Kilimanjaro Lemosho Route: Day 5
Baranco Camp to Karanga Camp
We got to sleep in a little, but again this morning my stomach wasn’t having it. Everything coming out of me was liquid. Still, my oxygen surprised me at 92. Mom’s was terrifyingly low at 72 on the first reading—she started crying. Erick ran to get Seraphin, who re-tested her and got 84. Better, but the damage to her confidence was done.
Luckily, my sister had given us a mystery envelope to open on Day 5, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Inside was the story of Jesus and the footprints and a sticker with the quote: “It was then that I carried you.” Mom and I both cried. It was exactly what we needed for the day ahead.
Breakfast was a disaster for me. I gagged on the eggs, forced down almost nothing, and had another liquid bowel movement before we set off at 9 a.m. Mom was still teary-eyed, so Seraphin offered to carry her pack. She resisted at first, but eventually gave in, thank God.
The Barranco Wall
Climbing the Barranco Wall was tricky, but in ways I loved: scrambling, using hands and feet, focusing on each move. My feet, though, felt like bricks. Every step drained me.
On the final tricky section, we came up behind the red-bearded guy we’d chatted football with earlier in the trip, and his friend Pat—who was literally coughing up blood. They asked how we were doing, and Mom said cheerfully, “I was off this morning but I’m good now. I always start rough and then get into the groove!”
That’s when their guide—an Irish guy Sue and I had side-eyed days earlier—jumped in: “Do you have a descent plan?” Mom looked confused. I cut in: “We summit, then we descend.” He launched into a lecture about how if it took us 3.5 hours to reach that point (we started an hour later than everyone else…so it was actually 2.5), we’d never survive summit night, and should turn back. Seraphin looked shell-shocked.
Mom quipped, “Well, I’m not coughing up blood, so I think I’m okay.” We passed them and kept moving.
When we were finally out of earshot, Seraphin turned to Mom: “Do not listen to him.” Mom nodded. “I trust you and Erick.” Still, though, the seed was planted.
At the top of the wall, I vented: “What the hell was that?” Seraphin just shook his head. “I bet HE hasn’t climbed Kilimanjaro 350 times [like Seraphin],” I muttered. Seraphin laughed. Erick smirked, “Maybe 14!”
We speculated the guide was angling to split the cost of a med-evac with Pat. Either way, I knew one thing: we weren’t rushing, we weren’t coughing up blood, and we weren’t done.
Rain, Valleys, and Slips
The clouds rolled in as we snacked at the top, and the typical afternoon rain we’d grown accustomed to, began. Pat and his group blew past us without rain gear, and I shook my head. Later, as we descended into a massive valley, we passed porters from their company heading the opposite direction. Rescue team, no doubt.
The descent was slippery and exhausting. Seraphin even slipped once, still carrying Mom’s backpack on top of his. The climb back up the opposite side nearly broke Mom. Her legs were shaking and without her pack to drink from regularly, she lacked hydration. On the contrary, I was actually finding that when the trail was just an incline (not like the big rock steps of the wall), I could go into a place of zen meditation in a way I’ve never been able to do before.
But we made it to Karanga eventually, slow and steady. Mom tearfully thanked Seraphin for his help that day. “I saw Jesus in your eyes today.” He nodded in his quiet way, then whispered to me, “Make sure she eats.”
Lunch was chicken wings, watermelon, oranges, cilantro soup (ugh), fries, and veggies. Mom did better than me this time. I made her eat a few more bites of veggies before letting her crash. I set up her duffel and sleeping bag while she peed, then finally took a turn in the toilet myself (in case you’re keeping count).
The sun hit the tent to warm it just long enough for us to strip down and give ourselves a luxurious mountain bath (baby wipes), and we napped and relaxed until dinner.
When we heard later that Pat had been stretchered up that final ridge, my heart ached for him. Shortly after, the sound of a helicopter buzzed over camp. We watched as he climbed in under his own power and my gratitude for Seraphin and Erick deepened. Their patience and pace were saving us. As Seraphin once said, “You pay for eight days; why rush?”
Seraphin came in afterward, furious at the other guide. “He made me very angry. I believe you can do this.” He reassured us: no more “climbing like mountain goats” tomorrow. Just a steady march to Kosovo Camp before the summit push.
But dinner was tough for all of us. Different soup (thank God), rice, veggies. I forced it down slowly, saving my watermelon as a reward for each bite. Mom’s oxygen was back up to 91, mine 92. A good sign.
The crew brought us hot water bottles again. I curled up warm in my bag, heart pounding at the thought of what lay ahead. Summit night was coming.