Memories of a journey: Climbing Kilimanjaro

This is the personal account of a journey of a lifetime by two Columbian lawyers, Louise-Helena and best friend, Adriana.

I want to share this journey because it was extraordinary, and because I want us to enjoy it together. By sharing it, it becomes our memory—and in that way, we can imagine having walked it side by side. All mountains are one and the same. Within them, they hold all the worlds. Climbing a mountain, then, is like traveling to the centre of the universe itself—which is the heart of God, nestled within each of us.

Setting the intention

If a garden begins with a seed, climbing the highest mountain in Africa (and the tallest freestanding mountain in the world) begins with a song that I’m sharing here. Unlike the offerings of the master-mads that flood the present-day airwaves, this song has lyrics that are deep and moving. The seed was planted in me like a personal Shangri-La—an impossible paradise that becomes more reachable the more it is spoken into being.

From seed to pilgrimage

Life kept unfolding—children came, work, studies—and yet the seed of desire kept incubating and expanding. I spoke about it with my friend Adriana when we were both approaching 40. “One day we'll go,” we said, like people who know deep down they never really will. “Yes! For our 40th birthday!”

But as everyone must fulfill their destiny, the seed began to sprout. The longing—and with it the foolish belief that reaching the summit was possible—started resonating more and more strongly between us. We had once walked together as pilgrims on another expedition—the legendary Camino de Santiago—which transformed us into true companions of the road. It was there that we understood that life itself is a short path, but a wide one.

Seven years later, just after I turned 40 and she was 47, the seed blossomed. The journey that had never quite materialized began to take shape: first in our imaginations, then through conversations with our husbands, then on the computer. And finally, our boots were ready to take all the steps needed.

Preparing Body, mind and spirit

Physically, we trained for six months—at the gym, visiting nearby mountains, listening to our bodies and gently conditioning them for the trek ahead. We prepared ourselves to camp across all thermal zones and through a full range of climates, from humid forest at 25°C to alpine desert and the glacial cold of perpetual snow.

The spirit also has to be willing. Climbing Kilimanjaro is not merely a physical activity. I firmly believe that every mountain is a temple of God. There, creation becomes visible, and one experiences childlike wonder, freedom, and a sense of safety that only God can bring. The mountain demands a lot, but it gives back even more—far more than what you offer. That’s why I see it as something divine. Its silence is solemn, not empty like the silence of the city, but creative and full of life. Connection with the Almighty is more accessible in that state of gratitude while observing the immensity of Earth.

Perhaps the hardest part to train was the mind—because you have to convince it to be still, to see clearly through truth and illusion. The mind, so used to an artificial rhythm of life, to fake news, to torrents of useless information, to constant noise—it expected to feel full in the silence, and instead found itself deeply uncomfortable.

Arriving in Tanzania, and entering the Kilimanjaro National park through Machame gate

With body, mind, and spirit aligned, we set off—via Ethiopia—toward Tanzania, ready for that seed to bear fruit. Tanzania, like Kenya, felt very much like Colombia. The familiar tropical landscapes put my subconscious at ease, and I felt calm.

Moshi welcomed us with its rice paddies and wild figs, its blue monkeys, rice fields irrigated by glacial water, dragonflies and herons. And so, without too much rush, we slowly entered this adventure—one that would be written step by step.

We entered through the Machame Gate, surrounded by dense mist, deep green foliage, and a sense of expectation. We began the seven-day trek, confident that our prior preparation would carry us to the very last mile.

My first surprise? Instead of the forest's silence, we encountered people blasting music at full volume—some thinking a sacred mountain is best appreciated with blaring speakers and the most infernal tunes possible. We let them pass. I covered my ears, looked up at the sky, thinking of the frightened birds and the concept of art. The hikers seemed to enjoy those endlessly repeated beats—so basic that even a randomly played drum could've produced more complex melodies.

I looked at the tiny, intricate flowers. The ferns. The vast forest veiled in mist. “Will they quiet down a little?” I thought. They walked by, and I reflected on how many different things feed the human soul. That unwelcome music, for example, delighted those carrying it in their backpacks. The miniature flowers delighted me. Everyone finds their own joy somehow.

First steps and Day 1 in the bag

0 kilometers in—we’re getting close. Drizzle falls as the slope steepens. The deep green gives way to silvery gray. “When are we going to get there?” I asked. “The first day on the Machame Route is always long,” they answered. 14 kilometers—almost there. Just 500 more meters, and at last we reached the camp.

A persistent, feathery rain kept falling. The ground was muddy, but in our tent a small table with hot tea awaited us—a cozy, sufficient refuge. We had a “Czech shower” with large basins of warm water they brought us. What a tremendous feeling of comfort! Dinner had been prepared just for us. Our bodies begged for rest. I fell asleep like a lump of lead—ten hours straight. I woke up nearly brand-new, with the deep satisfaction of having conquered day one.

Day 2 Into the clouds

 It’s fewer kilometers, but the quid is that the incline is much steeper, with slippery rocks. By 10 a.m., I’m already exhausted, and looking up reveals nothing—just a wall of stone and sky. I trudge on, step by step, dragging what feels like giant iron balls tied to my feet. At noon, I finally “wake up” for real. I begin to smell the mist. We are in the clouds, among the clouds. We are part of the clouds. What a magical realization.

We keep climbing. It rains. We pull out our rain gear. It pours harder. Our pace slows to avoid slipping. Hours pass, one short step at a time. We pause to catch our breath and snap a photo. Then move on. There are ravens. Not like the ones back home—with white chests—but with only a white ring around their necks. They have large nasal openings in their beaks and stare at us without fear or respect. They know we carry food and they’ll get their share. They wait, surround us, leap into the clouds and return. We continue. The rain persists. We’re getting close. There’s a waterfall—a glacial source. Clear, brilliant water near a cave entrance. We drink, take photos. A rejuvenating pause.

A muddy patch marks the campsite where our tent sits like an oasis. We’ve reached Shira Camp. Our boots are miraculously dry—thank God—and a hot dinner revives us from the hard hike.

The landscape is breathtaking. Pure magical realism. I make a mental note to observe more closely—because in the effort of every step, I risk missing the astonishing details around me. I start to succeed. I’m moved by the rewards of observation. I thank the mountain for opening its secrets to my gaze. And I ask for a rainbow—I know I will see one.

Day 3.  Sunlight, Altitude and Awe

Today is for acclimatising to higher altitude, but we’re welcomed by the old sun shining over a flawless blue morning. The path is less steep today. We see the summit in the distance—still far, but visible. It’s impossible not to feel awestruck. The landscape is so stunning, it takes my breath away—not just from the altitude, but from sheer beauty.

We’ve entered a new thermal zone. Volcanic stones in earthy tones—neither quite brown nor gray—begin to dominate. We’re almost halfway. I’m filled with optimism, and that spirit makes me want to photograph everything. I want to document it right then and there, becoming part of the whole. I take many pictures. I walk barefoot, like one does on holy ground. I have photos taken of me. I breathe deeply. I sit in lotus pose. I need nothing more.

As midday approaches, we near the first major milestone: Lava Camp, at 4600 meters above sea level. Clouds claim the sky, and it’s time to unpack our first true sub-zero gear. The fog is dense—very dense—and that density gives everything a nostalgic air. It begins to rain—but I don’t get wet. The drops hit my hood with a dull thud. It’s not rain. It’s snow.

Amid the excitement and concern about snow accumulation, I announce: It’s snowing! I want to see crystal-shaped flakes like Christmas ornaments. But we keep walking—we can’t stop or we’ll freeze. More flakes fall. I pull on my gloves and try to catch snowflakes on the fleece, but they’re just little white balls that melt on contact.

There’s a large cliff and a gentle slope. We arrive. Hurrah—time for lunch.

I eat ravenously and with joy. Too late, I realize that overeating at this altitude is not wise—there’s pressure, and it compresses the diaphragm. I loosen my belt a bit and instantly feel better. I sip coca tea to ease it.

The fog is so dense that everything looks like a dark brown haze. We can’t see the crater. Some fellow hikers are feeling sick. I don’t feel symptoms, beyond overfilling my stomach and a mysterious pressure on my chest.

My friend laments that the clouds are blocking the view of the volcano. She says if we’d started earlier, it wouldn’t have clouded over. I hold back my theory about destiny's flow—that what is meant for you will find you whenever you arrive—and sheepishly agree with her. I can see she is not in the mood for theories.

Then the miracle happens. The clouds clear.

The volcano reveals itself, bare and magnificent. We admire it. We document it. The wind blows ferociously. We move on.

We’ll descend nearly 800 meters tonight to sleep at 3900, giving the body time to adjust and strengthen. Our companions crack jokes, exchange glances, breathe.

Traveling with a friend is great—but traveling with a friend who is experienced, strong, serene, wise, good in conversation and in silence, and completely different from you in biorhythm and worldview? That’s immeasurably better.

Day 4. Between Heaven and Rock: The Threshold Before the Summit 

We’re well past the halfway mark, and it’s starting to feel like this is a test we’re going to pass. We begin our climb toward the transition camp: Karanga. Leaving Barranco, we quickly learn why it’s named that (Barranco means Cliff in Spanish)—the climb is all hands and feet, nearly a scramble, steep but fun. The guide shows us where to place our hands and boots. He cheers us on. We climb nearly 3 km like this. This is longer than Table Mountain and it is only a section of the day. Yikes.

The sun blazes, almost white in its intensity. The goal is to look only upward—don’t glance down, or the abyss might call to you. Through the clouds, we reach a plateau, where a table with an orange checkered cloth, hot tea, and a glacier in the distance welcomes us. The glacier’s cold breath already brushes our cheeks—it means the moment of truth is near.

On the way to Karanga—visible yet deceptively distant—we spot many sunbirds, more lobelias, and vegetation suited to these heights. Everything is minty greenish yellow. Fewer ravens now. A few wild mice. And a landscape that fills us with hope.

The sun allows us to dry the clothes soaked by rain two days ago. We lay out our sleeping bags, heavy with frozen dew each morning. I also charge my solar battery and take the chance to do a headstand, walk barefoot, and salute the sun as it sets. We must rest well, because tomorrow is the most demanding day.

Day 5. The Promise Before the Summit 

On our way to Barafu Camp (“barafu” means ice in KiSwahili), which is the base camp. We're told that once we arrive, we’ll have lunch, sleep for a few hours, and then—when night falls—we’ll wake up, eat, try to sleep a little more, and finally begin our ascent at 11 PM toward the summit.

It doesn’t sound too dramatic at first, and we start on a bright morning. Then a cloud rolls in and suddenly, behind me—comes the rainbow. My feeling of triumph is indescribable. I hadn’t forgotten! The rainbow is a promise God always fulfills. I feel like a million dollars. Pure joy.

Barafu is at 4800 meters. Each day, we’ve climbed about 800–1000 meters. But from Barafu to the summit, we’ll gain 1895 meters in one push, over seven hours. We’re advised to hydrate well and wear our warmest gear.

The frigid wind intensifies, but inside the tent, it’s bearable at midday. I close my eyes and fall into a heavy, though not especially restful, sleep—there’s too much noise outside and too many vivid dreams.

At 5 PM, they wake us for dinner. We eat whatever our stomachs allow, then return to try sleeping, already dressed for the night’s journey. It is cold—so cold I can’t sleep because my feet feel like ice blocks. I curl up, flip over, but nothing helps. I glance at my watch: one minute to ten. I didn’t sleep. That’s a problem. I hope my body draws on the rest I got earlier in the afternoon.

We began walking at 11 PM. Full moon. The headlamp I wore was too strong and started triggering a migraine. I turned it off. The guide asked me to turn it back on. I said no.

We pressed on. My companion struggled to breathe under all her layers and removed one. Her breath crystallized in the air. Ice formed on the part of her nose exposed to the cold. I asked how she was doing, and as always, she answered, “I’m fine.”

Day 6 Where Silence Becomes Melody: Summit Step by Frozen Step

Midnight. We’d taken a thousand steps toward the summit—still far away, but also far from camp. Two hours had passed. The moonlight revealed how slowly we were going—others who’d left later were already overtaking us. But only a few steps later, I saw people turning back: vomiting, falling asleep, collapsing. I congratulated myself for still being upright.

I took stock of my body. Nothing missing. I felt cold, but not frozen—though despite my mountaineering socks, it felt like I was walking barefoot on the glacier. We paused for tea. The moment we stopped, the biting wind returned. I looked around—just brilliant snow everywhere. I couldn’t make out the trail anymore. Temperatures had dropped further since we’d begun.

The once-magical landscape now looked desolate. In the far distance, city lights flickered like fireflies in another universe. But here and now, there was nothing but biting air—burning the exposed skin of my nose. Yet I couldn’t cover it—I felt like I’d suffocate if I put on my balaclava. I spent 45 minutes trying to find my rhythm of breath.

Snow covered everything. I couldn’t tell where we were. A frozen desert. The temperature kept dropping. The moon began its slow descent westward.

I didn’t bother asking the time. Though the moonlight was comforting—a glorious lunar bath—the darkness consumed us. The silence was total. No light. No air. No horizon. No familiar sounds from nature. It was maddening.

I thought about singing—but I didn’t have the breath. So I stared at my boots and sang silently in my head. Eventually, the songs broke free, like floodgates opening.

First, church hymns with repetitive rhythms: “Jeeeesus Christ, Jeeeesus Christ, Jeeeesus Christ, I am here…” Then Ana Torroja: “Only eternal snows in the Antaaaaaaarcticaaaa…” Carlos Vives showed up too: “I’ve walked many roads, sought a thousand treaaaasures…” Then one from my first communion cassette: “Rise up and have faith—the victory is yours; you can’t looooose!”

I don’t know how long I stayed in that loop, but soon we paused again. It must’ve been past three. I was exhausted, frozen, heavy, totally disoriented. My eyes stung—I couldn’t tell if they were open or shut.

The guide noticed and had us eat energy bars. My jaw hurt just trying to bite one. But the moment the sweet matter hit my throat, I felt a surge—just enough to pull my glove back on and keep myself from dozing off mid-step.

New songs arrived—of course, the Kilimanjaro one: “I’m sitting at the top of

Kilimanjaro… I can see a new tomorrow…”

I looked at Adriana—was she turning purple, or was it the darkness? Her lips were frosted. She said she was very cold. I didn’t believe her—she’s the iron lady. Probably just trying to lift my spirits while I felt like I was shutting down inside.

One guide stayed behind to help her warm up. The other and I trudged on so slowly that in just a few minutes, the others caught up. As always, she pressed ahead like a warrior.

“Look who’s coming!” she said. “The blonde one at last!” Finally! If it hadn’t appeared soon, we might’ve frozen.

A crimson line stretched along the horizon—a sign of imminent sunrise. Welcome light—I’ve never waited for you with such desperate hope. I was overwhelmed. I cried. I asked how far we had left. They said it was just a bit more. We posed for a photo. Then kept going.

We reached Stella Point, and saw an incandescent orange ball rise between scarlet clouds—sunbeams spreading like lasers across the sky. As if that spectacular dawn had been made just for us.

There were still a few kilometers of snowy path ahead. It was slippery—but in the sunlight, we could finally spot the risks. A straight path. We’d made it.

At the summit, I was filled with indescribable joy. I wanted to jump, shout— but I had no breath.

My friend was freezing. More than me, I think. But as always, the great warrior woman relished the moment as much as her body would allow. So did I.

I looked to the sky—the sun now golden and triumphant, rising toward its zenith. It felt like a century had passed.

We celebrated. We took some photos. We looked up. We looked down.

We did it. Seven long hours. Perhaps the longest of my life.

Gravity, Gratitude and Grit:  The Slow Triumph of Descent

I left my offering—a raw emerald—on the mountain, and we began the descent. The anti-climax didn’t take long to set in. We were exhausted, and ahead of us still lay ten hours of downhill hiking—a trek that made Virgil’s descent look like a walk in the park.

Even though the sun was shining, the volcanic landscape, though poetic, was desolate. The number of limp bodies being dragged by their guides reminded us we still had a way to go. I walked slowly, protecting my knees, which were now making themselves known.

Eventually, the snow gave way to gritty, mouse-gray volcanic sand that felt more like a trap. I watched hikers fall like sacks of potatoes, then rise again. Some were bleeding. Others lay still, catching their breath. I didn’t stop. My steps were short, and my knees swollen with fluid, but I was still moving—slow, yes, but steady.

Every step brought me closer to base camp, where we rested, ate lunch, and popped anti-inflammatories before resuming the march downward.

We heard helicopters—coming to fetch those who couldn’t make it down, even by dragging. I thanked my body for holding strong, even if tired and sore.

Going down was much harder than going up—there was no goal in sight, and the descent punished the joints. Some went slow. Others raced. Everyone was content.

Feet began to thaw inside boots, and because I couldn’t feel mine, I suspected “alpine toes”—nerves temporarily numbed, something even experienced trekkers go through. They regenerate, eventually.

I kept walking. People passing by congratulated me, and I felt like a true champion. I smiled, waved, and made sure not to slip—not now.

We reached Millennium Camp—our last night on the mountain. Bushes had reappeared, and thoughts of showers and beds now became a delicious motivation. Under a perfectly clear sky, the Milky Way stretched out above us. An unspeakably beautiful sight.

Day 7.  Back to Earth

We return to the forest from where we started. I’m moving so slowly that animals begin to appear along the trail—more blue monkeys, a black antelope with a white face who doesn’t even hear my approach, and we cross paths. It drizzles, but now there’s no fear of hypothermia, so I let the rain fall on me, washing over my whole body as I advance, and keep advancing.

The towering trees signal that this journey is nearly complete. The mud speaks of many rains, but my surefooted steps carry on without stopping.

In what feels like an eternity and a half, I finally arrive at Mweka Gate, where we began—and where my friend has been waiting for two hours, cold beer in hand: Kilimanjaro.

Reflection: Gratitude and Connection

During these seven days, I read a book called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott in the dry hours at camp. It's relevant because it speaks of writing word by word—and hiking step by step.

Doing this required determination, but our training and the support we received made the path infinitely easier. They made it possible, to be honest.

For both of us to go, we needed total support from our husbands and children—our best cheerleaders—and the help of one guide for each of us. Six strong men carried 20 kg each: tents, fresh food, a toilet, clean water, a stove, and our luggage.

They guided us to avoid wrong steps or getting lost, cared for us, observed us, waited patiently, encouraged us to eat, and carried our weight. We didn’t carry more than 10 kg each—on average, just 7.

It's truly thanks to them that ordinary people—not super athletes—can reach the summit. They make the experience not just possible, but comfortable.

This made me reflect on how much we need others to reach any summit in life. Even the humblest services are essential.

In the city, this often goes unseen, but those who carry our burdens—who collect our trash, keep our water running, maintain the electrical grid, farm our food—are the ones who make our goals achievable. To all of them, my conscious gratitude.

After the mountains, Healing waters

We ended our journey in some hot springs inland near Arusha—not exactly hot, but still an incredible paradise. I loved that it was a local attraction, with almost no tourists. The volcanic-scented mineral water healed our muscles just before returning home. There were fish, dragonflies, and waters as blue as the eyes of a little tabby cat.

We came back eager for new adventures—with family, and with friends—hearts full of gratitude for the chance to climb this stupendous mountain with our solid bodies, our mental bodies, astral bodies, and subtle bodies, to experience embodiment in all of them.

Love to you!

Grateful to reflect in front of the vastness of the world, as it truly is, right before our astonished eyes, I carried all of you with me on this journey. Wearing the garments you gave me, holding the reflections we started together, and with the memories and songs—so many of them.

I’ve realized I carry many people inside, and it fills me with joy to think of each one. The web of your love sustains me and connects me to the great whole.

Now, once the boots are dry, we'll get ready to explore new paths. In the meantime, I’m working on my herbarium and bestiary from this trip—because I like to look at things and know what it is I’m looking at.

Luz-Helena Beltrán Gomez