Kilimanjaro Lemosho Route: Day 3
Shira Camp to Moir Hut
I woke up queasy, my stomach already in knots. Even the morning hot chocolate didn’t hit. For breakfast I struggled through a banana, toast, a pancake, and some porridge. I joked about what the “over/under” on my oxygen reading would be given how bad I felt—but shockingly, it was my highest of the trip so far: 99! Mom’s came in at 91. We cheered that we were all in the 90s.
Before we set off, the crew sang songs for us! Mom even joined in the dancing, while I filmed. Afterward they introduced themselves one by one. Each had such warmth, such willingness to go above and beyond. The final man introduced himself as the “toilet engineer,” and we gave him an extra loud cheer and bowed to him in gratitude. Seraphin joked that we would sing for them tomorrow. Little did he know, that thought occupied my mind for much of the morning hike.
The early part of the trail felt manageable: mostly flat, with some cool little water crossings. At one break, Seraphin looked at me and asked if I was a doctor. “You look like one.” I still haven’t figured that one out!
But by the next break, things went downhill. Fast. My stomach revolted. Diarrhea hit hard, and by lunch I was doing all I could to force down a few bites of chicken, bread rolls, a spoonful of cilantro soup, fruit, and fries—all at a snail’s pace.
Rain rolled in while we were eating. I dashed to the bathroom one more time before we left, but the next section was steep, rocky climbing. I tried to hold in what I could for as long as I could, convinced I was going to lose it right there on the trail. But there was nowhere to hide! Just scrubby plants and rocks. I unclipped my hip belt to relieve the pressure and clenched with everything I had.
The storm worsened: hail, pouring rain, endless trudging. We really were walking through the clouds now, able to see them shifting and curling all around us. Our group hiked in silence. It was an hour that felt like a lifetime before Seraphin finally called a break. I bolted downhill behind a rock and barely made it in time. Everything was liquid.
We pressed on another 30 minutes through rain and hail before reaching camp. Seraphin mercifully skipped tea time and arranged for an early dinner so we could get some extra rest. I downed water with Imodium and ibuprofen, desperate to calm my system.
The weather toyed with us in the tent. First freezing, then blistering hot when the sun burst through, then back to cold rain in minutes.
Dinner offered new dishes—a different kind of soup and even pizza! But even pizza couldn’t do the trick. I actually cried that I couldn’t eat it. Even plain noodles made me gag. My oxygen plummeted to 84, almost certainly because I couldn’t keep fluids inside my body all day. That was discouraging. I vowed to try a liter of Gatorade with protein to see if it helped.
By bedtime, I’d had two bathroom trips that were only pee—a hopeful sign things might settle. We stepped out for star more photos, then packed into our bags for the night.
Day three was a lesson in endurance, not just of legs and lungs but of stomach and spirit. Kilimanjaro was stripping me down to the essentials: water, grit, and the ability to laugh even when you’re desperate for a toilet.