cold on the side of massive volcano.

We have been taken Diamox (acetazolamide), which has helped speed up the acclimatization process, which, in turn, helps relieve symptoms. Similarly, Alzheimer disease is often treated with N-methyl D-aspartate (NMDA) antagonist, the main effect of which is to delay progression of some of the moderate to severe symptoms. The medication allows some people to maintain certain ADL functions a little longer than they would without it. Depth perception is another Alzheimer symptom and we certainly would be challenged to trek through the dark night without the assistance of headlamps.

We seem to be walking at an even slower pace tonight. Our extremely slow snails’ pace has allowed other groups to catch up, and they begin to pass us. Hour after hour, we plod along in our own personal war with fatigue. No one is complaining aloud, yet the faces say it all.

I imagine the headache I would have had I not taken Extra Strength Tylenol. I keep waiting for someone to complain of altitude sickness. I try to remember the symptoms of cerebral and pulmonary edema and pray that no one in our group has to turn around. I begin to worry about the unknown, then I hear the words of our guide, Joseph: “hakuna matata” (“no worries”), he says.

At 3 a.m., we reach Hans Meyer Cave, where we take a break. Sue encourages us to sit down, drink water and have a snack. I feel the onset of nausea just thinking of eating an energy bar, so I weakly grab the bar from inside the pocket of my parka and hand it to Winfred, one of the assistant guides, so that he can eat.

A smaller group with two African guides and two hikers are struggling on the trail. We hear extremely heavy breathing and realize that both hikers are using supplemental oxygen systems with the storage tanks resting on the backs of their guides. I imagine that they have paid a great deal of money for this luxury. However, both hikers are really struggling and I begin to feel grateful that we are hiking free of that encumbrance. I had previously seen small canisters of oxygen being used on Japan’s Mt. Fuji, where it really did not appear to be necessary. I am concerned for these two hikers who look so out of place.

Just as I begin to close my eyes and drift off, Sue startles me by announcing that we are halfway up the mountain and need to continue our ascent. We continue in our slow plod upwards. The path has become steep, as the loose gravel becomes a rocky trail, a familiar terrain, as we trained on similar trails on British Columbia’s coastal mountains. Our walking poles are not that useful over the steeper terrain, so I hold both poles in one hand and use the other hand to balance. There is a sense of anticipation, as it appears that we are getting closer to the lip of the rim. I look back eastward over my shoulder to see how the rest of the group is coping and I notice a thin rainbow of color emerging on the horizon, as the sun begins to rise. We are now half an hour away from Gillman’s Points, which marks the beginning of the crater’s rim. There is a renewed energy among the team. Moments later, the earth rotates on its axis just enough for the sun to break through the horizon and lightens the winter landscape of the top of the mountain.

We reach Gillman’s Point and we have our first glimpse into the crater. It is an amazing sight, especially given the fresh blanket of snow that covers the landscape. The large glaciers are now visible across to the other side of the crater. We have a short rest. Sue congratulates us for reaching this goal and then points out Uhuru Peak, which looks like it is on the opposite side of the crater. The summit is still two kilometres and 90 minutes away.

Dan Levitt is executive director of Tabor Village, a seniors care community located in Abbotsford and a member of the 2011 Alzheimer Ascent Team.

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