Finding Jim

by Susan Oakey-Baker

  In 1927, when Shelagh MacDonald, an Australian, stepped off the train in the village of Moshi, her climbing partner remarked, “Oh, you can see the summit.” Shelagh could only see cloud.

  “You’re not looking high enough.” Her partner motioned to the sky with his hand.

  Shelagh said she very nearly passed out. Kilimanjaro was tremendous, rising nearly 6000 metres from the plains. She was terrified. If there was a way to get out of climbing the mountain, she said, she would have done it, but it was too late.

  Italians, Danes and Austrians arrived at our camp later that evening. I was the only female. Silently, I vowed to make it to the top.

  In the dark, I crept to Dismas’s and Meddi’s shelter to say goodnight.

  “Jambo,” I warned of my arrival.

  “Jambo,” echoed a symphony of voices. I took a step back. When I did poke my head inside, at least ten bodies lay like matchsticks on the dirt floor and wide white smiles broke the darkness.

  “Lala salama.”

  “Lala salama,” they chorused.

  During the night, I stepped gingerly several times through the outdoor latrine area, a minefield, to relieve my churning gut. It’s just a bug, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. But my immune system struggled at altitude.

  The next day, I leaned into the long steep ridge ahead with enthusiastic strides and ignored the occasional cramp in my stomach. I pulled my hat down against the sun as the giant heather trees gave way to sage bushes jammed between the black volcanic craggy rocks. Hairy groundsel plants opened their arms in welcome. Heat wafted like smoke through the thin dry air. In this place, plants and animals must endure summer every day and winter every night.

  After two hours of climbing, I sat on a rock to catch my breath. I had to push up hard to get going again. A tingly feeling sank down through my stomach and into my legs. I felt thin like the air, transparent. By early afternoon, I wobbled into camp on the Shira Plateau at 3840 metres. After filtering drinking water, I collapsed inside the tent. I wondered if I would make it to the top.

  Jim prodded, “Let’s go for a walk. You’ll feel better.” I forced myself up, and after 20 minutes of ambling around camp my lethargy and nausea eased. I spent the late afternoon reading, writing and talking to the Italian group. When the sun settled below the plains, we pulled on woollen hats and gloves. I ogled the Southern Cross blinking in the sky and felt the power of nature lift my spirits.

  The next morning, we climbed into the tropical alpine zone, home to many wildflowers. Papery white everlasting fluttered on scraggly branches: happy faces in a desert scattered with shiny black rock and giant grass tussocks. Before certificates were awarded for reaching the summit, the park warden crowned successful trekkers with the hardy flowers of everlasting. We sped up the meandering trail. Above us, the 1400-metre rock wall of the Western Breach led to the crater rim of Kilimanjaro.

  At 4300 metres, nausea overcame me and I sat down on a rock. Our next campsite, Lava Tower, also known as Shark’s Tooth, pierced the sky in front of me. I fixed my eyes on the monolith and forced myself up the final steep slope. My body shivered and ached as if I had the flu. I looked down at my blue hands and stopped to put on gloves. What was wrong? Why did I feel so feeble? I didn’t want to be the weak link and I didn’t want to ask for help. Jim would know I wasn’t perfect then, and he might not love me.

  I plodded into camp behind Jim. “It looks like there’s too much ice and snow on the breach.” Jim remarked. We had planned to climb the Western Breach, the most difficult non-technical route on the mountain.

  “So, now what?” I tried to sound disappointed.

  “I don’t know. We could go around the south side.” Jim lowered his pack to the ground.

  As soon as I stopped moving, I leaned over to curb the nausea. I groaned from the pressure in my skull and gagged from the scratching deep in my throat. Helpless, hopeless and miserable, I crawled inside our tent. I had never felt worse. But if I admitted that I was sick I would have to descend.

  Jim snuggled in beside me with a bowl of tomato soup. I managed one mouthful before I retched.

  “What hurts?” Jim was gentle.

  “I dunno. I think I ate something or maybe it was the water.”

  “Do you have a headache?”

  “Yes, and my stomach hurts, and I’m so cold. What the hell is going on?” I let go and cried.

  “Let’s try to get you warm.” We walked around camp, but I could not generate enough heat to reverse the effects of the altitude. I shook violently as I leaned on Jim’s arm. Haraka haraka haina baraka. Dismas sidled up, his belongings packed on his back, “We must go down, Mr. Jim.” Meddi looked at his shoes.

  I followed mutely, leaning on Jim like a drunken teenager, while Dismas carried my pack and Meddi ran ahead to set up camp.

  Within 15 minutes I was walking upright. Within 20 minutes I slurred a chuckle and felt foolish for causing such a fuss. After just 300 metres of descent, my nausea and headache faded to half their intensity. We made camp at Barranco Hut, perched on the shoulder of Kilimanjaro, and watched the orange glow of the setting sun set fire to the breach wall. The acute pain had subsided, but my body felt like a sack of dirt: sucked dry. I sank onto my sleeping pad.

  The next morning, we decided to contour around the south side of the mountain and take an extra day to summit. Meddi and I switched loads for a laugh. He put my pack on his back while I balanced his bag on my head. With my pack on, Meddi swayed backward as if someone pulled him from behind, and my neck ached. Neither of us made it more than 10 minutes.

  For seven hours we climbed over lava flows and up steep, rocky cliffs until we reached Barafu Hut at 4600 metres, the same height as Lava Tower. I braced for the onslaught, but nothing happened. I felt fine. By 3:30 p.m. we were in our sleeping bags so that we could get some rest before our start for the summit at midnight.

  “Why do we start at midnight, Dismas?” I’d asked earlier in the day.

  “You must be on the summit very early to get the views before the clouds rise up from the plains. And also, maybe if you saw the way, you would not go.”

  For several hours, I squirmed in my down cocoon, scrunched my eyes closed, listened to Jim’s irregular breathing and entertained every one of my fears. The pressure in my chest began to build. The nylon roof of the tent seemed to droop closer to my face. Breathe. In. Out. Don’t panic. You’re fine. I shot upright and zipped open the door.

  “Are you okay?” Jim rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel like I can breathe and my head hurts again.”

  “I think you should take a Decadron.” Dexamethasone, branded Decadron, is a drug used for cerebral edema – fluid build-up in the brain. I pulled the sleeping bag around me and shivered.

  “Don’t I have to go down then?”

  “No, not if you don’t get any worse. And it will help you sleep, which will make you feel better.”

  “I don’t know. What about side effects?” How many brain cells would I kill? Maybe the medication would mask my symptoms and I’d die because I didn’t descend in time. As a rule, I avoided medication.

  “You’ll be fine. I think 90 per cent of altitude symptoms are psychological.” Jim rummaged in the first aid kit. I shot him a hard look and clenched my fists in my lap.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Headaches are headaches. Nausea is nausea. If you overreact, I think it makes the symptoms worse. Emotion has its place, but it must not interfere with taking the appropriate action.” Jim handed me the small white pill. I tried to swallow my frustration with it. My inner dialogue raged. This pain is real. I’m not imagining it. Psychological? Right.

  Now, 17 years later, after I have guided people from all walks of life up and down Kilimanjaro 14 times, I understand what Jim was saying. Life is 10 per cent what happens to you and 90 per cent how you react to it. There is a point, of course, when you must have the sense to turn back.

  The dexamethasone ea
sed the pressure in my head, and I slept for one hour before the alarm went at 11:30 p.m. Jim had managed to sleep six hours. I fumbled for my clothes. Five layers on top and four on the bottom. Winter every night. With the wind chill, the temperature could plummet to –30°C.

  The moon burned through the clouds to light the rubble–scree path, so we didn’t need to use headlamps. For the first couple of hours, we fell into a meditative step and chatted. Then it got cold, and my legs dragged. Our pace slowed and I was breathing as if a fat cat were sitting on my chest. In my head I had conversations with my good friends Andrea and Marla back home and further occupied my mind by planning a travel language course. The words slurred and tripped in my head until I could focus only on putting one foot in front of the other. After 5.5 hours of slogging, we reached Stella’s Point on the crater rim, 5800 metres. Dismas and Meddi smiled and shook my limp hand.

  “Congratulations,” they shouted over the wind. “You were very fast.”

  Jim led me to a large black boulder, where we huddled.

  “Do you want to go on?” Jim yelled over the wind.

  Uhuru Peak, the top, was 45 minutes away; 150 metres in elevation gain and one kilometre. My whole body screamed, “Turn back now, you’ve done enough!”

  “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t go to the true summit.” Jim stared at me. I wondered if he wanted me to make it more than I did. If Jim had said, “Let’s go down,” I’d have gone down.

  “Okay,” I replied meekly. He grasped my right arm as I fumbled over the rocky terrain in the dark toward the summit. At 6 a.m. we stood on the top of the highest mountain in Africa, 5895 metres, arm in arm. It is the highest I have ever been.

  “Welcome to my office.” Dismas beamed and swept his arms 360 degrees. Blues, yellows and oranges formed on the horizon as Kilimanjaro came to life. Below, the plains of Tanzania and Kenya stretched and curved away like the soft mound of a woman’s belly. We were high enough to see the curvature of Earth. I barely moved. Great walls, several metres high, of blue ice and white snow, ran the rim of the crater and stopped us from toppling off the mountain. Nothing green. Just rock, snow and ice. I felt so small and barely tolerated.

  On the way down, Jim snapped photos. My orange jacket glowed in the rising sun. I walked on the moon, an orange moon. No smile. Arms dangling at my sides.

  I gripped my stomach and forced my legs to go faster. Get down. Every 10 minutes I slumped onto a boulder, head hung low, swaying. The head lolls, I called them. Jim chatted and took photos while I phased in and out of consciousness. I thought, “I could lay down here and sleep, right here, forever.” I had never been more tired or out of it. I’ll have brain damage for sure and maybe just die right here, I thought.

  In three hours we were back at Barafu. Meddi and Dismas sat down with their packs on. I slumped to the ground. “I can’t go any farther. I need to sleep.” Jim set up the tent and I collapsed fully clothed onto my sleeping bag. Dismas woke me up after two hours. I peeled my tongue away from the roof of my mouth and downed a litre of water. During the three-hour hike down to low camp, where we could sleep without worrying about succumbing further to the effects of altitude, my gait quickened and Jim and I chatted about the future: his book, finding a place to live in the mountains together. I wanted to hold that feeling of certainty forever. Jim and Sue.

  Walking through the village the next day, people passed us and said, “Poleni.”

  “What does poleni mean, Dismas?” I asked.

  “They are sorry for your tiredness.” I grinned at Jim. He was right. I was proud I’d gone to the summit. But more than anything, sharing this experience with Jim, my senses alive with the sounds, smells and tastes of this gigantic mountain, made my heart feel connected to him in a way that grounded me to the centre of Earth.

  After Kilimanjaro we flew to India and braved an 18-hour overnight bus ride from Delhi to Manali in the north. Jim and I ski toured on our own to acclimatize and then hooked up with another Canadian guide, Rob, to do a seven-day ski traverse. On day three we were tent-bound on a glacier at 5000 metres for 48 hours while a storm deposited over a metre of snow on us. We took turns during the night digging out the tents. The new snow was so overwhelming that it was too hazardous to attempt our planned climb of Hanuman Tibba. Instead, we built a snow cave and snuggled in.

  A whiteout greeted us the next day, and Jim led blindly up a bowl as snow cascaded from the steep cliffs around us. He chose a place to set up camp, and I asked him if we were safe from avalanches. “I think so.” I slept lightly, poised to abandon camp if the roar of the falling snow came too close. In the morning, the sun hit the tent and after we dug ourselves out, we saw that we were camped on the only raised knoll in the whole basin, somewhat protected from the avalanches.

  The 600-vertical-metre ski down the Beas Kund, our only ski run of the trip, was heavy with new snow. With a rope, Jim lowered Rob down the steep gully entrance to check the stability, and we followed. There was so much snow and so many hazards above us that we traversed back and forth across the slope all the way to the bottom.

  From Manali we travelled south and visited the Taj Mahal and rode elephants in Corbet Park looking for tigers. In Nepal we trekked in the beautiful Langtang Valley, home of the monster rhododendrons. Jagged snow-covered peaks speared the sky. Before heading back to Canada, we rafted Nepal’s Karnali River.

  Neither of us were water experts, so we decided to hire a company. A 20-hour bus ride and two days of trekking later, we arrived at the put-in for the Karnali River. The lead raft guide took one look at the river level and said, “Holy shit, I’ve never seen the water so high. It’s really pushy.”

  As the guides worked to prepare the rafts, they noticed we were short one life jacket. The Nepalese fellow who would steer the gear raft drew the short straw, and the rest of the crew wrapped him in a foam sleeping pad and some duct tape, hoping that would keep him afloat if an accident occurred.

  The guides piled the gear in the middle of the rafts. Seven clients sank into the sponsons around the edge of each boat, toes hooked under a rope to keep from falling backwards. There was only room for six people, but we crammed in.

  We began the trip with three strikes against us: heavy boats, one man without a life jacket and an abnormally high, fast-flowing river. We would be on the river for 10 days and navigate 20 rapids, some as difficult as Class IV plus. The international scale of river difficulty describes Class IV using words such as “dangerous,” “boiling” and “violent.” Ignorance was bliss for me. It didn’t occur to me that an established rafting company recommended by a North American guide would put its clients at risk. At the time, I did not know that liability is less stringent in Nepal than in Canada and that companies do not rely on return clientele.

  On the first day, we stopped at the only village we would see for the next several days. The guides bought a live chicken and strapped it face down, clucking, to the front of the gear raft.

  The Karnali ripped 20 of us from our rafts that day. Some people floundered in the pumping, grey-brown river for more than three kilometres before a guide caught up to them and pulled them out. The metallic taste of the silt water lingered in my mouth until after dinner.

  On our second day on the river, the group crouched around the sandy campsite listening to the lead guide.

  “The river is down 1.5 metres this morning, so it won’t be as pushy or as fast. We are going to stay closer together today and be more careful.”

  People murmured. We knew what lay ahead: a snaking canyon four kilometres long whose vertical rock walls blocked the sun and strangled the river into frothing whitewater areas called God’s House, Flip ’n’ Strip, and Juicer.

  “I know there is talk going around. People are scared about what happened yesterday. But we’ve got everything under control. Today will be better.”

  People spoke in hushed voices as we boarded the rafts and pushed off into the current. Downriver we heard what sounded like the roar of a w
aterfall. Rounding a corner, the water picked up speed. Our raft plunged first into the boiling rapids and a wave higher than the length of our five-metre boat reared up in front of us.

  “Paddle!” the guide yelled as we hit a wall of water. The wave pushed our raft vertical to the sky and we stalled. In that second, I saw the cavernous black hole on the backside of the wave. I groped at air with my paddle. And then I plummeted.

  Our raft went end over end. All I could see were bubbles and black. When I surfaced and opened my mouth for air, another wave slammed me back under. I thrashed. My life jacket fought against the sucking action of the river and pulled me to the surface in what seemed like slow motion. I remembered the instructions the guides gave us in case we tipped: “Hold on to your paddle. Try to grab hold of the side of the boat and then try to get on top of the boat to help the guide flip it back over.” I grabbed the side of our overturned raft and the guide pulled me on top, along with one other rafter. Water streamed from his face and hair as he shouted, “Reach down and hold onto the cord alongside the boat!” We mimicked his actions and squatted to grab the elastic cord. “Okay, now on the count of three, pull up and lean back hard!” he commanded. We obeyed, and by the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. We catapulted back into the river. I squeezed my paddle and lunged for the side of the raft again. The guide was already inside and hauled me up by the life jacket. Instinctively, I scanned the waves for others who needed rescue. Within five minutes we had the whole team aboard and were plunging our paddles into the water.

  A dozen strokes later our guide pushed his whole weight into the rudder and shouted for the people on the left to paddle hard. The raft was too heavy for a last-minute change in direction. The river swept us toward a “hole,” a “keeper,” a whirlpool that sucks things in and swirls them around underwater like a washing machine and spits them out or, sometimes, keeps circulating them.