The story you are about to read is a confession of crimes committed long ago and is in the hope that any statutes of limitations expired.

Especially in Tanzania.

It is also about a legendary volcano, Kilimanjaro. This ancient landmark, like many others around our planet, is under threat, including its fragile cloud forest. This photo was taken on the second day of this tall tale, at about 7,000 feet above sea level.

Given all of that, this is probably a two-part story. I am limited to a thousand words, so it‘s somewhat condensed.

“Praise the mountain Gods,” exclaims my tortured editor.

In 1985, Ernest Hemingway was my man. Still is, I suppose, though I have problems with his demise. And his short story, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” set me off on a quest. Not just to visit this iconic mountain, but to climb it.

I was taking the long way home in the fall of ‘85. Departing Liberia, I traveled eastward across the African continent until I reached Kenya. There I met three Peace Corps friends to sip Tusker beer and plan our assault on the mountain.

Those in the know of Kilimanjaro’s story know its famous glaciers are shrinking and are predicted to disappear before 2050. And though that’s tragic, there is another sad story happening attributed to climate change. That of its diminishing cloud forest. According to the African Journal of Ecology, “While the vanishing glaciers of Kilimanjaro attract broad interest…climate change-induced fires have led to (a loss of) nearly one-third of its forest cover.”

This photo was taken in 1985. That study was published in 2009. Do the math and I sadly surmise this scene no longer exists.

The First Crime: Illegal entry of a sovereign state.

Understand that youthful mischief, and a broad misunderstanding of cross-border law, was at play here. We meant no harm. Our intent was based on slashing travel time: The road chosen south from Nairobi to Moshi, Tanzania, was the most direct and least patrolled. Visas schmisas.

We entered Moshi without incident. Our late-night arrival was greeted by a sleepy-eyed, youth hostel manager with no interest in visas. We were allotted space to camp on the property. Good night, everyone.

The Second Crime: Illegal entry to a national park.

Of our four-man climbing party, I was the outsider and, in my defense, claim ignorance of Tanzanian national law. Our plan was not to climb the volcano using the popular, and legal, Marangu Route or Tourist Route. Peace Corps volunteers do not mix well with tourist anything. Marangu/Tourist route? Pshaw, my friend.

We are climbing rogue.

Our chosen path up the slope was the Umbwe Route, which begins in a southern agricultural zone on the mountain’s lower regions among the farms of Weru Weru. It was a strategic choice because no official Kilimanjaro National Park entrance existed there. We took a bus from Moshi to Weru Weru and found the farm of another friend. We enjoyed a nice meal and prepared for an early morning start without the burden of a park entrance fee.

The Third Crime: Climbing Kilimanjaro without Porters

Although perhaps not as “criminal” as breaking international and national laws, this afront was probably the most egregious in terms of returning home alive. To climb the mountain and safely return, the government requires you to hire Porters.  

Most people with brains climb Kilimanjaro with a team consisting of a lead guide, assistant guide, cook, porters and other climbers. Peace Corps Volunteers are not most people. We carried 40-pound backpacks and we were going solo without brains.

Of the four climbers, Scott and I were the least experienced. Supposedly, we were to make our ascent on the difficult, but doable, Umbwe Route and the other two would diverge to the Arrow Glacier, eventually bivouac there, then summit the next day.

Scott and I were instructed to follow a boulder-laced path barely etched in volcanic ash, which leads to a fog-shrouded ridge that would eventually point us towards the rim of the summit crater. When we arrived at the ridge, we would find a hut, camp for the night, then make the short climb to the top for summit photos. Meet you back here tomorrow afternoon. 

Oh, okay, see you tomorrow. As survivors often lament in most mountain climbing tragedies, “We started out the next morning in good spirits.”

Scott and I did well, following the rocky path, until we got lost. It was late afternoon, almost dusk. There were boulders everywhere and the winds blew the ash trail all to hell. Looking at maps of the mountain later, I’m guessing we were at about 17,000 feet. Very hard to breathe.

We stumbled around looking for a marker, or hut, or hotel - anything. Then it started to snow and Scott’s left knee gave out.

Nightfall was upon us. The snow flurries increased. We found a boulder that might serve as a wind break, but agreed it was a last resort. I packed Scott with all the sleeping gear to keep him warm and with diminishing sunlight and my good knees, I struck out desperately to find adequate shelter and search for the elusive hut.

I don’t believe in miracles. I believe that hard work, smarts and persistence create opportunities.

So here you go. Within 50 yards of leaving Scott, I teetered near the ledge of a small cliff and peered over. There below and amongst the snow and fog and darkness, was a small hut.

There’s much more, but that would take another thousand words, maybe two. I leave you with we survived the night.

As Johnny Clegg sang:

“I'm sitting on the top of Kilimanjaro.I can see a new tomorrow.”

The totality of it all: the beauty, the youthful recklessness, the danger, the survival. Kilimanjaro was life-changing in ways I still ponder. I hope others achieve that experience, but you should do it soon.

My advice, take the Tourist Route. And hire the Porters.

Visas schmisas.