Chris Wristen

Exhaustion is a natural aftereffect of every adventure I take.

Whether it’s due to the physical exertion itself, jetlag, or a combination of the two, it’s always nice to spend some time unwinding and settling back into the routine at home. There’s time to unpack, peruse through photos and reflect on the memories.

After a few weeks, however, a stir-crazy feeling always sets in and it’s time to start dreaming again.

This year has been no different.

The ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro in early June was the most physically demanding adventure I’ve undertaken thus far. It taught me a lot about myself and how much I can handle, and it set a high bar for future trips.

Of course, the Kilimanjaro trip was in the works for three years. Extensive planning went into it, along with five months of training and about $5,000 in expenses for gear, vaccinations, airfare and outfitter/park fees.

My mind has drifted in recent weeks to where I’ll go next. Switzerland is always an option for me — especially after seeing photos of friends of mine playing in the Alps again this summer. New Zealand has been a destination of choice for a few years. Some friends have proposed a November jaunt to Costa Rica.

On Thursday, two months to the day that I left the trail at Kilimanjaro National Park, a new long-term idea landed on my radar.

James Kuhleitner — a friend I met in Switzerland in 2007 and spent a few days hiking with in the Alps again in 2009 — proposed an idea for the summer of 2012.

In the same breath that Kilimanjaro was the big trip for my 30^th birthday, James will turn 30 in 2012. He’s long dreamed of trekking the West Coast Trail near his native Vancouver, B.C., and wanted to gauge my interest.

I was on board immediately.

According to the trail’s Web site, the West Coast Trail “has the reputation of being one of the most grueling treks in North America. It is isolated, strenuous, physically challenging and potentially hazardous. It is also extremely rewarding due to the spectacular scenery and unique setting.”

The trek would take about a week and cover about 75 kilometers (47 miles).

Much of the trail is supposed to be slick because of the amount of rain along the coast. Numerous steep slopes will be tackled. Some rivers will be crossed by cable cars (small metal carts that move along a cable and are pulled by gravity). Portions of the trail are on the beach and can be under water depending on the tides. Bears and cougars — the animals, as well as attractive older women I suppose — may be encountered on the trail. Hypothermia is a risk because of the frequent rainy conditions.

All of those facts are enough to frighten my wonderful mom, but they only serve to entice me. I enjoy physical challenges and I love challenging the elements. Trips like that help you figure out how much you can take.

Plus, it will be an outstanding time with my friend, and James will bring plenty of experience to the backcountry from his time working and playing in the Alps, to working as a heli boarding instructor in Banff and numerous other camping trips.

He’s someone I credit with helping prepare me for Kilimanjaro. We did a two-day trek in Switzerland for his birthday in 2009. Day one lasted nine hours, and we gained 800 meters of elevation during the final two hours to Blumisalphutte (2,837 meters/9,307 feet). I entered the trip in the best shape of my three Swiss trips (2006, 2007 and 2009), but I failed in almost every way possible. Blisters thrashed my heels thanks to boots that weren’t broken in nearly as well as I’d hoped. I didn’t carry enough water and got dehydrated almost to the point of collapse. In fact, James didn’t have enough water either, but he jogged to a nearby farm to refill our bottles so we could make the final push to the mountain hut. Plus, my legs weren’t nearly as strong as I thought, and I literally dragged myself up the mountain with my hiking poles for the final two hours.

Every mistake I made, every area where I was underprepared, all of it reinforced just how hard I needed to train in order to take on Kilimanjaro. They were valuable lessons, and they were only learned because James wanted to do the two-day trek.

The lessons of that trip, the lessons of Alaska in 2008 and Kilimanjaro in 2010 all will come in handy for the West Coast Trail in 2012. It’s still a long way away, though, and until then I’ve got a lot more dreaming to do.

The following is a retrospective of my June 6-12 Kilimanjaro climb compiled from my travel journal and other notes made along the way. It was also published in the July 21 edition of The Shawnee Dispatch, the July 25 edition of the Lawrence Journal-World, and the July 29 editions of the Bonner Springs Chieftain and the Basehor Sentinel.

The bus pulled back onto the highway after our lunch break in Moshi, and only then did the magnitude of our accomplishment begin to set in.

Early afternoon clouds lifted and, for the first time on our journey, revealed Mount Kilimanjaro in all of its majestic glory.

We’d stood on the summit barely 24 hours earlier, but this was the first time we’d seen the mountain from base to peak. In an instant, the feeling of invincibility we’d earned by reaching Uhuru Peak turned to humility.

Our faces were glued to the windows of the bus for the next 90 minutes as we made our way back to hotels and hot showers in Arusha. Like a magnet, the towering mountain pulled our eyes toward it. All the while, only one thought filled my mind: “How the hell did we do that?”

Seven days earlier when we drove into Kilimanjaro National Park to begin our weeklong trek, a light rain fell and thick clouds hid the upper slopes and summit from our sights. As a result, our minds were misled throughout the climb into not comprehending just how monumental of a task we’d taken on.

We were well aware of the physical strain our bodies would experience, and we knew the dangers of altitude sickness were very real. But by avoiding seeing Kilimanjaro in its entirety — looming menacingly over all of its surroundings with its haunting snow-capped summit — we’d avoided the additional mind games that this monster of a mountain loves to play on those who dare to test their luck.

It turned out the clouds and sprinkles of day one were probably a blessing in disguise. Our first glimpses of the summit came on day two when we were already at about 8,500 feet. That meant that throughout the climb the mountain seemed more manageable. As a group, all seven of us — three Americans, two Canadians and two Brits — accepted the challenge with enthusiasm and optimism.

Our confidence was bolstered even more because of our talented supporting cast of 26. Tanzanian law requires that you hire a guide and porters to climb Kilimanjaro. It creates jobs, bolsters the local economy and also serves as a safety precaution so less experienced trekkers don’t get themselves in trouble. For our lead guide, Joshua Rhuhimbi, this was his 128th trip to the summit. In addition, our cook was an absolute food artist and made sure we were well fueled every day.

Even the most gifted staff can’t guarantee safe passage to the summit and back, however. Ultimately, the true challenge of Kilimanjaro lies in whether your body can acclimatize quickly enough to massive altitude gain in a short period of time. That’s why the shortest — and cheapest — route to the summit also has the lowest success rate despite providing cabins for lodging. Meanwhile, the longer routes require that you sleep in tents and haul more food, thus driving up the cost of needing more porters, but that money also buys you better odds of reaching the top.

Our route took five and a half days to reach the summit and a day and a half to descend while covering about 82 kilometers of trail.

None of us came from hometowns of significant elevation — in my case, Kansas City is approximately 1,000 feet above sea level — so a full day to acclimatize in Arusha (4,550 feet) was beneficial before hitting the trail. By the end of day one we were at 8,645 feet and already beginning to feel the effects of thinner air.

The next four and a half days became a test of strength, endurance and appetite as we pushed into higher altitude and endured the elements. At times it was scorching heat as the sun beat down. Other times, bitter wind left us frozen to the core while struggling to keep our balance along a narrow ridge.

Some members of our group suffered mild altitude sickness. Most had headaches. Another lost his appetite despite the abundance of edible options, which included treats such as peanut butter soup, grilled cheese and grilled vegetable sandwiches, beef samosas and an endless supply of fresh papaya and pineapple.

After venturing above 15,000 feet during an acclimatization hike on day three, we dropped back down to about 12,200 feet to camp on day four. It was an important step in preparing our bodies for the summit attempt. We’d strained ourselves in the thinner air, and the return to lower elevation and more oxygen-rich air gave us the opportunity to breathe easier, sleep better and eat more heartily.

Rested and reenergized, our summit bid technically began the morning of day five as we awoke at 5:30 a.m., ate breakfast and began the 10-kilometer, six-hour hike over boulders, down through ravines created by glaciers long ago, and up to high camp Barafu (15,295 feet). We gained about 3,000 feet of elevation during the hike, and then spent the afternoon and evening sucking in the thinner air, scarfing down high-energy snacks and attempting to nap before the big night ahead.

Running on adrenaline and a late-night breakfast of porridge mixed with honey, our team set off for the summit at midnight sharp.

By the glow of our headlamps and with Joshua setting a “pole, pole” (Swahili for “slowly, slowly) pace, we made good time through the first two segments of the ascent route, first climbing over large rocks and then up a more gradual ridge. By 3 a.m., altitude sickness began to take its toll on a few of the climbers, and Joshua responded by slowing the pace and demanding that we drink more water.

We were fortunate that summit night was calm. Temperatures were below freezing, but wind could have pushed the thermostat into negative territory and made the coldest hours — from 3 a.m. to 6 a.m. — far more grueling. At about 4 a.m., we began the steepest part of the ascent up loose scree and switchbacks. Our support staff had brought along a hot thermos of ginger tea, and that gave us just the boost we needed to gut out the final two hours and drag our bodies to the crater rim.

At 6 a.m., we took a break at Stella Point to watch the sun rise. Then, with minds hazy and legs like jello, we trudged one more hour to Uhuru Peak. At 19,341 feet, we stood at the highest point in Africa — two vertical miles above Denver.

For all of our hard work, our reward was 30 minutes of hugging, high-fiving and snapping photos at the summit before making the eight-hour journey down to camp.

A day later we were back on the bus, rolling toward civilization and counting down the hours to hot showers and cold bottles of Tusker, Safari and Kilimanjaro Lager.

The climb was a success, we’d all reached the summit, but right out the window the mountain taunted us one last time. For nearly a week it had encompassed our every thought, our every action. For 30 minutes we’d stood at its peak, reveling in glory and feeling like we’d conquered the world. But now, barely 24 hours later, it was still hard to comprehend: How the hell did we do that?

Maybe the answer to that question isn’t really important. Perhaps the mountain’s looks are deceiving. Maybe we’ll never know exactly how we did it, but we have the photos and memories to prove it.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 16, 2010

The ground was in sight. The plane had descended low enough to almost graze treetops.

After nearly two days, the trip from London to Kansas City was finally nearing its end when suddenly the engines revved.

The girl sitting next to me grabbed my right hand and nearly crushed it in cold, hard, white-knuckled fear.

What the hell was going on?

Heads turned from side to side and nearly every passenger wore a look of confusion as our plane, just seconds away from touching down, raced back up into the clouds.

Did the landing gear fail to deploy? Did they forget the luggage and decide to go back? Nothing would’ve surprised me at this point given the mess American Airlines had made of my trip home.

Fortunately, our pilot chimed in over the public address system a few minutes later and clarified things. Another plane was on the runway as we were about to land. She’d had to abort the landing attempt so we wouldn’t crash into another plane on the runway.

Wait. Hold up. There was another plane on the runway?!?!?

How does a mistake like that happen? How does the control tower nearly allow another plane to land on an occupied runway?

Credit to our pilot for paying attention and saving our lives. She had the plane safely on the ground and at the gate 15 minutes later, but the close call was a perfect ending to a nightmarish return crafted by the folks at American Airlines.

First came the $50 baggage charge in London. I wasn’t charged for checking a second bag on my way from Kansas City to London because it was an international flight. Perhaps this was one of American’s latest gimmicks to swipe a few more bucks. Let you fly somewhere, and then stiff you with extra fees to get back home. Who knows.

Then came the connection through Chicago O’Hare. After watching the laughable “Welcome to the United States” video featuring the happy faces of all different ethnicities (made even more ironic by the recent Arizona immigration uproar), the customs line took about 45 minutes to navigate while a police officer rudely barked at people to push to the side as they tried to figure out which poorly marked line they should wait in.

From there, it was on to the gate. A 15-minute delay soon grew to two hours. Multiple excuses were offered as to the cause of the delay, all the while announcements were made that the flight was oversold and a voucher and spot on the next flight out would be given to volunteers. I would’ve accepted if I didn’t have a ride waiting for me in KC.

After two hours, American Airlines canceled the flight. I bolted to the gate where that later flight was set to depart and got there in time to hear that it too was oversold.

Sweet.

Fortunately, my friends Brian and Michelle have a condo near Soldier Field, so I hopped on the train and headed to their place to crash for the night (American Airlines offered no lodging, meal or transportation vouchers despite this being their mistake). Brian, Michelle and I walked a few blocks to a pub downtown and grabbed dinner before calling it an early night.

The next morning I headed back to the airport, inquired again about the bag fee I’d been charged (I was given a different explanation in Chicago than I was told in London) and headed to my gate.

An announcement was made that the flight was oversold (surprise, surprise), but we boarded and everything seemed orderly.  That was until the crew determined that someone boarded the plane that shouldn’t have. A staff member decided to do role call and have everyone on the flight raise their hands when their name was called. Five names into role call, it was determined that the wrong passenger list was being used.

Eventually the flight departed and the short trip was smooth until the near-crash landing was avoided.

With that, my two-week journey was complete.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 14, 2010

Fourteen years ago I made my first trip to London. With the exception of my layover day en route to Tanzania, I hadn’t been back.

Unlike 1996 when my family was here as part of a three-week, 11-country European tour, the goal this time wasn’t to see all of the major sites and take all of the tours. I didn’t care to see the royal jewels or the inside of any churches.

What I wanted were hooligans.

The World Cup was in full swing, and I wanted to experience futbol fans at their finest. What better place, I figured, than London?

Of course, I was a bit out of luck in that England wasn’t playing on the one evening I was in town. It had played 48 hours earlier and disappointed its fans with a 1-1 draw against the United States. It was still a positive result in the standings, but the England fans certainly didn’t see it that way. Thanks to a goalkeeping blunder not even befitting of a junior varsity backup, the local tabloids were in full attack mode. Every paper on the newsstand had scathing stories about goalkeeper Robert Green and every ounce of dirt they could find about him.

As a journalist myself, the sight of the tabloids was part comical and part embarrassment for my profession. At the same time, it provided a glimpse into the heart of English futbol culture that I enjoyed quite a bit.

With no England game on this day, I searched for the next best thing: another European team’s World Cup match showing in a local bar. Surely there would be fans of either the team of the event itself. Surely they could provide the glimpse I was looking for.

After a whirlwind, three-hour walking tour from Piccadilly Circus to Buckingham Palace, on to Big Ben and down to the London Eye for a 30-minute ride, I headed back to Piccadilly and searched for a bar near the train station.

I stumbled upon a place called The Comedy that offered a comedy club on the main floor and a large sports bar upstairs. A sign on the front door advertised that the World Cup games would be showing. The Italy-Paraguay match was just a few minutes from kickoff, so I pushed the door open, trotted upstairs, grabbed a cold beer and plopped down on a barstool next to a group of fans decked out in Italy jerseys and T-shirts.

This, I figured, was my golden opportunity. Paraguay was an up-and-comer, and Italy was the defending World Cup champion. This would be great.

The rabid fans I’d been eager to witness were humbled quickly, however.

Paraguay struck in the 39^th minute, and a crowd that had been on edge grew silent. Looks of worry and frustration occupied their faces the rest of the way, even as Italy tied the match in the second half before finishing in a 1-1 draw.

There wasn’t the passion, enthusiasm or outrage I’d expected from the Italy fans. Perhaps they were content with the tie, or maybe they were saving their emotions for bigger, later games that might be more meaningful. Or maybe it’s just one of those things where if I’m going to watch Italy, I’d better be in Italy. I’m in England, so I should be watching England.

Regardless, it’s fair to say these fans didn’t live up to the hype. Perhaps I should’ve gone to see the sights instead of people-watching.

Maybe I should just be getting home.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 13, 2010

After showering for the first time in a week, the crew plus Joshua reunited one last time Saturday night at The Outpost to eat, drink and be merry while watching the United States and England battle to a 1-1 draw in the opening game of group play at the 2010 World Cup.

It was a fitting final hurrah for everyone. We all went home at least somewhat happy — neither of our teams lost (although the Brits were understandably disappointed that their goalie handed the US the tying score), and Joshua and the neutral Canadians got to see a good game. Even better, it was a laid back evening of fun and fellowship as we toasted to our success with cold bottles of Safari, Tusker and Kilimanjaro Lager.

We began our journey as strangers but had grown very close during our week together. We’d counted on each other for encouragement, moral support and — most important — an endless supply of humor that made hard days manageable and long days fly by.

We’d all made it to the summit successfully, we all made it back down, and now we all looked unrecognizable with clean hair, scrubbed faces and fresh clothing. The stench of sweaty hiking boots and re-worn shirts and socks was now a thing of the past.

On Sunday morning everyone headed their separate ways. Zephan was the first to depart with a red-eye flight back to work in the Middle East. Geoff and Peter and Jeff and Claire headed to Zanzibar for a few days of sand and sun. Jonathan and I had lunch together before he headed back to Washington, D.C., via Addis Ababa.

Meanwhile, I was the last to go with an evening flight to London via Dar es Salaam and Amsterdam. It was already dark as I headed to the airport, Kilimanjaro hidden from my sights for good but still very vivid in my mind. I know it will stay there for quite some time, and the photos and memories will last a lifetime.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 12, 2010

Legs refreshed after a long night of sleep, we awoke at 6 a.m. for breakfast and planned an early departure for the Marangu Gate.

After breakfast, we were treated to a dance and sing-a-long by the porters. Then we broke camp at 7:30 and began our final 19.7-kilometer hike out of the park. Along the way, we passed through a rainforest and spotted a colobus monkey perched on a branch, practically posing for us like it was on a catwalk.

Later, we spotted about a half dozen blue monkeys darting across the branches overhead.

At about 1 p.m., we reached the Marangu Gate, signed out and received our certificates of achievement — the gold ones for reaching Uhuru Peak rather than the green ones for making it only to Stella or Gillman’s Point.

From there, we hopped back onto the safari bus and headed to Moshi for cheeseburgers at Chrisburger Snacks, Ltd., before making the 90-minute drive back to Arusha where hot showers and cold beers awaited.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 11, 2010

Running on adrenaline and a late-night breakfast of porridge mixed with honey, our team set off for the summit at midnight sharp.

We started off bundled in four or five layers of clothing, but after about 30 minutes layers were shed. By 3 a.m., when the coldest temperatures of the night engulfed us, all layers were back on.

By the glow of our headlamps and with Joshua setting a “pole pole” pace, we made good time through the first two segments of the ascent route. Altitude sickness struck Zephan and a few others during the final stages, slowing our pace a bit but never deterring our plans of sending our entire group to the summit. At about 4 a.m., when we were about to tackle the steepest portion of the climb, our support staff helped us reenergize with some steaming hot ginger tea. It provided just enough of a boost to help us finish what we started.

Promptly at 6 a.m., we arrived at Stella Point on the crater rim. Our guides and support staff awarded us with snacks and Red Bull before trudging on for Uhuru Peak at 5,895 meters (19,341 feet) — the highest point in Africa.

By 7 a.m., the entire group was at Uhuru, smiling and posing for photographs. There were lots of high-fives, hugs and congratulations, but by 7:30 it was time to head back down.

The decent proved to be the most painful part. We stopped for a break at Gillman’s Point, and it was then that my body was sapped of any reserves and dehydration set in. Everyone was dragging.

The decent to the Kibo Huts took about three hours because we chose to glide down the scree slope rather than sticking to the trail. It was still hell on our knees, but it was a bit softer. By the time we arrived at Kibo Huts for lunch, everyone was exhausted and nobody was hungry. Solomon, our cook, was a bit disappointed at our lack of appetite, but he let us off the hook when we promised to scarf down extra dinner. After an hour-long break, we trudged the final 9.5 kilometers to Horombo for the night. I thought my left knee was going to buckle, and I wasn’t the only one finding it painful to walk.

By dinnertime at 6 p.m., we were all still exhausted and moving slowly, but spirits were high as everyone was in a bit of a celebratory mood at our accomplishment. At the same time, there were some introspective moments — as adventures like this tend to invoke — with thoughts of appreciation for the route we took, how fortunate we were that it wasn’t windy during our ascent, and how blessed we were to have support staff such as Richard, my porter on this trip, a waiter for the group, and a member of our summit team who carried Jonathan’s pack down the mountain when he was too fatigued to do so.

We all knew this journey would be tough, but we have a much greater appreciation for it now that we’ve been to the summit and back.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 11, 2010

We all made it to the summit. I’ve never been this exhausted. Ever.

Legs ache. Knees are on the verge of collapse. Back hurts. Must sleep.

Will write later.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 10, 2010

We just finished a dinner of tomato soup, biscuits and spaghetti in vegetable sauce with ginger tea to drink.

Dinner was at 5 p.m., and after eating we learned of the time schedule for tonight’s summit assault. We will be woken up at 11 p.m., served breakfast at 11:30 and then depart for the summit by midnight.

Joshua broke down the summit push into sections. The first should take an hour and goes over large rocks and boulders. The second is a fairly gradual incline that should take two hours. The next hour and a half will be steeper, followed by a brutal 90-minute to two-hour push to the crater rim at Stella Point.

The hardest parts will take place when the night is at it’s coldest: 3 a.m. to 6 a.m.

After watching the sun rise at Stella Point, we will take about an hour to reach Uhuru Peak. Once there, we will have up to 30 minutes to celebrate and take photos before beginning our climb back down. How long we have at the summit hinges on the weather. It will be cold regardless, but all of us are pulling for a wind-free night and safe passage to the top and back down.

The following is an excerpt from my Kilimanjaro travel journal, written June 10, 2010

It’s Thursday afternoon, and we are relaxing in our tents at high camp Barafu.

This is our home for about 11 hours. During this time we are expected to rest, rehydrate and — if at all possible — try to get a few hours of sleep. Ultimately, the goal is to conserve every ounce of energy we can.

We will need it tonight.

We face a six-hour climb to the crater rim, beginning at midnight, followed by another hour to Uhuru Peak. It is expected to be cold and exhausting … and the air will grow thinner with every step we take while gaining about 4,000 more feet of elevation.

Of course, saving energy isn’t easy at altitude, and we expended quite a bit just to get here.

We awoke at 5:30 this morning, and by the time breakfast was served at 6 a.m. everyone in our group was buzzing with excitement. We had a nine-kilometer hike and 3,000-foot elevation gain ahead of us, but we all were anxious about one thing — the summit assault that would commence 18 hours later.

Today’s hike was exhaustive with a few steep inclines, but we arrived at Barafu (4,662 meters/15,295 feet) at 1 p.m. ready to relax and harness our energy for the big night tonight.

Joshua will let us know at our 5 p.m. dinner what time we will be awoken for a late-night breakfast. First, he will ask around and find out when other groups plan to depart and then determine when we should begin in order to avoid a logjam on the trail.

At the moment, the weather seems calm at the summit. All of us are hopeful it will stay that way for the next 16 hours.