Mt. Kilimanjaro - to the Roof of Africa

Signing Off

2009-07-14T00:00:07+01:00

This is it, the final blog entry...

The 26 hour journey home doesn't bear thinking about, let alone writing about. It was grim. That rickety seven hour bus journey that was so engrossing and exciting 10 days ago is nothing more than a uncomfortable nuisance on the way back.

The only other significant thing to note is that our plane hit such bad turbulence (people were literally crying with fear) I honestly thought I was going to be sucked out of a window at 20,000ft and I wouldn't get an opportunity to tell anyone about my little adventure. I actually chuckled at the irony of this as I grasped my armrests for dear life.

Life back home has been... odd. After the initial joy and excitement of being reunited with my family and my pets finally wore off I've been left feeling mildly depressed. If I'm honest, I've been using this blog as an excuse to extend the experience for as long as possible. When I hit the 'post' button in a few minutes time, it'll finally all be over...

Climbing Kilimanjaro was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life but it was also the most rewarding. People told me that it would change my life and they've been proved right. All I want to do now is have adventures, climb mountains and make new friends. Real life feels mundane in comparison and I want to push myself even further next time. I miss the sense of adventure, I miss the comradeship and I even miss the bloody thermarest. I don't want Kilimanjaro to be "a once in a lifetime experience", I want it to be the start of many more life-changing experiences to come.

So, just to warn you, I intend to sign up for another trek in either 2010 or early 2011. It's currently a toss-up between Everest Base Camp, Stok Kangri in India, or Aconcagua in the Andes. I need another goal. Soon. Besides, what else am I going to do with all of this equipment?

Hey, perhaps Charity Challenge can employ me as an official blogger and videographer and I could give up my full-time job and do this for a living? No? Oh well, you can't blame a man for trying...

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed these blog entries and videos. If you are planning to climb Kili and you stumbled across my ramblings then I hope you've found them useful and I haven't put you off. You'll have the time of your life, I swear. And to anyone seriously thinking about taking on a challenge like this: do it. You won't regret it. And forget Chris Moyles. If I can do it...

If you have enjoyed this blog then please show your appreciation (if you haven't already) by making a small donation to our charity, UNICEF. Our donation page will be open for another six months so please give what you can. It was the whole point of the exercise, after all.

And finally, I'd like to sign off by thanking Palma and Paul for being the perfect companions on this adventure. They put up my moods, my bad jokes, my video camera shenanigans and my paranoia. I couldn't have done it without them.

So how about it, guys. Fancy another one?

Cheers

Neil

Kili 09 Day Ten: Video Highlights

2009-07-13T23:35:03+01:00

Here's the final short video to accompany the Day 10 blog entry:

Kili 09 Day 10: Coming Down

2009-07-12T00:53:12+01:00

Day 10: June 19th, 2009

I wake at 6:30am after a long and blissfully uninterrupted sleep. I'm still feeling weak and exhausted but at least this is the last time I'll have to fight with a thermarest, a washy-washy bowl or a bloody kit bag for the foreseeable future. Palma has been to see the doctor again and it turns out that she probably climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro with bronchitis. Words fails me. And then I start coughing and realise that I've almost certainly caught it as well.

After breakfast, which miraculously includes sausages, it's time for the tipping ceremony to take place. It was decided by the group that Brian would make the speeches and he does a fantastic job of conveying our thanks to the guides and porters who have supported us so well on this trek. There isn't a dry eye in the camp when the porters show their appreciation by singing and dancing for us, and it's a moment that I will never forget.

I can't begin to express just how brilliant and kind they were to us throughout this incredible journey. The guides (Meke, Jackson, Pablo, Henry, Elly, Florence and Betwell in particular) were amazing, offering advice, encouragement and good humour at every turn, while the porters never failed to impress me. I'm still conflicted by a lot of what I saw but when I discovered that our tips provided them with a months wages in one single day, I began to make some sense out of the madness.

And then we begin a five hour trek back to the gate. And I hate every single minute of it.

I'm in pain most for most of the descent and I choose to go it alone in order to spare anyone my foul mood. My stitch is still there but my motivation isn't. I gave absolutely everything I had to reach that sign at Uhuru and I didn't leave anything in reserve. If someone had offered to airlift me off the mountain at that point I would have snapped their hands off at the wrist. Even a cold bottle of coke can't lift my spirits.

As I stagger despondently along the trail I come to a large tree stump. Suddenly, three young boys, no older than eight years old, emerge from behind it and they proceed to strip me like a car. Two of them make off with my water bottles while another tries to have it away with my walking poles. And then, as if by magic, they disappear into the forest again. I can hear a monkey laughing at me but I may well be hallucinating by this point.

After what feels like an eternity I finally make it to the gate. I sign out of the park and walk a short distance to a small village where the rest of the group are already tucking into a hearty lunch. I take the opportunity to have a crafty cigarette or three.

And then we stumble into some dilapidated mini-buses and depart. On the way back to the lodge we stop for some ice cream, and I witness Karsten losing it completely. I sense that ten days spent dealing with us has finally gotten to him when he goes ballistic because the shop doesn't stock any spoons. It's by far the scariest thing I've seen on the whole trip.

A couple of hours later we make it back to the lodge. Oh, the simple joys of life: a bed, clean sheets, clean boots, clean clothes, and even though the lodge has the worst shower in the world (barely a trickle of hot water can be coaxed out of the tap), it feels like I've checked-in to heaven.

That night, we congregate for a celebratory dinner. There are a group of American climbers sitting at the next table to us who are due to set off for Kili tomorrow. They look exactly like we did nine days ago. Nine days. But feels like forever. We can't help but look down on them in pity. They have no idea what they are in for and we secretly mock their wide-eyed innocence. A small part of me envies them. Today, as I write this, a larger part of me envies them even more.

After receiving a certificate and a medal (a medal? I've never received a medal for anything in my life!) we get pleasantly drunk around the pool while a few brave souls take their chances by accompanying Karsten to a night club in Arusha. God, I feel old.

And then I head for bed. A real bed. With sheets and pillows and everything.

Neil

Kili 09: Summit Night Video

2009-07-11T12:30:48+01:00

Here is a short video to accompany the summit night blog entry (warning - contains strong language!):

Kili 09 Day Nine: Hell on Earth

2009-07-09T18:39:51+01:00

Day 9: June 18th, 2009

Of all the posts that I've made on this blog, this is by far the hardest. It's not just because it was an incredibly long day (15 hours walking) with lots of things to talk about, it's because I don't remember half of it! In fact, if it wasn't for my video camera I would have a hard time piecing it together at all. Perhaps it was so awful my memory has simply blocked it out, or perhaps, like child birth, it's a pain that you soon forget...

We set off for the summit just before midnight. I'd love to tell you that we are feeling confident and happy but I'd be lying through my teeth. In reality, Palma is losing her patience with her iPod and I'm already cursing the slow, stop-start pace; it's the Barranco Wall all over again. Paul tells me later that all he can hear for the first twenty minutes is me swearing at him.

The temperature tonight is unseasonably warm, hovering just below zero. I feel very toasty in my down jacket but Paul and Palma are burning up already, having put on far too many layers.

What is truly miraculous is that for the first couple of hours we manage to stay together as a group. I was worried about large gaps opening up between us but every time we stop for a break I'm relieved to discover that we are still packed together, giving each other plenty of support and encouragement. I notice that some people are suffering a lot more than I am. In fact, unless my memory is playing tricks on me, I feel pretty good for the first few hours. However, rumours begin to circulate that two of our party are in trouble: Brian has injured his back, while Lorna is suffering from asthma, but it's difficult to work out the details.

The biggest help to me on summit night is my iPod. I honestly don't know how I would have coped without it. Sadly, I didn't find the time to construct the perfect playlist for my climb so I'm forced to put it on shuffle mode for the duration. My iPod is inaccessible inside my layers so I have to listen to whatever it throws at me. Occasionally, I am amused by a tune that seems either incredibly apt ('King of the Mountain' by Kate Bush) or wholly inappropriate ('Breathing' by Kate Bush).

I am, however, convinced of one thing: the real reason why you climb to Kili's summit in the dark isn't anything to do with the temperature freezing the scree or anything technical like that. No, it's because if you did it in daylight, and you could actually see the top, your mind and body would refuse to even try.

When you look up you think you can the stars twinkling overhead. And then you realise they aren't stars at all - they are head torches. It's a difficult moment to get to grips with.

I would love to tell you that the one thing that kept me going that night was the thought of all the people back home who had sponsored me. But if I'm really honest, the thing that really kept me going was the hatred (yes, hatred!) I felt for all those people who didn't sponsor me. For over an hour I'm consumed by so much anger and disappointment (you know who you are) it fires me up to keep on going. That'll show 'em.

And then the dawn comes.

It's a magical moment that delivers on all the promises Karsten made back at the briefing. The light from the sun gives you just enough hope to push on. And then I realise that I have absolutely no idea where Paul or Palma are. I sense that they are still somewhere below me but it's impossible to be certain. I have no choice but to carry on without them...

The last two hours seem to go on forever. I can see Stella Point now and I can just make out a small group of people at the top, leaning over the ridge, watching us ascend. Under normal conditions the last push to Stella would take about 15-20 minutes to climb but at this altitude, with your body already racked with exhaustion and emotion, it takes much, much longer. Looking back at the video footage now it must appear faintly ridiculous to anyone who wasn't there. Why are they taking so long? It's only a few meters. How unfit are they?

One step. Rest. One step. Rest. One step. Rest. Repeat for two hours.

When I finally reach Stella Point (5756m) I discover that at least half of our group are already there. I walk around feeling bewildered for a bit and then I start to worry about my friends. If they don't arrive in the next fifteen minutes I will be forced to continue to Uhuru Peak without them.

I look down and spot Paul making his last push to Stella and I'm overjoyed. But where the hell is Palma?

I can vividly remember standing next to Cathy, scanning the landscape below me, becoming more and more agitated with every passing second. How can I possibly go to the summit without Palma? After everything we've been through it just wouldn't be right. I remember Karsten's warning to us at the briefing: if you stop for too long at Stella you will not have the energy to continue to the highest point.

The floodgates open and I'm in hysterics. I curse myself. I should have stayed with her. I shouldn't have been so bloody selfish. I should have made sure she was OK. What kind of 'buddy-buddy' am I?

And then I see her. She's a tiny speck in the distance but it's definitely her. It's an agonising wait but when she finally crosses the finishing line I'm overcome with relief. But she can only rest for a few short minutes if she's going to accompany us to the summit and to her eternal credit she gets back on her feet and my dream comes true. Here we are, Paul, Palma and myself, all heading for Uhuru. Together. Just like we promised we would. Yeah, I'm crying again.

As we set off, we pass a porter who is guiding a climber back down. It suddenly dawns on me that this climber has gone blind, and for a brief moment I think to myself, what the hell are we doing here?

The hour long walk to Uhuru takes on a dream-like quality. Paul has withdrawn into himself and he staggers ahead of us in a world of his own. Palma is really struggling now. She tells me that she's going to be sick and she looks terrible: tired, pale and confused. But we can finally see the sign. We can see the summit! It would be impossible for us to turn back now. Wouldn't it?

The final thirty minutes really takes its toll. Palma is weaving erratically as we head inexorably towards our goal. I'm either crying or shouting into my camera. Or both. It's a surreal and overwhelming time.

And then, accompanied by a mild splattering of applause, we've made it.

I hug Palma, overwhelmed by relief and joy. We have our picture taken and then we stagger around for a bit, trying to take it all in. To be completely honest, I'm bemused by the whole thing and this is where my memory begins to cloud over.

My one big regret is that we didn't get a photo with Paul.

Suddenly, my whole body screams at me - you have to go down, NOW!

And then comes the moment that no one ever warns you about. In my research for this trip I was always amazed that there was never any video footage on YouTube that showed what it was like getting back down to Barafu camp. And now I know why.

I set off back the way we came but I make the fatal mistake of setting out on my own. I'm already out of water, my energy bars have all been consumed, and I'm more tired than I've ever been in my entire life. The next hour is a blur of pain and frustration and I know I'm in deep trouble. It's as if my brain and my body simply switched off as soon as I touched that bloody sign.

Paul finds me sitting on a rock, sobbing.

And then our roles are reversed. A few days ago I helped him make it back to camp and today he does the very same thing for me. I don't know how I would have reached safety without him. Those two hours are the hardest of my life. I just don't have anything left to give. My knees are buckling and my head is spinning, but 13 hours after we first set out I'm back at Barafu. Thanks Paul, I'll never forget what you did for me that morning.

I immediately head for my tent and strip down to my underwear. The amount of heat coming off me is phenomenal. I phone my wife to tell her the good news and then I cry again. For a very long time. The doctor comes to check on me and I'm told to rehydrate myself.

Palma makes it back a few minutes later and she looks fantastic compared to me. I learn that all of us made it to Stella Point but that Lorna and Brian arrived too late to make the summit. But given the fact that they made it to that point given their respective conditions still seems miraculous to me (in the end Brian is stretched back down to the camp).

I try to sleep but it's impossible. I try to eat some lunch but that's impossible too. I just want to rest for a week but then I remember that the day isn't over yet. We have another 3 hour walk to our next camp. Why? That's the only coherent response that I can muster.

So, exhausted, sick and starving, I leave Barafu for our final camp. I should be elated and proud of my achievement but all I really want to do is curl up and die.

When we reach Millennium Camp there is an opportunity to buy a cold beer or a coke but all I care about is getting into my tent. I decide to skip dinner and immediately slip into the deepest sleep of my life...

Highest Point Reached Today: 5895m (19,340ft)!!!

Millennium Camp Altitude: 3750m (12,300ft)

A short video of the summit attempt will be posted this weekend...

Neil

Kili 09 Day Eight: A Dark and Dangerous Place

2009-07-08T23:27:03+01:00

Day 8: June 17th, 2009

Today is going to be a very strange day. Technically speaking, this is the day that we will begin our assault on the summit, but we are going to trick our bodies into thinking that it's all happening tomorrow instead. Like I said, it's odd.

After our last washy-washy for two solid days, we begin trekking up the Barafu Ridge. The ascent looks relatively simple at first but the altitude means every step takes twice as long as it should. Then three times longer. Then four... By the time we reach 4,600 meters (15,000 feet) I'm finding it difficult to draw breath. I am also afflicted with a persistent stitch in my side that makes walking for long periods very uncomfortable.

Along the way we encounter a young porter, no older than 16 years old, who has collapsed on a rock. He looks terrible and as we approach him I honestly believe that he might be dead. It's a blessed relief when he eventually opens his eyes and takes some water from us. And then James starts to suffer. Poor James. Every time I see him he seems to be in some sort of trouble, be it a raging headache or a camel back leak. I seriously begin to doubt that he'll make it.

Today's walk is mercifully short - only five hours - and then we reach the largest camp that we've encountered on our trek so far. It sprawls across a plain of uneven rocks and it's packed with other climbing groups, all waiting to make their push for the top. A quiet, tense atmosphere permeates the camp and it's become so difficult to breathe now, I don't even manage a celebratory cigarette.

Back in my tent, I watch a video that the wife made for me before I left. It's pretty pointless really because I only spoke to her a few hours ago, but it's nice to know that she's rooting for me. I give Palma some letters from home and I rub some deep heat into my stitch.

At 5pm we gather for an early dinner. Karsten mumbles something vague about not feeling well. "Don't worry, Karsten, we'll get you to the top," someone promises. We all laugh.

"You don't understand!" yells Karsten. "I am a professional guide and I am having a cerebral edema!"

Trust me, whenever somebody mentions the word 'edema' on a mountain it's not good news.

Karsten believes that he is starting to lose his mind (starting?) and if he doesn't improve soon he'll have to descend immediately. This is not the confidence boost that I was looking for with less than six hours to go. He confers with the doctor who tells him that he hasn't displayed HACE's most classic symptom yet - he hasn't fallen over. Well, that's alright then.

At 6pm I follow Palma back to our tent. Paul comes with us and we spend a good hour winding ourselves up into a frenzy of self-doubt and paranoia. I am convinced that the stitch I have in my side will never go away and I am doomed before I start, Palma is convinced that her nose and brain will explode with snot, and Paul is worried that we'll end up at the back of the group and if we're not careful we'll reach the summit a couple of days after everyone else.

We work out a complicated series of signs to help us communicate with each other in the dark (one tap for "you are doing great!", two taps for "I'm in trouble, help!", three taps for "kill me now, please") which we forget almost immediately. We make a series of pledges about what the protocol will be if either one of us should collapse on route and then Paul leaves and we settle down to contemplate our personal fears in silence.

At 11pm we are woken by the porters. I calculate that I've had approximately 13 minutes sleep.

Getting dressed in the dark, and in and sub-zero temperatures, feels wrong. My body is screaming at me to get back into my bloody sleeping bag but I press on regardless, piling on my thermal underwear, my extra-thick summit socks and my bulky down-jacket (which, because it's hired, is literally spitting feathers). At least I look the part, even if I don't feel it.

Palma and I make sure we have enough energy bars between us to survive for several days on the mountain, and then I begin strapping spare camera batteries to my thighs. This is it. This is really it.

And then we head for "breakfast". I open one end of the mess tent and discover that it's full, so I walk around to the other end (a simple act that leaves me feeling exhausted) and I discover that this side is full too. What the hell is going on?

It turns out that Palma and I are the last to arrive and the only vacant seats are in the middle of the tent. As I shuffle slowly down the non-existent aisle, trying not to spill anyone's tea with my flailing elbows, I am utterly convinced that the group has done this to me on purpose. Consumed by aggressive paranoia I slump into a chair and scowl. I'm in a dark and dangerous place. I should be excited about what I'm about to attempt but, bizarrely, I want to murder everyone in the tent with my leki poles instead.

I try to eat something. I manage a slice of dry toast and a thin sliver of mango. I know it's not enough but my stomach has shriveled to the size of a walnut. And besides, it's difficult to eat anything when you are contemplating cold-blooded murder.

Karsten, to my surprise (and relief, it has to be said) is still with us. However, I can't tell if his maniacal laughter and enthusiastic back-patting is a genuine attempt to galvanize us into a fighting force or he's just gone insane. It's a tough call.

And then we huddle together in the freezing darkness. The hardest night of our lives is about to begin...

Barafu Ridge Camp Altitude: 4,600m (15,000ft)

Neil

Kili 09 Day Seven: Video Highlights

2009-07-08T01:34:37+01:00

Here's a short video to accompany the last blog entry:

Kili 09 Day Seven: Another Rock in the Wall

2009-07-07T02:15:20+01:00

Day 7: June 16th, 2009

The first thing I think about when I wake up this morning is Paul. Thankfully, he's also the first person I clap eyes on as I stagger out of my tent, cursing my thermarest and tripping over my washy-washy bowl.

Paul's recovery is nothing short of miraculous. I can't quite believe that I'm looking at the same person who crawled into his sleeping bag looking like a corpse just a few hours earlier. This morning he's bouncing around like Tigger, eager to please and ready for anything. He also believes that he's Jesus, but we'll skip over that.

Palma, on the other hand, doesn't look happy. Her head cold is in full force today and she's clearly worried about the Barranco Wall that looms ominously behind us. Both Palma and I suffer from vertigo, and this part of the trek has been niggling away at the back of our minds ever since we signed up.

I decide to skip breakfast, nibbling on a pineapple wedge just in case a porter notices and decides to force feed me some porridge. It's a decision that I'll come to regret later.

The Barranco Wall can be deceptive. When you observe it from afar you immediately convince yourself that the only way to scale this 200m obstacle is by clinging to the rock face while your feet dangle precariously over a precipice. In reality, of course, the Barranco Wall is a piece of piss. In fact, all it really entails is walking up a gentle, but very narrow, pathway that zig-zags its way to the top. No technical climbing skills are required, although the odd step is high enough to warrant the occasional scramble. And while there is a bit where you have to cling to a rock as you shimmy around a tight bend (we were told to kiss it for luck), it's fairly tepid stuff.

How the porters do it with all that weight on their heads is a different matter altogether.

That morning, the Barranco Wall is packed with climbers (including those from smaller, independent groups), dozens of guides and close to a hundred porters. The path is incredibly narrow and the only way to let the porters overtake you is to stand aside and hug the rock. As a result it doesn't take very long for the Barranco Wall to resemble a queue for a theme park ride. We spend more time standing around waiting for gaps to open up than we do climbing. I was led to believe that the wall would take approximately 90 minutes to conquer but as we enter our second hour I still can't see the top and my stomach is starting to grumble.

As a result, the Barranco Wall starts to get on my nerves. I'm not the most patient person in the world and I'm eager to get into a rhythm that never comes. Palma, on the other hand, is loving it. In fact, she hopes that summit night will be just like this and I realise that the altitude has finally gotten to her.

When we finally reach the top we are afforded yet another stunning view of Kibo. It almost looks assailable now.

And then we walk. For hours. There aren't any major disasters to report, although Brian does take a tumble and slices his thumb open, but aside from a very steep ascent towards the end, today's trek is pleasantly uneventful.

When we reach Karanga Camp, bathed in mid-afternoon sunshine, everyone is in good spirits. The view is incredible (that rolling sea of clouds never seems to get old) and mobile phone reception is very strong.

Actually, this is a bone of contention for me. It just doesn't feel right. Now don't get me wrong, I can see how regular contact with home would have been of paramount importance for some of our party (especially for people like Palma who had young children) but I would have been happier if we'd been out of contact with the outside world for the whole trek. And while I was happy to talk to my wife every day, I had to force myself never to ask her about anything important that I'd missed at work. I can't get mobile reception on the Castle Eden Walkway, and yet here I am chatting about impending module assessment boards 14,000ft up a mountain. It's just not right.

After dinner, Karsten decides to present his summit night briefing. I can't remember the exact reason why he decided to do it now instead of tomorrow, but at least It will give us a chance to dwell on the gory details for the next 30 hours.

We are told to expect the hardest night (and day) of our lives. We are instructed to draw on the fact that we are doing this for charity and we are being supported by our friends and family back home. Our determination and desire will drive us on, he assures us. We are told to drink in the sunshine when the dawn finally breaks and we are warned about waiting too long at Stella Point before making the final push to Uhuru Peak.

It's a lot to take in but Karsten is clear about one thing: we can all make it.

And I believe him.

Karanga Camp Altitude: 3,900m (12,800ft)

Highest Point reached today: 4,200m (13,800ft)

Neil

Kili 09 Day Six: Video Highlights

2009-07-07T02:14:54+01:00

You know the drill by now. Here's the video to accompany yesterday's blog entry:

Kili 09 Day Six: Dead Man Walking

2009-07-05T22:27:02+01:00

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