Onward! The mountain must come to an end somewhere.
Hans Meyer (First ascent of Kilimanjaro)

The guides chant pole-pole (pronounced poley), Swahili for "go slow", which at 17,000 feet is not a hard sell. A second mantra is kula-chakula, exhorting us to eat and drink, which requires a bit more coaxing. We are all on food strike, from the altitude and the steady diet of porridge and peanuts. It is day 6 and the funereal march is underway, the crux of the climb, up the Great Western Breach wall of Kilimanjaro and into the clouds. It is a genuine frost-in-the-beard, 2000 foot ascent, to the muffled drumbeat of boots jabbing the gravelly mountain.

We trudge cautiously ever upward, as if drawn by magnets, in the shadow of our lead guide, Kipanya. Our eyes seldom lift from our boot tops. Not a word is spoken. There's not enough oxygen to walk and talk. The best we can manage are some low death noises, mostly grunts. Climbing's nothingness forces the mind in on itself. So we march, spring clean the mind, and say howdy to our inner selves for the umpteenth time. Enough already. Occasionally I force myself to look outward and soak up the scenery, usually adorned with climbers feeding the rocks. Thus the nickname "mountain of many pukers."

So why am I here? Because there is an undeniable allure. The feeling is Hemingwayesque, and I am proud to be a man of heights!