Kilimanjaro Lemosho Route: Day 6
Karanga Camp to Kosovo Camp
The peak loomed so close this morning it felt like I could reach out and touch it. Breakfast was the usual spread, but I skipped the egg and porridge. My stomach had no interest.
The climb out of Karanga started steady, up to the top of a ridge where we stopped for a break. From there, we could see Barafu Camp’s tents across the valley. I felt a surge of hope, like maybe we were almost there. But if I hadn’t learned it by now, I should have: on Kilimanjaro, “almost there” usually means hours away.
The drizzle started, and Erick gave a quick nod. We scrambled into waterproofs just in time. The drizzle turned to sleet, then hard snow.
The valley crossing was flat and volcanic, easy enough, but the other side was another rocky wall. I thought surely the top would be Barafu. Nope.
We climbed through a tricky, slick section that had me grateful ClimbKili schedules it by daylight rather than summit night. Even in the sun, it was dicey. In the dark? Forget it.
Eventually, we reached the Barafu Camp sign. I groaned—still not our camp. Another scramble of rocks, Mom struggled so much that Erick had to literally lift her up by the arms in spots. The wind whipped, the snow stung our faces, and fog pressed in so thick we could barely see 15 feet ahead.
This was really my first moment of true doubt. I was about ready to mutter, “There’s no way I can do this,” when a faint outline of a tent appeared through the mist, followed by voices. Relief washed over me.
We finally staggered into Kosovo Camp around 1:30 p.m. Lunch came right away—no soup today! Potato stew instead, and it was glorious. I ate two full bowls, trying to bank fuel for what lay ahead. After a quick bit of organizing, I took my meds and passed out.
Emmanuel woke us around 5 p.m. for dinner: pasta with veggies and mushrooms. None of us touched the mushrooms. Seraphin laughed, “So next time no mushrooms?” He admitted he didn’t like them either, but then tattled to Ewalodi that we didn’t eat them. Typical! I could tell he was just trying to keep the mood lighter before summit night, but it only helped for just a moment.
It was time for the summit briefing. His advice: wear all your layers— always better to shed than to freeze. My oxygen that night was 89. Not terrible, but not overly reassuring either (though I would realize after the fact that this was above average).
Back in the tent, we tried to rest, but Mom rustled through her duffel for what felt like forever, zipping and unzipping while the camp crew chattered outside. My nerves buzzed, my patience frayed. Summit night was here. Sleep or no sleep, it’s time.