“Jambo…jambo” It is chant and chorus–Hakuna Matata–the song that The Lion King made famous. The porters, guides cooks, etc. surround me. I recognize Freddy, Solomon, Seki and a few others, but most–especially the ones leading the song, I haven’t seen before. There are 72 paid staff and most I haven’t even seen. They are the ones who carry the tents, the food, our gear, and they are the ones who just carried me.

We started at the bottom of the Rongai Route at about noon on the first day. It had been a four hour drive to the Kenya and dry side of the mountain to avoid the slippery mud of the Morangu Route. That first dayI felt strong and sure that I’d suprise myself. My training wasn’t what I’d hoped, but I had this strange feeling that I’d come into my own on the mountain. Eight hours later, under the veil of darkness, I’d rolled into the first camp–a feat I didn’t think possible before I’d started.

 That first day I’d climbed a steep rocky slope so much more difficult than anything I’d ever approached. We’d used the winch. I pulled myself up the fixed rope and the porters had laid boards over some of the more difficult sections. At the top one wheel perched at least three feet off the ground as I crawled over the last rock. I’d never been in that kind of position. I didn’t know if the wheel would come down or if I’d tip over. The wheel came down. For the first time everyone clapped. I felt a bit self-conscious because this was just the first day. This was supposed to be the easy part. Still, I made it to camp and that allowed me to dream, that just maybe I could achieve the summit.

 The second day was another eight hour affair and a slight setback. As darkness approached we were forced to set camp about 1000 vertical feet from the proposed camp. It was supposed to be 1000 vertical meters in a little over three miles. I’d never done 1000 vetical meters (3300 vertical feet or so), but after the first day it seemed manageable, especially in three miles. I didn’t realize just how steep and unrelenting it would be. Each turn presented another almost impossible, steep, loose rocked climb. Water bars of loose rock, spaced about a time and a half of my wheel diameter proved to be the most challenging part. I had to pick a line each time knowing that any slight miscalculation would stop me dead.

 The first fifteen minutes of the day’s climb are always the worst. I feel like I won’t make it thorough those first few minutes, but once I do I start to find my rhythm. That second day I never found my rhythm. It was a relief when Dean, the head guide, said that we couldn’t make the second camp and needed to stop. The sun went down at 6:30 pm. With the memory of the previous night’s sapping cold, I couldn’t wait to get into my sleeping bag.

We’d proposed splitting the days in half all along. With just a thousand feet of vertical left, I was sure that the next day would be easy. I’d finish in the light. It would be a recharge day. I took that belief with me as I started the third morning. Almost immediately I was forced to the winch. The trail was too steep. I couldn’t pedal without slipping. With the winch I moved forward, but it was slow moving, and we were still on the approach. This was supposed to be the easy part. The top was supposed to be difficult, and I couldn’t even see it yet.

Plugging away all day long I felt like I’d made some ground, but all those times that someone said that lunch rock was five minutes or ten minutes away slipped into an hour or more. Finally Dean presented me with a choice. I could continue, but we’d risk not seeing the whole mountain. We’d come to scout–to learn as much as we could, but I didn’t know what the decision would bring. I decided to ask for help.

My team and the porters pulled and eventually carried me through a part of the trail that had been wiped out be the rains. There’s no way that I could have made it through that part on my own. It was far too narrow. I seem to arrive at camp in a moment and that’s when the singing starts.

Jambo…Jambo. I don’t recognize many of the words. It feels much more free form, though I hear Kilimanjaro, bicycleta (or something like that), American. For the first time our porters and guides share in my climb. I sit in the middle of the circle wondering how obvous defeat could turn so quickly into victory.

 I had started with the aim of climbing unassisted. I figured that the mountain would teach me something I needed to know. Unassisted could mean isolation. My indepence could keep me separate. By asking for help I brought the team together.

With the help of the team and porters I made it to 5000 meters or 16,500 feet. We saw enough to prepare for next year. I saw enough to know that another try will be the most difficult thing I’ve tried. Each time I thought that the trip would become easier it became harder. Rolling to the top was more like rock climbing than hiking. I solved problems the whole way. Physical fatigue was a part but the mental fatigue was worse. Even going back down was a struggle. The path was rougher than I could imagine. I rolled over boulders at least three feet tall. I had thought that down would be easy, yet I could barely keep pace with the walkers.

 If I wanted a challenge and I did, I’ve found it. The next few months will be a huge challenge, and then there will be many days on the mountain. I can’t imagine the lessons I will learn then.