Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and a new Perspective

First of all – this is probably the time to introduce myself. I’m Lauren – you can read more about me on the Authors Page, but seeing as you’re here, I thought I’d let you know that you’re reading the very first of my weekly posts!

Every Sunday I’ll be updating you on my various adventures in love, life and travel. From climbing Kilimanjaro to throwing up on my friends feet, rebranding the walk of shame to the stroll of success and stupidly saying yes to doing a marathon that gives you booze instead of water in France. And that’s just the beginning – you really can’t make this shit up.

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So last month I climbed Kilimanjaro in aid of the Cornwall Air Ambulance Trust. Six days up, two days down. Eight days of walking, camping and not washing with 30 of the most inspirational and amazing people I’ll ever meet.

I’d been gearing myself up for this almighty challenge of a lifetime for almost a year. Training (boozing), eating well (scoffing burgers) and mentally preparing myself (saying “OH FUCK” a lot). It was a long time coming, and it was also the fastest year I think I’ve yet lived through.

But then it came, it was my last day at work before repacking for at least the ninth time and then I skipped out shaking with a mixture of fear and excitement. A grin on my face that resembled the Cheshire Cat, singing “I’m going on an adventure!!” before the realisation of the monumental (not so metaphorical) mountain that stood (metaphorically at this point) in front of me.

We met at CAAT HQ. We had champagne. We had photos taken for the papers. We had pep talks and sandwiches. We hopped on a coach and were transported to Heathrow. Checked in, had a pint, boarded plane number one and arrived in Doha at 1am. Boarded plane number two, hour stopover in Dar es Salaam and then landed at Kilimanjaro International Airport.

Shit. No turning back.

On another bus to our hotel we got our first glimpse of the glacier-frosted summit towering above the plains of Africa.

Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. That mountain is pretty damn big.

And then it did just kind of happen. We packed up (again), had breakfast, hopped on another rickety bus and found ourselves trekking through the rainforest. We spent the night under monkeys who sounded like they were having a shouting match and rose to a frosty dawn to start again.

And again. And again. And again. And again.

And then it was summit night. By the time we reached this point we’d bonded, had many a dodgy moment peeing in the bushes or behind a rock and all become a solid family that acted as though we’d always been together in this dirty, filthy way. Having a bad time with the altitude? No worries, someone always had chocolate on hand to pep you up.

But it was the nine hours of trudging in a frozen moonlight that pierced through every thermal top, sock or legging and each layer of skin and into your core that we were tested to our limits.

We left camp at 10.30pm and arrived at the very top, at 5,895m above sea level, at 7.30am.

I can’t begin to describe what happens in those nine hours of endlessly building up both the mental and physical effort to put one step in front of the other. No oxygen. No light. “Fucking boring” was the term of the night.

But it wasn’t. It was just endless monotony. A monotony that somehow changes you and lightens your outlook on life and brings you so close to the five people you’re going through this hell with that they know you better than your best friend who you ritually share a bathroom with at home, whether or not you’re shitfaced.

And then the sun came up, we started to painfully thaw out and the magnitude of what we already had and were about to achieve was slowly clearing as the daylight melted across the rocky terrain.

We trudged with ever heavier feet on what seemed like a marathon route at nearly 6,000m above where we live at home.

(Image by Tom Matthews)

And then. And then we were there. Amidst the chaos and the photo taking and crowds was this odd, life-affirming moment when it all stopped.

Fuck.

We did it! We actually fucking did it!

After six days of trekking, 13 months of fundraising and training, we had done it. I had pushed myself far beyond anything I ever thought capable, proved not only everyone at home wrong that raised their eyebrows with a, “no Lauren, you don’t do things like this” look on their faces, but myself too.

So there I was. Standing on the roof of Africa, frozen to the marrow inside my bones, filthy and almost broken. Half way between breaking down in tears and laughing with hysteria. Finally done something that meant something, that will leave me with memories and stories that I’ll never get bored of telling.

And then the realisation hit. Perspective. It dawned that none of it is worth getting stressed about – work, being broke, those past few shitty relationships.

So there it was, at the summit of Kilimanjaro and the peak of my existence. A big fuck you to each and every single thing or person that causes drama and hassle in my little Cornish life.

I climbed a fucking mountain – the rest doesn’t matter.

– you can’t make this shit up.

Tags: adventure happiness inspiration kilimanjaro life lessons perspective Travel

Categories: Adventureland