Reaching the summit of Africa’s tallest mountain as a complete beginner

It’s 4am and I am more than 5000 metres above sea level.

Against the backdrop of the full moon, the outline of my destination looms in the distance. Moonlight reflects off silver ice caps, silhouetting jagged slopes that frame the path forward. Headlamps flicker far ahead in a spotted sequence – the lights of fellow summit hopefuls – the space between us concealed by a dark expanse.

My summit push to Uhuru Peak, the highest point on the African continent at 5895 metres, coincides with the night of the October supermoon – I had made sure of it. Our ascent begins at 1am, my body then fighting for eight hours against a combination of intense exhaustion, freezing temperatures and extreme altitude. At Mount Kilimanjaro’s summit, available oxygen in the atmosphere decreases by over 50 percent.

To say I was unprepared physically is an understatement. I had completed no training in advance of the six-day trek to the top of Kilimanjaro, and if I made it to the peak, this would be the first mountain that I summit. But mentally – spiritually – I believed that I could. Favoured with clear skies and brilliant moonlight, this is an auspicious night.

“Pole, pole,” my guide, Tyson, encourages. “Slowly, slowly.”

I exhale, and take another step.

Mount Kilimanjaro, located in north-east Tanzania near the southern border of Kenya, boasts an impressive resume: the highest mountain in Africa; the tallest free-standing mountain above sea level in the world; the fourth most topographically prominent peak; and one of the mountaineering community’s famed Seven Summits. Not to mention it’s a dormant volcano, with Uhuru Peak as the highest point on its Kibo Crater.

Yet it is one of the world’s most accessible mountains above 5000 metres, with a reported 30,000 summit attempts each year and a 60 per cent average success rate, varying route-to-route. Local and international trekking companies promote the mountain as being suitable for beginners, given that no technical climbing experience is required and only small sections of scrambling are involved. They do, however, strongly recommend undertaking adequate physical preparation.

The highest elevation I had previously reached was 4130 metres at Annapurna Base Camp in Nepal’s Himalayas, two years prior. When I confessed to my guide that this was the extent of my trekking experience, he said, “Sister, you are crazy. But you will make it to the summit because you believe. And we will take care of you.”

I booked the expedition through Tanzania-based trekking company, Kili Team Adventures. For two clients, our group consisted of 12 highly experienced staff: two guides; a chef; a “butler” to serve meals and hot tea; and eight seemingly superhuman, unrelenting porters, each carrying 20 kilograms of cooking and sleeping equipment, food, water, and tents up the incline.

I rented most of my trekking gear only one day prior and, with the help of Kili Team Adventures, had quickly filled a pharmacist’s script for Diamox to help prevent acute altitude sickness. The rest of my layers came from Kathmandu’s clearance rack and Uniqlo – evidence of an ambitious beginner.

The Machame Route is one of the most popular paths to the summit. Favoured among trekkers for its success rate and diverse landscape, it passes through four distinct vegetation zones: montane forest, with dense canopies that are home to elusive black-and-white colobus monkeys; moorland, where grasslands shift to rocky plateaus dotted with cairns and giant native groundsels; alpine desert as the altitude increases; and the arctic summit zone – dominated by extreme weather conditions, volcanic rock underfoot and glacial ice fields (which are projected to disappear as early as 2050 due to global warming).

When we reach Barafu Camp on day four, at 4673 metres elevation and our base for the summit attempt, weather conditions on the mountain take a turn. Intense winds tear over the ridge, battering the walls of my tent. At 5pm, with a wake-up call scheduled for 1am, my window for sleep is shrinking. Alone in my tent, I close my eyes and pray.

“Georgia.” I wake to the sound of my name being called at 1am. Over the past few days, we have moved in sync with the waxing moon, climbing an average of eight hours per day, culminating to full strength for summit night. It will take seven to eight hours to reach the peak, and another four to six to descend.

Everything has led to this moment. Anxious, I unzip my tent to find stillness.

The wind has ceded and moonlight floods the camp, the promise of success cast across the mountain ridge. After a quick check of my heart rate and oxygen levels, it’s time.

“Twende?” Tyson prompts. “Let’s go?”

“Twende.”

Our summit group now comprises just three: my guide, Tyson; my summit porter, Abdul; and me. My trekking companion will begin his push with his guide and porter later, to allow for a few more hours sleep, while the rest of the team will wait for us at base camp to ensure we have food, tea, and warm water for our return.

We hike during the night for almost five hours, though I’m barely present. Self-doubt creeps in when several trekkers pass us in the darkness, moving ominously in the opposite direction, supported by their crew as they desperately descend to lower altitudes. The rise of my lungs, arduous as the task in front of me, tire with each inhale. I ache from my frozen fingertips to slumping shoulders, bracing my body against my trekking poles to pull myself forward. I am spent, physically and mentally, and even the full moon retreats into the distance.

And then, I turn around. Behind me, the sun is rising over Mawenzi Peak, Kilimanjaro’s second-highest crater. A strip of fluorescent orange paints the horizon, the glow igniting the formerly silver mountain silhouettes in a fiery blaze. Tyson hands me my summit snacks – Coca-Cola and cashews. Abdul places his hand on my shoulder.

I exhale, and take another step.

On New Year’s Day, 2024, I set myself a goal: “Climb Kilimanjaro.” At 9.10am on Friday, October 18, after hiking for 7.5 hours under a full moon and then propelled by the rising sun, I achieve it.

Teary-eyed, stunned with disbelief, and taking in very little oxygen, I snap some pictures with Tyson and Abdul – my dream made possible only through their experience and encouragement.

“Time to go down, sister,” Tyson says. On top of Africa, I savour one final moment.

“Twende.”

This piece was originally published in the Australian Financial Review, see here.

Travel expenses were self-funded.