Kilimanjaro, Gasp by Gasp

Slowly, swinging the collapsible trekking poles thatlike the Masaiwe were never without, we crept up a trail of numbers: 13,000 feet, 15,000, up to 17,000 on one breathless morning and then back down to a safer sleeping altitude. We were beginning to kiss the toes of the summit itself, giving our bodies little tastes of the strange new demands we were putting on them.

The mountain, meanwhile, increased its tests, reminding us to be careful of our health, strength and attitude. We constantly fine-tuned our aches and rumbles from the movable pharmacy brought by Michael Teixido, a physician from Delaware. We ate well at lavish dinners of chicken, stews and pasta, served with rough elegance in the green mess tent. We slept, sometimes fitfully, in tents we found already pitched when we arrived in camp, waking to cups of "bed tea" brought soon after dawn. We began to finish one another's jokes about the crude latrines, guess one another's preferences at tableall the shortcuts of fast friendship. We shared equipment, confided fears, watched one another for signs of sunburn and sickness. We were ready to summit.

Climbing to the top of Kilimanjaro from a 15,000-foot base camp is like mounting the stairs of a 500-story skyscraper with a sock in your mouth and a clothespin on your nose. There is just no air. After a midnight breakfast, we set out with four guides (the extras needed to escort down sick or injured climbers).

We walkslowly, slowlywith a silent intensity, a line of bobbing headlamps in the night. Charles Moerbe has been vomiting. His Texas pal John Joseph, a competitive runner, can't catch his breath no matter how slowly he walks. Michael Tsia, a sportswriter from Honolulu, admits to nausea and a sharp headache. I feel healthy, but after just an hour fatigue has a firm grip on my ankles.

Hours later, when the sun comes up, I'm only on the 400th floor of that 500-story building. I'm supposed to be at the top for dawn. But when I look up, I know in that instant that this day's sun won't be casting my shadow across the peak of Kilimanjaro.

I lean against a rock, waiting for a recovery that's not possible at 19,000 feet. Two guides from another party appear, supporting a climber down the slopea fit-looking young man, now pale and frightened, clearly suffering from the altitude. He too will go home to report failure. As the light grows, I see George Norcrossanother Hawaiian, our strongest hikermaking steady progress. He'll make it. He'll have a great story to tell. Mine will always carry an asterisk, a defensive explanation. I had to quit.

Or do I? After 15 minutes of rest I'm beginning to freeze, but I also feel the first flush of defiance against my failing will. I see Michael Tsia, upright in spite of his nausea. John Joseph is twice my age and can barely breathe, but there he is, baby-stepping upward. He and Moerbe have printed greetings to their grandsons that they are determined to photograph at the top. Michael Teixido is beside him, giving both medical and moral support.

If they were strangers, these five tourists would be no example for me. But over six days of shared adventure, they are now my friendsand more. We were group tourists, but we call ourselves a team. And through the pain of exhaustion I begin to believe that.

With a grunt that is half groan, half profanity, I force myself away from the rock. My heart starts jackhammering in my ears, but I fix my eyes on my boot toes and begin a glacial shuffle up the trail. This time, I never look up.

I made it, three hours later. We all did.

Sweat Scale: 5. All sweat, no shower.

Genuine Danger: 4. The worst need not happen, but does.