The Snows of Kilimanjaro

The wind is so strong, so goddam loud, that I can’t even hear myself gasping for air. My hood flaps and slaps against my face as the wind tries to tear the clothing right off my body. A constant barrage of frozen icy pellets batters my clothing. My nose and cheeks, the only exposed part of my body, sting in the freezing conditions, although both are fast going numb in the biting cold. And all around it is pitch black, save for our headlamps, trying desperately to illuminate the way ahead. But all I can see is a swirling wall of white.

I pull my head further back into my hood. The temperature has plunged below -15C, but with this gale, the windchill must be twice as cold. My headlamp illuminates the two nearest climbers, Christophe (Tophe) and Abraham. They sit slumped in the snow, their hands stuffed into their armpits to stay warm. A little further down the slope I can just make out the three others; Kim, Seraphine and Musa. But the wind whips up the snow so much that they appear as little more than dark shadows. Their headlamps are pointed downward; they, too, are huddled together against the relentless wind.

I’m the only one of our group to remain standing. Sitting down would expend too much energy. Besides, I just want to keep going. What’s the point of just hanging around in this weather? It ain’t getting any better. A pea sized chunk