Above the clouds

Day 3 Thursday 20 June 2013

The ravens - those ominous black birds with beaks that look like they could rip flesh from bone - have been wandering near the tents, scavenging for food. There are more flying low to the ground, calling. From inside the tent, they sound uncomfortably close.

Once I open the tent flaps and step outside, I can see it is a beautiful day. The mists of the previous night have passed, and both the peaks of Mawenzi and Kibo are clearly visible. I turn round, and, truly, the view is breathtaking.  We are above the clouds. The white billows roll into the distance. It is the sort of scene I've only seen from a plane window before, a snapshot in a small frame. But here we are, as high as an aeroplane, taking in this panorama. Except we've taken the tough option to this other world: one foot after the other.

With the sun out, the air not too cold, I decide this might be a good time to try to wash my hair. I have washed my fringe on the other days, test runs. After this camp, I think we might be too high, too cold for such luxuries as hair washing. So, I give it a go. Sit down, dip head in bowl and splash water all over. Rub in shampoo, and try not to flick it everywhere. That was the easy bit. Now for the rinsing. Our guide takes pity on me and offers to pour the water over my head. It works a treat. Travel towel turban in place, breakfast time!

Have I described our breakfasts? There is the sloppiest porridge you have ever seen, though it tastes better than it looks. Toast, peanut butter. Fruit, eggs, sometimes bacon. The eggs are different from those back in the UK – the yolks are white. Perhaps the hens are fed differently out here.

After the long walk yesterday, today's is shorter. But steeper. And in the heat it feels like a slog. Every few minutes the cry of 'porters' goes up, sometimes with an indication of direction, although as a group we don't seem that good at grasping whether to 'stay left' or if the porters are 'on the left'. The other left, that is.

At our first stop, a few of us need the loo. By now the landscape has changed enough that this is a bit of problem. No trees, no large bushes. Not even any small shrubs. There is a possible looking rock not too far from the path, and, on closer inspection, the litter of tissues behind it suggests others have been here before. It is a bit disconcerting, being within sight of the resting groups. Particularly when one of them includes the rugby players. But everyone seems to have mastered the art of tactfully looking the other way.

Our second stop is after another climb, at a rocky plateau. I feel overwhelmed by tiredness and lie back on my pack on a rock. The others climb up high on to a big rock with a view. The rugby lads are clearly enjoying themselves, and decide it is time for a kickabout, seeing who can get the ball the furthest. Their official photographer takes much better pictures of this than I do. I haven't seen them, but as you can see, mine are pretty bad so I can safely say his will be better.

We continue. By now I am not feeling great and, disconcertingly, my balance has gone AWOL. As we meander into Tarn Camp (c.4,330m), just below Mawenzi, all I want to do is sit. So, this is my first brush with altitude sickness. There's time to rest before lunch, so I lie down in the tent. It's boiling hot inside and it feels like the sun is burning through the roof. My head hurts. Sitting down for lunch in the mess tent an hour later, I feel dizzy and like I can't breathe properly. I try to eat but my appetite has gone. I feel ready to cry. That's not quite true. I'm afraid I do have a cry. Everyone is supportive and sympathetic, someone brings Nurofen. and it turns out that quite a few of us are starting to suffer from altitude sickness: headaches, nausea, loss of appetite. Reassuring, although obviously it'd be nicer if no one was feeling it.

Our acclimatisation walk that afternoon takes us up the peak behind the tarn lake, a stagnant looking pool with green algaed edges. It's a bit of a scramble up the steep path, but there are good views at the top. And back down at camp, breathing already feels easier. That night most people go to bed early, with several members of the group feeling pretty ill. I stay up – by this I mean something in the region of 8pm – and play Uno with a couple of others. I'm going to blame my staggeringly bad play on the altitude sickness.

That night I feel much better although it's difficult to breathe. We've been told to leave the vents on the tent open and to sleep with our heads higher than our feet to help. Up til this point I've been enjoying the trip, but, now it's difficult to breathe and my chest feels tight. I start to wonder what on earth I am doing up here. Is this just going to get worse? Is it wise to spend time at the top of a mountain where there's only half the oxygen you need? Why am I only considering this now, more than halfway up a stupidly high mountain? I wouldn't say it was a full-blown panic, perhaps a mild midnight existential crisis. The sort that, hopefully, has faded into your dreams by the morning.

This is my third post about my trip-of-a-lifetime climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and going on safari in Tanzania. I'm raising money for Water Aid so if you would like to sponsor me, please click here: