Tilman's 1933 Climb of Kili




Excerpts from
 

SNOW ON THE EQUATOR
                                                                         by W.H. Tilman


CHAPTER TWELVE

Kilimanjaro Alone


'For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.'
             - Milton
 

    FEELING not much sadder and very little wiser after our experiences, we returned together to the Sotik, D. to his farm and myself for a few days' rest and relaxation, while deciding on my next move. During this visit a gymkhana took place in which, for my sins, I was given a ride in the big race. The distance was one and a half miles, and as we entered the straight a herd of oxen strayed on to the course. The rest of the field passed in safety, but I was not so fortunate. My mount, lying last and galloping full split, hit one broadside on, and I was catapulted over the horse's head. I slid along on my face several yards, 'biting the dust' in a very literal fashion - bit it to such a purpose, in fact, that most of my teeth were unshipped.
     With a very sore mouth, and hardly able to talk intelligibly, I fled to Nairobi, and left again almost at once for Kilimanjaro. There were several reasons for this, chief among them being, perhaps, the temporary shortage of teeth and some diffidence about appearing in public, but also a desire for a return match with this mountain, for it will be remembered that in 1930 we did not accomplish all that we should have done. At the risk of perhaps needless repetition, it is advisable to mention again that the summit of Kibo, which is the main peak of Kilimanjaro, consists of an ice-filled crater some 800 yards in diameter divided in the middle by a low ridge running east and west. The rim of the crater is the actual top of the mountain, the highest point on this long circular wall lying on the south side and named Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze. Between the point at which the crater wall is first reached and this highest point, a distance of perhaps 600 or 700 yards, are three other peaks, points, or bumps of varying heights, all slightly lower than Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze itself. These several points were always the cause of much heartburning.
   In appearance they are all very similar, and in thick weather or soft snow the climber is quite happy to stop at the first, second, or third reached, on the false assumption that that is the summit. In 1930 we had to contend with both these handicaps, so, when the mist prevented us from seeing any point higher than the one on which we stood, we were satisfied with what we had done -- the more so because we had not breath or energy for any more. Since that time a newly formed Mountain Club, with good intentions but with deplorable taste, has removed what little difficulty (and therefore fun) there was to be had by labelling each point with a small iron name-plate. so that the weary aspirant has no longer any adequate excuse for self-deception.
    At each of these name-plates there is a receptacle of some kind for records, so that for the conscientious mountaineer on Kibo a card-case is a necessity. It was the omission to leave our full quota of cards in 1930 that I now wished to repair. As S. was not available, I had to go alone, and although solitary climbing is not in accordance with sound mountaineering practice, Kilimanjaro is, perhaps, a mountain where this vice can be indulged in with more safety than usual. There are no technical climbing difficulties apart from those consequent on the great altitude, while it is well provided with huts. A new one has been built at 16,000 feet, the jumping-off place for the summit, and to this it is possible to take a heavily laden caravan of porters. In 1930 we took a donkey there. All this extraneous assistance hardly gives the mountain a fair chance, so this time I decided to dispense with at least some of it and to carry what I wanted myself. I suppose, to be logical, I should have sternly avoided the huts, but I was content to follow the very sound maxim of the ancients: 'Nothing in excess'. With a companion it might have been rather different, for discomfort can be borne with greater equanimity if shared by others.
     Leaving Nairobi by car, in August, I found the road less rough and the  plains greener than when we drove this way in 1930. My first objective was a  place called Namanga, about 100 miles from Nairobi, whither I had been  commissioned to take a new driving pinion for the back axle of a car whose  owner was stranded there. Namanga has usurped the place of Longido as a  halting-place on the way to Tanganyika, for there is a comfortable rest-house  there which is much patronised. One of the advertised attractions for visitors  is a close view of a herd of elephants which haunts some neighbouring bush.  For large parties it is advisable to reserve accommodation, and, since there is  no mail or telegraph service to Namanga, this is done by means of the nightly  broadcast from Nairobi wireless station. If the visitors desire to see elephants,  this request is usually included, so that the message heard after the nine  o'clock news may run something like this: 'Manager Namanga rest-house.  Party of six arriving tomorrow. Elephants required.'
      I got there about four o'clock and found my stranded motorist. He was on   his way to the coast for a fortnight's holiday, but four days of it had already   been passed here, so that even the elephants had begun to pall. He was all   joy, like a prisoner who has been reprieved, when he heard I had something   for him. I handed over the spare part amidst an embarrassing accompaniment   of compliments and thanks for a very trivial service. I went in for a cup of tea   while the castaway wrestled with his back axle, and, on coming out again,   perceived at once that all was far from well. Curses and lamentations filled the   air, and I was soon told with excusable heat and emphasis that the part I had   brought did not fit the car. I was not to be blamed for that, but as 'the first  bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office~, and as I could see that my presence at Namanga that night would be like an irritant in the wound, I pushed on. Driving slowly onwards in the darkness until about eight o'clock, I eventually came to some natives camped by the roadside round a large fire. Since I was to sleep out, one place was as good as another, so, pulling the car off the road, I got them to boil some water for tea and then curled up to sleep in the box-body of the car.
    My load was quite heavy enough for me, weighing some 40 lbs. - a weight that did not include that of a tent which I had wanted to take in order to spend a night on the top. The weather was bad. A fine rain fell, while higher up the mountain was shrouded in mist. Showers of water dripped from every branch, so that it was not long before I reached the comparatively happy state of being unable to get any wetter. It is the long-drawn-out process of getting wet that is unpleasant, and when saturation point is reached one ceases to care. Approaching Bismarck Hut, one passes through grass glades, where the path was faintly marked and much confused by numerous elephant tracks. For ten panicky minutes I was astray and completely at a loss, and, in view of my earlier scorn for huts, it was astonishing how anxious I was to find one, how relieved when I did.
    As I reached it in good time - at one o'clock - I had the whole afternoon to collect fuel and dry clothes. Next day was a repetition of the first - mist and rain - but once clear of the forest there was little difficulty in sticking to the path. This mounts by what the French guide-books call une pente insensible, but at that height, carrying a heavy load, I was by no means insensible of it.
    There was a sharp frost that night at Peters's Hut, giving promise of better things to come, and, soon after leaving the hut next morning, I passed out of the mist and cloud below and emerged into blazing sunshine under a cloudless blue sky. The height was 13,000 feet.
    Approaching the 'saddle' at nearly 16,000 feet, I saw a herd of twenty-seven eland. These are the largest of all the antelopes; they weigh as much as 1,000 lbs. and the meat is very tender and juicy. Both sexes are horned, those of a bull averaging 25 inches, and they stand five to six feet high at the shoulder. They are so gentle by nature that they can be domesticated, and in one instance at least have been trained for draught purposes. Butter made from eland's milk is said to be of exceptional quality. Their normal habitat is the open plains at heights of 5,000 feet to 6,000 feet, but so far as one could tell the eland up on the 'saddle' at 16,000 feet were in no way different, except for apparently shaggier hair. This particular herd seemed to be subsisting very   happily on a diet of little more than shale, and were very shy.
    Looking at the two peaks of Kibo and Mawenzi and recalling our visit of 1930, I was amazed to see the very striking difference in conditions which now prevailed. The present year of 1933 had been an exceptionally dry one throughout East Africa, so that the snow on Kibo scarcely descended further than Leopard's Point, just below the lip of the crater. Mawenzi was completely bare of snow. The steep snow gully up which we had kicked steps was rust-red rock, with the result that neither as a climb nor as a peak did it look so attractive as when draped in snow and ice.
    The local Mountain Club, which has marked Kibo's hoary head with tin insults, has done the mountain a further disservice by building a new hut a few hundred feet above the Hans Meyer Caves. It seemed to me that camping out for the sake of camping was neither useful nor beneficial, and, as there was a roof available, pointless. Backed by such specious reasoning, by the well- remembered draughtiness of the caves, and hoping to mortify the flesh next night by sleeping on the top, I condescended to make use of the hut. Near it there was another herd of eland, and if only the Mountain Club would domesticate these, and supply the hut with milk and butter, nothing would be wanting to the improvement of Kilimanjaro but a motor road.
    The unusual absence of snow on the lower slopes made it difficult to find water. I had to search in nooks and crannies of the rocks above the caves before I could scrape together enough old snow for my wants. Next morning, carrying a light load consisting of sleeping-bag and two days' food, I started for the top before sunrise - at about half past five. In normal years the snow lies as low as 17,000 feet, but now I toiled up loose scree until Leopard's Point, just below the crater rim, was reached. Leopard's Point is a little rocky knoll on top of which lies the desiccated remains of a leopard. I have never heard any explanation of how it came to be there, but presumably it went up of its own volition. A similar curiosity is the buffalo skeleton high up on Kenya, but that lies at a place nearly 3,000 feet lower than the leopard on Kibo.
     It was delightful weather here, clear, sunny, windless. Below, at the 12,000  feet level, was a billowing sea of cloud which broke against the mountain,  sending up wisps of mist like spray, which were in turn quickly dispersed by  the sun. I seemed to be alone on an island detached from the world, floating  in space on a sea of cloud.
    The crater wall was gained at about 19,000 feet without any difficulty,  under conditions much different from those of my first visit. The snow was  hard and not even continuous, for in places it had melted away, leaving the  bare rock exposed, while the whole of the crater, the rim and its several  'peaks', lay clear and glistening in the vivid light. I looked down a short, easy  snow-slope to the flat snow-covered floor of the crater, and across to the  opposite wall half a mile away. Now begins the slow and arduous  perambulation of the rim, passing over the sequence of 'bumps' - they are  really little more - each honoured with the name of 'point'. In the order  reached they are Gillman Stella (our furthest in 1930), Hans Meyer, Kaiser  Wilhelm Spitze (the true summit), and one beyond it called Furtwfingler.  Taken together, the names, with one exception, provide an awful example of what mountains have to suffer in the way of nomenclature. I have not discovered who Gillman was; Hans Meyer, who was the first to climb the mountain, deserves to be remembered, but whether that can be said of the fourth name is open to doubt. Furtw~ingler, I am told, was the first to use skis on Kibo.
    The earnest mountaineer sheds a card at each, and at Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze, which I reached at midday, there is a receptacle for records somewhat resembling, and almost as big as, a deed-box. In this are a miscellany of personal records, a Union Jack, and a Bible. Records can be found on all the points if the trouble to search for them in the snow is taken. There are few who would not take this trouble, for, however much one may despise the custom of leaving one's name on a mountain, it is at any rate one which furnishes an ever welcome excuse for a rest.
    Furtwfingler is about one hundred yards beyond the summit, and at first seemed higher, but a change of view-point showed it to be obviously lower. I sat there for some time, enjoying the sense of aloofness which the dense curtain of cloud below gave me, but the mist now began to prevail in its battle with the sun, which was presently hidden by a veil. No longer had it the power to disperse the upshooting jets torn from clouds as they broke against the mountain, and these, gradually coalescing, produced a slight but persistent fall of sleet.
   Descending one or two hundred feet of snow and rock on the inner slope of the rim, I reached the crater floor and began casting about for a place in which to spend the night. A rather inadequately overhanging rock was soon found, and, having dumped my sack there, I walked across to the north side of the crater to inspect a secondary and very perfectly formed crater. At the top the diameter was about 400 yards across, at the bottom 200 yards. Sulphurous fumes rose from the lip, and pieces of sulphur lay about.
    After taking photos and collecting some of the sulphur, I returned to the bivouac to turn in about 4.30, after a little food had been forced down. I was beginning to feel the effects of altitude, and suffered slightly from nausea and lassitude, but it was very noticeable that these symptoms were not nearly so well marked as in 1930, substantiating the well-known fact that acclimatisation is retained to a certain degree over long periods. In 1930 1 was sick at 17,000 feet, sick most of the way up, and on top suffered from excessive willingness to sit down, whereas this time it was only after some hours on top (having also carried a load there) that I felt there was a remote possibility of losing my breakfast, but actually did not.
    As soon as the sun sank behind the western wall, which it did quite early, and a thin wind began stirring, the deficiencies of my bivouac became apparent. I built a low stone wall to break the force of the wind, but wind is like water, and, though an imperfect barrier may check the ingress of some, that which enters spurts through with redoubled force. However, the night passed sufficiently well, half sleeping, half shivering, without complaint, for it would be unbecoming to criticise the hospitality of the mountain after sneering at that offered by man.
    Dawn, nevertheless, was very welcome. I rose, cold and stiff, packed up, and crossed the crater floor in the direction of Leopard's Point. In places the snow in the crater had assumed a most curious formation, standing up in thin sheets like the leaves of a book lying open on its back. Each leaf was about six inches apart, and two feet high, and was too fragile to support the book. They had to be broken down before solid footing was reached.
    This formation appears to have some affinity with the nieves penitentes, or 'snow penitents', of the Andes; so called from a supposed resemblance to cowled Penitent Friars. The name would have no sense if applied to the Kilimanjaro formation, but in the Andes, where it consists of fields of cones or pyramids of snow set close beside each other, slightly hooked at the top, and four or five feet in height, the name is more applicable. In his book The Highest Andes, Fitzgerald says the effect is produced by the combined action of sun and wind upon the frozen mass of snow-field, the crystalline parts, upon which the sun has little melting power, remaining erect in this strange fashion. I believe that no really satisfactory explanation for this phenomenon has yet been given, but it seems probable that since this formation is seen only in snow found within the tropics it may be due to the peculiar effects of a vertical, or almost vertical, sun. The great ice pinnacles found on Himalayan glaciers is another formation for which it is not easy to account.
     Romping down the slope from Leopard's Point was a pleasant change, and,  arriving at the top hut about eight, I had breakfast there before pushing on to  Peters's, where the night was spent. Lunch next day was eaten at Marungu  with mine host, who was with difficulty convinced of the fact that thirty hours  ago I had been on the summit.
     Hoping to reach Nairobi in the day, I made an early start, and, soon after  leaving Marungu, passed my stranded motorist of Namanga. He was still on  his way to the coast to enjoy the three remaining days of his fortnight's  holiday.
     I failed to reach Nairobi, and spent the night in the car in the middle of the  Game Reserve. As I sat at dusk by the fire, listening to the mournful cry of a  hyena, the rays of a sun, which for me had already set, picked out, high up in  a darkening sky, Kilbo's snowy dome.