Day 6: June 15th, 2009
Today's walk has been advertised as "gruelling" and "difficult" and as we congregate outside our tents I can detect a bit of tension in the air. No one has slept particularly well, mainly thanks to the freezing winds that rattled our tents last night, and everyone knows that today's trek presents us with a formidable challenge.
I'm far too busy staring at the clouds floating below us to give our impending walk much thought. I've only ever witnessed this sight from the relative safety of a plane before and it looks beautiful and yet somehow wrong.
Paul, on the other hand, doesn't look good at all. He had a terrible night and he's very weak and subdued as a result. This is a shame because I'm in a perky mood and I was looking forward to spending ten hours discussing the finer points of the James Bond franchise with him as we walked.
However, the big news around camp is that Kate's boots have fallen apart. I can't quite believe how well she's taking this devastating news, especially when Al forces her soles back on with nothing more than some gaffer tape and a cheeky wink. If this had happened to me I'd have been inconsolable and calling for air support, but Kate just shrugs it off and gets on with things. I'm seriously impressed.
We start out at the back of the pack again, but this time it's out of necessity. Paul is struggling. We've barely walked for one hour before he's slumped on a rock, looking pale and confused. Less than an hour later and he's no longer carrying his daysack anymore, and because he needs to stop frequently to take on water, I realise that we've become a very small group indeed. The thought of us walking into camp in darkness looks increasingly likely with every step we take.
The small group consists of myself, Palma, Paul, Al, Cathy, Karsten and two assistant guides (Elly and Jackson). We can't even see the main group anymore, and as we trudge through Kili's southern flank, Kibo towers menacingly above us. I have to force myself to stop looking at it after a while.
Thankfully, today's weather is fantastic, especially after yesterday's miserable downpour: the sun is shining, there's a cool breeze and the terrain isn't too steep. And I'm loving it. I have no aches, no pains, no niggles and no worries. My feet feel great, my head is clear and I feel like I could walk forever.
Unfortunately, my companions are finding things a lot tougher. Palma's head cold is getting steadily worse, and while she's finding the actual walking itself easy enough, having to stop to blow her nose every 30 seconds is beginning to get on her nerves.
Paul's health is also deteriorating fast. A clear sign that he's in trouble is that he isn't talking very much. In fact, he isn't talking at all. Al Pepper, who never seems to suffer, appears to be finding things a little harder than usual as well. Even Karsten looks tired. This is probably because we are now standing approximately 4,400 meters above sea level and altitude sickness (or AMS) is starting to exert its power over us.
As if to emphasise this, when we stop for lunch we discover that we have caught up with the husband and wife team, John and Jo. Jo is in a bad way and I witness someone vomiting on the mountain for the first time. I'm horrified. To finally see it happening right in front of me after reading about it for months, still comes as something of a shock.
As we set off again, with Jo and John in tow, I worry about Paul. I notice that his footsteps are beginning to weave erratically and his speech has become slurred (when he can be bothered to talk, that is). At one point it looks like he's might faint on me.
I walk behind him, with one hand permanently outstretched, ready to catch him should he fall. When we are forced to stop again, Karsten tells me that he'll have to make a decision about Paul's ability to continue in the next few minutes. I'm stunned. We decide to give Paul a Dioralyte sachet in order to rehydrate him and BANG! - he's back.
For the first time today the old Paul makes a rare and welcomed appearance. Suddenly, he is lucid and steady on his feet again. His recovery borders on the miraculous. We quickly begin walking and as we descend down a steep path covered with scree and unstable rocks, I wonder how on earth Paul would have successfully navigated his way over this terrain ten minutes earlier. I begin to realise just how dangerous and unforgiving this mountain can be.
And then Paul appears to slip into a waking (and walking) coma. But somehow he keeps on going, one foot in front of the other. His mind and body must be screaming at him to stop but he just keeps on moving forward. I honestly don't know how he does it.
For several hours I walk directly behind Paul through a landscape of over-sized and exotic plant life that inevitably reminds me of Star Trek. Perhaps it's because I'm forced to focus on Paul's condition that I forget about my own situation, and any pain or exhaustion that I might be feeling to put to one side as I urge him to continue.
And then, in the last few minutes of daylight, we stagger into a camp that is nestled beneath the infamous Barranco Wall. And for the very first time on this trip I realise that I'm crying.
Paul heads straight for his tent and it takes me a while to compose myself. Paul's determination to fight on has been inspirational, and I wonder if I would have displayed the same mount of courage that he did.
When he head to bed after a celebratory dinner (we made it through the second toughest day!) our thoughts turn to Paul. Will he make it over the Barranco Wall with us tomorrow, or is his adventure over already?
Barranco Camp Altitude: 3,900m (12,800ft)
Highest Point reached today: 4,400m (14,500ft)
Neil
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