I won’t spend much time here on how to prepare for Kilimanjaro. I covered the practical side in my other post, Climbing Kilimanjaro: 8 Things I Wish I’d Known (2026 Guide). This is the story of what those seven days actually felt like.
Day 1: A Downpour and Two Colobus Monkeys
I had slept for maybe four hours. We were still sorting our duffel bags late the night before, then got up around 6 a.m. to eat breakfast and do one final gear check.
There were only five hikers in our group, but once we added the guides, cook, and porters, our little expedition grew to 25 people. For the next seven days, 20 people would work behind the scenes to get the five of us up and down the mountain.
By the time we reached the trailhead, a light drizzle had turned into a downpour. Rain hammered the roof of the ranger hut so loudly that we had to shout to hear one another. Within minutes, the entrance became a stream of mud. Water crept up the sides of our boots and splattered our pants.
We shoved as many bags as we could under the shelter, wrapped the rest in rain covers, and tried to shield them with our bodies. I remember thinking, Well, this is an encouraging start. I had expected rain somewhere on the mountain, but just hadn’t expected the mountain to greet us with it before we had taken a single step.
We hikers mostly waited under the roof. The guides and porters did the real work. Our guides ran back and forth to the park office in thin rain jackets, sorting out permits and registering the group. Under the edge of the shelter, the porters bent over piles of food, tents, and fuel canisters, dividing everything into waterproof loads. A few hurried through the mud with cargo on their shoulders, their backs soaked with rain—or sweat, or probably both.
When the rain finally eased, we set off.
The first day of the Lemosho Route passes through rainforest. The trail was slick and muddy, and most of us kept our eyes on the ground, concentrating on where to put our feet. Then one of the guides told us to look up.
Two black-and-white colobus monkeys were moving through the canopy above us. They were much larger than I had imagined, with long white hair draped over their backs like capes. Their tails were longer than their bodies, each ending in a bright white tuft that flashed between the leaves. They swung from branch to branch in smooth arcs, barely seeming to touch the trees.
We stood there for nearly ten minutes, necks aching, unwilling to look away.
By late afternoon, we reached our first campsite, Big Tree Camp. The tents were already up, but everything still felt damp. It took forever for my sleeping bag to warm up.
The day had not been especially difficult, but after four months of training, the climb was no longer an idea on a calendar. Between the rain, the mud, and those two monkeys overhead, Kilimanjaro had finally become real.
Day 2: Morning Tea and a Lasting Sunburn
I woke to footsteps approaching the tent.
“Time to get up.”
It was 7 a.m., and every cell in my body wanted to stay inside the sleeping bag I had spent half the night warming. Thankfully, I had tucked the next day’s clothes near my feet before going to sleep. I could get dressed without leaving the bag, and the clothes were warm when I put them on—a small luxury that felt like genius at the time.
As soon as I unzipped the tent, someone outside asked, “Ginger tea or coffee?”
“Ginger tea, please.”
A few minutes later, a warm stainless-steel mug appeared through the opening. I wrapped my hands around it and took a sip. Heat moved through my body, and I slowly came back to life. As far as wake-up calls go, it was hard to beat.
Day 2 was the second-hardest day of the entire trek, surpassed only by summit day. On the seven-day Lemosho itinerary, two days of the longer route are compressed into one. We climbed hard, gave back some of the elevation we had fought for, then started climbing again. By the end of the day, we would go from roughly 2,900 meters to 3,900 meters.
We had started taking acetazolamide on Day 1. Because it is a diuretic, I had to pay extra attention to hydration. The side effects arrived quickly: my thumb and index finger began to tingle, especially at night. At first I worried it was altitude sickness. Then I realized it was the medication.
For the first few hours, we climbed under a relentless sun. I tried not to look too far ahead. Every time I thought I could see the top of the hill, I reached it and discovered another stretch of trail above it. Whether it was the heat or the altitude, my brain felt foggy. I kept dragging one foot in front of the other until we reached a flat spot where most groups stopped for lunch.
Halfway through the meal, I noticed that my wrist had turned bright red. When I took off my watch, a perfectly sharp tan line was already forming. It looked as if the sun had stamped a souvenir directly onto my skin.
Even as I write this, the mark has faded but not completely disappeared.
The trail became more forgiving in the afternoon. We still climbed, but the incline stretched out and felt less punishing. By evening, after hours of walking and talking, we reached Shira II Camp.
Day 3: Giant Groundsels, Volcanic Rock, and the Mid-Autumn Moon
We left Shira II Camp for Lava Tower, climbing from about 3,900 meters to 4,600 meters before descending to Barranco Camp at roughly 3,900 meters. This was also the day we left the moorland behind and entered the alpine desert.
Very few plants survive in that harsh landscape. The giant groundsel is one of them.
Through the mist, the plants looked almost extraterrestrial. Our guide told us they grow only a few centimeters a year, which meant some of the taller ones around us could be more than two centuries old. They have no growth rings, so their age can only be estimated. After a stem flowers, it gradually dies back while new branches grow beside it. Over time, the plant takes on the shape of a many-armed candelabra.
It took me only a few minutes to walk past one. It may have been standing there for generations.
Eventually, we reached Lava Tower. Dark volcanic rock covered the ground, immediately reminding me of dragonglass from Game of Thrones—the stuff you need when the White Walkers show up. Lava Tower itself is a massive rock formation left behind by volcanic activity. Standing beneath it, the fact that Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano stopped feeling like trivia from a guidebook. The evidence was right in front of me.
We reached camp as daylight began to fade. It was the Mid-Autumn Festival, a holiday usually spent with family under a full moon. When the clouds finally opened, we crawled out of our tents despite the cold to take pictures.
It was our first Mid-Autumn Festival on a mountain. In the city, streetlights tend to wash out the moon. Up there, the moon seemed bright enough to illuminate the entire landscape, with only the soft glow from our tents below it. It was a different kind of reunion, but a beautiful one.
Day 4: A Traffic Jam on Barranco Wall
This was the day we officially ran out of food—or at least came close enough that dinner the night before had been pizza and a soup with almost no protein.
So what were we supposed to eat for the rest of the trek?
Our guide explained that a porter would leave Moshi that morning carrying the supplies for our remaining days and meet us at that night’s camp. We had spent three days getting this far. He could reach us in one.
Our route was intentionally long and gradual so that we could acclimatize without gaining too much elevation each day. The porters did not have that luxury. They used steeper, faster routes to move food and equipment between camps. Most days, by the time we arrived, our tents were standing and dinner was already underway. Everything happened so smoothly that it was easy to notice only the result, not the people who had rushed ahead to make it possible.
Barranco Wall changed that.
The wall rises steeply out of the valley, with a narrow trail zigzagging across the rock. Its most famous section is called the Kissing Wall. The path is so tight that you have to turn sideways, grip the rock with both hands, and inch past with your face almost pressed against it—as if giving the mountain a kiss.
Because only one person can pass at a time, the trail quickly became backed up. We waited there for at least half an hour, and so did the porters. They balanced heavy duffel bags on their heads, steadying the loads with their hands while their legs did all the real work.
Tanzania’s park authority limits a porter’s load to 20 kilograms. Even within that limit, standing on a steep slope under that much weight—and then maneuvering across a rock wall—was difficult to comprehend.
On previous days, the porters had flown past us on the trail. By the time we shuffled into camp, they had already built the temporary little world in which we would eat and sleep. On Barranco Wall, forced to stop in the same traffic jam, I finally saw clearly what they were carrying: our tents, our food, and nearly every comfort that made seven days on the mountain possible.
Without them, climbing Kilimanjaro would have been impossible for me.
Day 5: A 5G Signal and No Sleep
I had barely slept the night before. At 4,000 meters, my resting heart rate—which is normally in the low 50s—had climbed to 72. My blood oxygen level had dropped to 89 percent. Fortunately, between the acetazolamide and our deliberately slow pace, I still had no obvious symptoms of altitude sickness.
The day itself was relatively easy: four kilometers, climbing from 4,000 meters to 4,600 meters. The goal was to save as much energy as possible for the summit attempt that night.
Then, somewhere along the trail, my phone suddenly picked up a 5G signal. Notifications began pouring in. For a moment, it felt as if the mountain had lost some of its mystery.
Still, I couldn’t resist calling my parents. I FaceTimed them while I walked, turning the camera toward the fog-covered slopes and the tiny wildflowers growing at 4,000 meters.
We reached base camp around three or four in the afternoon. It was much larger than the previous camps because climbers from several routes converged there. Tent placement suddenly mattered. Everyone wanted to camp as close as possible to the summit trail. Arrive late, and you might have to walk several hundred extra meters and climb a few more slopes in the middle of the night. At sea level, that distance would mean nothing. At 4,600 meters, it could add another miserable half hour.
After dinner, we crawled into our tents around eight or nine and tried to sleep. Wake-up time was 11 p.m.
Sleep felt impossible. My heart was already beating faster than usual, and I was both nervous and excited. All I could do was close my eyes and rest.
No sleep tonight. I just hoped my body—and the weather—would cooperate.
Day 6: Summit Day
When you have not slept all night, the word “yesterday” starts to lose its meaning.
We left in the dark, our headlamps forming a wavering line across the mountain. Wind drove bits of ice into my gloves. Every few steps, I stopped to catch my breath, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Our guide kept repeating, “Pole pole. Slowly, slowly.”
But no matter how slowly we moved, the slope was still there. The switchbacks disappeared into the darkness. I stared at the boots in front of me and copied their rhythm: lift, step, repeat. I did not want to look up or calculate how far we had left to go.
The hose on my hydration bladder froze, so I tucked a water bottle inside my jacket and warmed it enough to take a few sips. Sleepiness was worse than exhaustion. My brain seemed stuck on a single thought: What terrible decision-making brought me here?
The sky changed from black to deep blue, then slowly to gray.
Someone tapped me from behind. “You can turn off your headlamp now.”
I looked up.
The sun was rising above a sea of clouds. At first it was only a thin line of light; then it spilled across the horizon all at once. The hard outline of Mawenzi Peak turned gold. One by one, the headlamps that had flickered across the slope all night went dark.
I switched mine off too.
Everything suddenly felt quiet, as if the long night had finally released us. Standing in that light, I stopped calculating the distance and stopped wondering whether I would reach the summit. For that moment, it was enough that the mountain had brought me there.
Then, shortly before Stella Point, I felt a heavy cramp low in my abdomen. My period had started.
One minute I was mechanically lifting one foot after the other. The next, it felt as if all the strength had drained out of my body. My legs went soft, and I could barely stand. A guide helped me to the side of the trail. I folded over beside a rock, pressing my forehead against my knees as cramps came in waves. I was cold, in pain, and irrationally angry.
Why now?
There was no answer.
After a while, I pushed against my knees, stood up, and kept walking.
Stella Point was crowded with exhausted climbers. One person sat slumped against a rock, breathing from an oxygen tank, the mask fogging with every breath. Someone else crouched nearby, dry-heaving while a guide rubbed their back. Almost no one spoke. There was only the wind, heavy breathing, and the occasional tap of a trekking pole against rock.
I sat down and took a sip of water. By that point, everyone looked the same: too tired to care about appearances and too depleted to celebrate. We were all just trying to steady the next breath.
The final stretch follows the rim of the crater. The snow had been packed hard under thousands of boots, and the wind numbed my face until even the pain disappeared.
When the sign for Uhuru Peak finally came into view, I stared at it for a long time.
5,895 meters.
Glaciers glowed pale blue in the morning light. A blanket of clouds stretched endlessly below us. Standing there, I felt tears beginning to rise.
I had actually made it.
We waited in line for photos. My hands were so cold that it took several attempts to press the shutter. In the pictures, I am bundled from head to toe, my face stiff from the wind. I do not look especially heroic.
But I know I will remember that moment for a long time.
And then we started down.
Looking back, the summit lasted only a few minutes. The descent felt endless.
The trail was loose scree, and “walking” was not quite the right word. Each step sank and slid as the mountain pulled us downhill. My knees shook. My toes slammed into the front of my boots. The sun grew stronger, and dust worked its way into my nose and eyes. We had been moving for eight hours, and my body had stopped asking for permission. It simply repeated the same instructions: lift, step, slide.
One of the guides asked, “Would you ever come back to Kilimanjaro?”
“Probably not.”
He smiled and did not ask again.
Anyone beginning the descent probably feels the same way—like a prisoner who has just escaped and is already swearing never to return. The mountain, of course, does not care. It remains behind you, brilliant and white in the sun.
Day 7: “Jambo Bwana” and Mweka Gate
Jambo, jambo bwana!
Habari gani?
Nzuri sana!
Wageni wakaribishwa.
Kenya yetu, hakuna matata.
After several hours of descending, we heard the song before we saw the people singing it. The voices grew louder and clearer as we approached. We did not need to check the map. The end was close.
Over those seven days, I had imagined this moment in a dozen different ways. Maybe I would be emotional, feel reluctant to leave or walking through the gate would feel like the triumphant ending to an epic adventure.
When it finally happened, the first thing I wanted was a shower.
We signed out at Mweka Gate, officially checking out of our seven days on the mountain. The finish was less cinematic than I had imagined. It simply handed us back to ordinary life—a world with hot water, real beds, and chairs you could sit in for as long as you wanted.
Looking back, the first thing I remember is not just the sign at 5,895 meters. I remember the rain pounding on the roof before we began; I remember a warm mug appearing through the tent door; I remember the porters waiting on Barranco Wall with our lives balanced on their heads, the Mid-Autumn moon above the tents, and the line of headlamps going dark at sunrise.
The summit lasted only a moment. What stayed with me were the seven days it took to get there.
Leave a Reply