Climbing Kilimanjaro: When the Mountain Strips You Bare

Mount Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain in Africa and the highest stand-alone mountain in the world, that also happens to be an active volcano! Rising alone from the plains of Tanzania, it carries its height in such solitude! I couldn’t help but wonder if all these titles are a blessing or a burden after all. Maybe Kilimanjaro never wanted to be the highest. Maybe it’d rather be part of a mountain range, to share the weight, to have the company of other mountains. The loneliness of that thought stayed with me, because in some quiet way, it mirrored how I felt about my own expectations of myself.

First important choice, an ethical and trustworthy operator. This decision shapes everything that follows; how porters are treated, how the mountain is respected, and how travelers are cared for. Ethical operators ensure fair wages, proper loads, adequate clothing, food, and shelter for their crews, while also protecting Kilimanjaro’s fragile fauna and flora. They move with respect through the mountain as its guests, and that respect reaches the climbers too, through safety, transparency, and genuine care. Without ethics, no summit is worth reaching. Our guides, Hans and Joseph were the ones that make it possible for me and I recommend them wholeheartedly.

Second important choice, which route to take. I chose to climb Kilimanjaro via the Machame Route, often called the Whiskey Route. There are several ways up the mountain, each with its own personality. The Marangu Route, also known as the Coca-Cola Route, is the easiest on paper, shorter, with hut accommodation where you can find Coca-Cola daily but its rapid ascent gives little time for acclimatization, which dramatically lowers summit success rates. Machame, on the other hand, is longer, steeper, more demanding, like whiskey compared to soda, but it offers the best possible chance for your body to adjust to altitude and as a gift, the most amazing landscapes! You climb higher during the day and sleep low, in some cases you end up camping just a few hundred meters above your last camp. It feels so frustrating having to climb all day, day after day, to end up just a little bit higher than yesterday! But in this way, you let your system adapt gradually and it is so important when you deal with these extreme altitudes! It’s tougher, but smarter and Kilimanjaro rewards patience.

When I boarded the minivan toward the trailhead, fate made its first quiet joke. Sitting next to me was a blonde girl. We were about to climb together and started chatting. Her name was Kate. I told her mine was Kate too, short for Katerina. She laughed and said hers was also short for Katerina. She was Bulgarian; I’m Greek. Out of all the people on this mountain, two Katerinas found themselves sitting side by side, heading toward the same impossible goal. It felt so random and oddly right. The journey began at the Machame Gate, where paperwork was completed and boots were tightened for real.

As we were signing documents at the gate, I noticed a young couple nearby strong and athletic. I remember thinking “What am I doing here? These people seem like they’d stepped straight out of an adventure movie!” But the mountain has a way of humbling everyone equally. I later learned the name of the girl was also Katerina (Katarzyna in Polish), and they were on their honeymoon which struck me as a new kind of relationship standard: not comfort or ease, but shared courage. After all, real intimacy isn’t found in comfort, but in choosing the hard things together, right?

During Machame Route, you pass from four different climate zones; namely Rainforest, Heather or Moorland, Alpine Desert and the Arctic Summit. The first day took us into the rainforest zone, lush and alive, with tangled roots, dripping leaves, and thick humidity. Rain fell often and mud slowed us down. It was beautiful and unforgiving. We reached Machame Camp, around 3,000 meters, completely wet and tired and it was that night that the mountain whispered its first warning: This won’t be easy.

By the second day, as we climbed higher into the moorland and heath zone, the air changed. Trees thinned, shrubs replaced forest, and altitude made its presence known. This is where acclimatization becomes everything. Your worst enemy on Kilimanjaro isn’t the climb, it’s altitude sickness (plus rain, plus cold). That thin air at 4,000+ meters steals appetite, sleep, and strength. Fitness doesn’t protect you; altitude sickness can hit everyone. The symptoms are nausea, headaches, loss of appetite, insomnia, exhaustion and it is no joke, as people actually die from this. I remember one time, bending down to tie my shoe laces and I was out of breath, felt like having run 10K. It arrives quietly and stays stubbornly. The best strategy is to climb at a very slow pace, gaining altitude during the day and returning to a lower camp to rest, hydrate early and often, eat well even without appetite. Some climbers take acetazolamide, commonly known by the trade name “Diamox”, to help their bodies adjust. It’s important to take it before the symptoms begin. I chose not to and I do not advice others to do this test. This was my first high-altitude experience, and I wanted to understand how my body would respond. I paid for that curiosity dearly.

Side effects of the drug include tingling limbs (for me it was funny but very inconvenient for others!) and frequent urination, which, combined with the need to stay hydrated, makes bathroom breaks both unavoidable and hilariously challenging in the cold open air.

Day three is were most climbers give up; we had to climb Lava Tower, nearly 4,600 meters and then go back to camp at 3,950 (just 100 meters altitude gain from the previous camp!). It was so frustrating and possibly the worst day of my life but so important for acclimatisation! It was raining the whole time, I was climbing freezing, soaked wet, and sick. The tower rose above us like something mythical and menacing. In my mind I still remember it as the Eye of Sauron and I can promise you there were flames burning on top (maybe it’s just my imagination, but it felt so real at the time!) Around me, people were vomiting and giving up. I somehow made it up to the top were there was no shelter for a stop and we started descending immediately toward Barranco Camp through what felt like, climbing down a waterfall. I was wet to the bone, cold with my boots slipping, my body shaking and truly miserable. But when we finally reached camp, the porters had already set everything up. Tents stood firm. Food was on the fire. And somehow, that simple care felt heroic.

What I need to mention here is one of the most important lessons from Kilimanjaro, beyond altitude, endurance, or personal limits; the humbling strength of the people who make the climb possible. Our porters were nothing short of superheroes who climb Kilimanjaro regularly, sometimes multiple times a month, with barely a few days off before they’re back on the trail. They carry everything: our tents, cooking gear, food, water, medical kits, and heavy supplies, often up and down the mountain before we even set foot on the trail. They go ahead of us to set up camps, prepare meals, fetch water from distant rivers, or carry it themselves when no stream is near. They do this with limited equipment, no technical shoes, not proper clothing, and gear that often does not fit for temperatures that can plunge well below freezing, and yet they never complain. They love this mountain! The guides especially are deeply knowledgeable about every twist of the trail, the weather, the camps, and the subtle signs of altitude stress, and they take immense pride in their work, having undergone official training and long studies at Tanzania’s College of African Wildlife Management to be licensed guides and crew members (this is the college that all safari guides have to attend too!). It felt like they had bet everything on our summit as much as we did, it was not just them doing their jobs, it felt personal, they would do everything for us to make the summit possible! Their belief in us was constant, their support selfless, and their courage deep. I am profoundly grateful to them!

The days blurred into a rhythm: climb, descend slightly, rest. Camps appeared always just out of reach, I remember especially the last hundred meters that felt like torture. I would see the camp above me and feel completely defeated. My partner, Kate, had more endurance, she could go on longer. I was slower, but more comfortable with exposed terrain. We balanced each other. Seven days together forged a bond that felt like family.

Day four began with the iconic Barranco Wall scramble, a steep, hands-on ascent straight out of Barranco Camp. After days of slow suffering and measured steps, this felt different. Scrambling over rocks in the early morning light, I was suddenly back in familiar territory. My body was awake, my mind clear, my strength fully present. For the first time, I felt I had something to offer the mountain, not just something to endure. When we reached the top, I stopped, took a deep breath, and howled like a wolf, listening to my own voice echo across the valley. Maybe that was the moment I truly befriended the mountain.

At Karanga Camp at 4,000m, I learned my most humbling lesson: always trust the packing list. That night, warm and cocooned inside my sleeping bag, I felt the urgent need to pee. I remembered seeing “urine pot” on the essentials list and laughing. “Unnecessary”, I thought full of pride “I’ll just go outside.” Now, the idea of unzipping my tent, stepping into the freezing dark, and losing all the warmth I’d built felt unbearable. I lay there, negotiating with myself, weighing impossible options one of them being whether it might be better to simply pee on myself. In the end, I went out. I froze but survived. And I promised myself I would never again question that “silly” item on a packing list.

And then came Barafu Camp at 4,673 m, the final stop before the summit. We rested only briefly. There was of course nowhere to shower, at this point water was precious.

At midnight, we were woken for summit night. Headlamps on. Layers upon layers of clothing. Two pairs of gloves; the inner ones never to be removed, not even for seconds. Two pairs of socks, one technical and one warm. The cold was brutal. I was given an extra jacket from one of the porters, heavy with the smell of someone else’s sweat,  something I would never wear anywhere else, but that night it felt like heaven. As I stepped out of my tent, I saw Kate in full makeup. “For the summit photo,” she said. Seven hours of climbing later! We burst out laughing. I told her, “I’m thirty years old. I really don’t give a shit anymore.”

Before starting, Kate and I did something ridiculous and perfect that might be up to today one of the highlights of this expedition for me: we found a video of the haka dance, the fierce Māori tradition of ceremonial chant and movement meant to stir strength and unity; and it worked on us when nothing else seemed to (and we totally recommend it before any important business meeting!) We stomped, shouted, and laughed; and we needed it more than we realized. When it ended, we hugged each other, grounded and ready to go.

That night we had our two guides and two porters close to us (one for each of us) moving like our guardians. They carried our backpacks, knowing that even a small extra load could be too much under those conditions. They made sure our water didn’t freeze and offered it to us whenever we needed it (because even opening a bottle could feel impossible) and they watched every step we took. When my glove slipped from my hand, my porter quickly came to pick it up before I could even react. “Please,” he said gently, “keep your strength.” Every movement was costing precious energy and we were treated like Queens to say the least.

At that altitude, nothing is small. Everything has weight. I remember when we had to increase pace to pass another group that was walking at a slower pace. The smallest change in rhythm, the slightest increase in pace, something I do effortlessly in normal conditions, felt brutal, two hundred times harder up there. Electrolytes and energy gels were lifelines when the body refused to cooperate.

The climb from Barafu to Stella Point nearly broke me. I felt like I wasn’t there anymore, like my body was moving without me and I was totally out of breath. One of the porters held my arm, guided me step by step. Two hundred meters before Stella Point, I wanted to quit. Then he pointed ahead. “You see the flag? That’s Stella Point. It’s a magical place. You will recharge there.” I didn’t believe him; I knew people who had turned back from there. But somehow, he was right. Reaching Stella Point felt like a rebirth. Strength flooded back into my body, and I wondered where it had been hiding, realizing it must have been inside me all along. The scenery was otherworldly; the silver light of the moon reflected across a snowy valley on one side, while on the other a glacier stood before me, something I had only ever seen in documentaries. Far in the distance, the unmistakable summit sign came into view. I stopped there, took a break, and drank the most refreshing hot tea of my life. It warmed everything inside me. From there to Uhuru Peak, the summit felt almost easy. As if the mountain had decided to let me pass.

We reached the top screaming, crying, hugging. That mixture of exhaustion, relief, disbelief, and pride is something I’ll never forget. The sun began to rise while the moon still hung in the sky. A new day began and something new began in me too.

The descent was fast, urgent, necessary, you cannot stay in this altitude any longer. Camp after camp, we descended through the alpine desert back into moorland, heath, and finally rainforest once again where monkeys were leaping through trees. The jungle embraced us with its air, thick and alive again. And suddenly, I was struck by sadness, the adventure ending. I wasn’t going to wake up to team breakfasts, oxygen checks, or the quiet ritual of plumbing every last drop of energy from myself. I walked ahead of the group, trying to process the end and felt the jungle’s goodbye.

Kilimanjaro tested my body, mind, and heart. It forced me to relinquish ego and comparison, stripping away the illusions of who I thought I was. The mountain’s loneliness became mine, and then, unexpectedly, a profound companionship. Maybe Kilimanjaro doesn’t want the titles “the Highest Mountain on Africa” or “the Highest stand alone Mountain of the world”. Maybe it has a primitive soul, testing us not to conquer it, but to meet it honestly and try to understand it.

If you’re considering climbing Kilimanjaro and want to understand the different routes (Rongai, Lemosho, Marangu), the Machame experience, if you need the ultimate packing list, detailed altitude sickness strategies, equipment recommendations, safety tips or my list of trusted local partners, feel free to reach out. I’ll be sharing more practical guides soon, and I’m always happy to help you prepare for a journey that will change you in ways you can’t yet imagine!