A quick note from G Danger:
Here’s your friendly neighborhood blogger reminding you that next week (June 8 to be exact), I’ll be riding 100(ish?) miles to celebrate my 10 year cancer free anniversary! And I want you to join me!
The details can be found in this post: http://wp.me/p2wWFV-dt
With 100 Miles of Nowhere coming up, a few people have been asking if I’m ready for a 100 mile effort. I’ve only ridden +100 in one day on a mountain bike twice before: freshman year spring break on the White Rim and the 2008 Leadville Trail 100. I trained a lot for the latter, and went off the couch for the former. What kind of shape will I be in for next week’s event? Umm…the shape I’m in now, I guess.
I’ve been riding a lot, training hard and am ready to celebrate. Really, I have been training. Some. I mean, more than none. Joan has been too. Some, really. We even have “evidence”!
For example, here you can see my bike, artfully posed to demonstrate thoughtful trail consideration:
And here you can see my sweetie getting her shred on, with a tasteful visual metaphor likening her to a desert flower:
Here’s definitive “yes-I’ve-been-riding” evidence in the form of a “selfie” with my sweetie looking over my shoulder. Of course we’ve been riding!
And finally, a contemplative “pre-action” shot showing the beauty of Moab, which was where we were riding. We were!
Yes, we’ve been training. 100 miles sounds reeeaaallly long right now, but we’ll put in a good effort. My uncle Mark, bummed he couldn’t make it to Phil’s world, has been harassing some of his friends to get a remote 100 Miles of Golden/Tabletop/White Ranch/etc going in his neck of the woods. He said it best in his cajoling email: “Yes, 100 miles on a mtn bike is a bit rough, 10,000+ vertical feet hurts, but so does chemo when you’re 8 years old”
He got that right. On both counts.
RSVP for the event here: http://gg100miles.rsvpify.com/?preview=1
Looking forward to riding with you!
This June, I’ll be observing my 10 year cancer-free anniversary. That’s a big deal. It’s crazy to think how much I’ve been through in that time, much less to think about what I was going through during and in between treatments. I endured six years of chemotherapy and in June, I’ll be 10 years out of the woods.
The amiable Fat Cyclist has a pretty cool tradition that he started in an effort to raise funds towards cancer research called 100 Miles of Nowhere. Every cycling destination seems to have a gimmick for endurance racing, with centuries, 24 hour, multi-day epics and a hundred variations on those themes. Fatty, in his typically absurd nature, decided he’d do a 100 mile race…
-in his basement.
And thus, 100 Miles of Nowhere was born.
It became a tradition that his faithful followers began doing in their basements, and then around their blocks and in other ridiculous locations for a race. The key was creating a crazy specific race category for your event, one in which ONLY YOU could possibly win (eg; 27-28 Male half way through grad school and 10 years off chemo).
I want to invite you to join me to celebrate, raise some money and ride some great trails. My 100 Miles of Nowhere will take on Sunday, June 8, in (an admittedly, non-ridiculous and actually really, really incredibly fun location) Phil’s World, an ideal location for group multi-lap rides. A few things to point out about the gathering and the riding:
- Don’t be intimidate by “100 miles”! The great thing about a loop system like Phil’s World is that you can make laps as long and as short as you like. Teams are encouraged for 100 Miles of Nowhere, so if you don’t think you have 100 miles in your legs, share the distance with a partner or two. The idea is that every gets to ride as much as they like and have a good time doing it.
- We want a festive atmosphere! Please come with fun things for the “pit zone”, aka the parking lot, the destination that all laps will pass through before heading out for me. This means bbq’ing, tasty treats, beer, music, (we might even bring our aerial dance rig!) etc.
- Phil’s world requests a $3 donation at the trail head for all non-annual members of Kokopeli bike club. Let’s throw them some additional cash for maintaining such awesome trails. You’ll understand why when you ride there…
- Unfortunately, there’s no camping allowed at the Phil’s World trail head. According to the BLM website, there’s camping “just back from the access point for Phil’s World” which is where we’ll probably end up.
- While this blog post, RSVP process and donation system are all very sophisticated, this is going to be a relatively bare bones event. The spirit is to get together, ride and have a good time. We’re not catering this thing. Bring food, gear, costumes, everything you’ll need for 100 miles in a somewhat remote location!
- The Dolores River Festival is happening Saturday, June 7 and if you’re coming for 100MoN, you might as well come early and watch Joan and I perform at DRF!
We haven’t established a fundraising goal and I don’t plan to get an official donation site up and running. I do ask, however, that if you decide to participate (and please do!), please make a donation to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Heck, if you’re reading this and can’t participate, please donate anyway! I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia at ages 8 and 13 and the research successes seen by this organization are partially responsible for me being here today.
More instructions will follow as RSVPs start to come in.
We hope to ride with you in June!
This Friday at midnight, hundreds of brave souls will voluntarily venture into a cold, hostile, barren environment. Many of them have been looking forward to the adventure all year long. Their collective goal? Travel, by ski, 40 circuitous, snowy, back-country miles and climb over 7,800 vertical feet to arrive at the Aspen base area smiling.
The Elk Mountain Grand Traverse (aka EMGT, aka GT, aka “the Traverse”) is an annual ski mountaineering race from Crested Butte to Aspen, CO. In the racing world’s seemingly endless search for “furthest”, “fastest” and “highest” superlatives, the GT is America’s oldest ski mountaineering race. It’s one that I’ve competed in four times and finished only twice.
The race can be brutal. It requires navigation of serious avalanche terrain in the dark. The race rules stipulate mandatory two-person teams rather than individual racers, as the dangerous nature of the event is somewhat decreased by traveling with a partner. Frostbite, gear failures and whiteouts have caused countless evacuations over the years, and occasionally the race changes format to an out-and-back loop due to treacherous, impassible conditions.
I’ve never had a really good race run in the Traverse. Twice my team had to turn around because of gear or body failures. The two times I’ve finished, my partner pulled me across the line (I was dragging ass) and I pulled my partner to Barnard, at which point he had to be evacuated on a snowmobile (he was dragging ass). In sum, none of these conditions were ideal and none left me with a satisfied, accomplished, “I (and my partner) really showed that race who’s boss” feeling.
That’s why, all the way in Flagstaff, Arizona, I’ll be watching at midnight on Friday. Racers are required to carry tracking devices and fans can watch their progress live online. I’ll be watching Smithy and Wick, JB, Billy, Ryter, the Western State Colorado University endurance ski team and all my other friends from back home, as they sprint up warming house hill and venture into the cold, dark night. I’ll feel their elation as they crest Star Pass and steel themselves in preparation for the decent into the basin below. I’ll feel the anxiety as the leaders take their mandatory 10-minute respite at Barnard Hut, nervously watching the trail behind them, strategically gauging their lead. And I’ll celebrate, with my hot coffee and fuzzy slippers, comfortable on the couch, as each of my Gunny/CB friends glides across that finish line in Aspen.
I’m looking forward to the night that I can once again step into my skis and try to raise my finishing average over .500.
“What’s it going to take to finish this thing and be happy when we’re done?” Sean asked in one of our many emails in the week before the start of the 16th annual Gore-Tex Grand Traverse. I had attempted the race three times prior and had finished once, so I became our teams de-facto expert on preparation.
I answered, “Maintaining a reasonable pace, remembering WHY we’re doing it, hitting the checkpoints before cutoffs, drinking beer when we’re done.”
Grand Traverse race preparation is a marathon. Honestly, it’s more stressful on the days leading up to the race start than doing the race itself. Gear, gear, gear. Spend all day at racer meetings and gear check. Try to nap. Eat and drink as much as you can, something that helps to prevent proper napping. Panic because you don’t have the right flavor 5-Hour Energy. Realize flavor doesn’t matter at 6am. Check, double-check, triple-check and quadruple-check your skin set up. Pack. Repack. Re-repack. Nap. Ugh.
After a day that passes in segments, it was time to head up to the start line. The start of the race is unlike any other event I’ve been a part of. Mostly because it takes place at the same time as the local radio station’s huge fundraiser, Soul Train. Imagine, hundreds of ski randonee racers lining up at the Crested Butte base area, preparing to ski 40 miles into the night, whilst hundreds of local crazies are halfway through their night of reliving the 70’s disco era. Afro wigs and headlights, bell-bottoms and speed suits, platform shoes and ski boots intermingled while Kool and the Gang echoed against the mountains. Quite the sight.
Sean and I made our way to the back of the pack aiming for a casual start. Our goal was to ski within ourselves and not get sucked into the racer mentality, risking too strong of a start and blowing ourselves out before the real challenge began. This strategy proved costly an hour into the race, where we had to battle recurring bottle necks through breakable crust over steep gullys and open meadows. Patients was key, as getting frustrated during this section of the race would only cause tension among teammates. We went with the flow and finally arrived on Brush Creek Road where the snow had been solidified and made travel much easier.
When we arrived on East Brush Creek, we decided it was a great opportunity to make up some time. I hadn’t expected the previous section to take so long, so we settled into a brisk pace and moved swiftly up to Friends Hut. Aside from a minor slip into an open creek (brrr!) the climb went well and we found ourselves at Friends an hour before the cut off time. We took the opportunity to replenish our water, to eat some food and to bundle up in defense against the wind that could be heard howling a thousand feet above. The climb up Star Pass promised to be steep and cold.
This is when I learned how hot Sean’s engine runs. From the start, he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He threw on a hoodie/windbreaker for a little while but complained of sweating and being too hot. Remember, we started at midnight. At over 9,000 feet and rising. At temperatures below freezing. He claims to have the metabolism of a 14 year old and this is good evidence. He used wind-pants and a windbreaker to head up Star Pass and later said he could have done without them. Wow.
We got to the top of Star and prepared to descend. I talked to a course marshal who told me we looked good for finishing. It was 7:20 am and we were about a third of the way into the race.
The drop down from Star Pass was a blast. The snow was choppy powder rather than the breakable crust we encountered earlier in the race. It skied really well, much better than the section did last year. We got down to the transition zone and joined about 10 other teams who had descended before us. There was a feeling of jubilation among the racers, because there were only two timed check points left, and those were well in the distance. With them so far away, it felt like we’d all surely make it to Aspen.
At this point, however, Sean began to cough. He had been suffering from a chest cold since earlier in the week. Keep in mind, this guy has one functioning lung. I knew his cold was going to be an issue, but it hadn’t seemed to bother him earlier on in the race. Maybe it was the cold air on the descent, but Sean was hacking severely from this point on. He had difficulty drawing a full breath and was constantly on the verge of vomiting I tried my best to maintain a pace that would bring us to the next check point in time without putting too much exertion on his suffering lung. We ended up pacing a couple of teams that were moving at a similar rate, which helped. I know how difficult it was for Sean to keep moving with his condition and he did a great job fighting through it.
The route took us through Taylor Flats and up Taylor Pass where the wind was fierce. We chose to keep our skins on for the brief descent which allowed us to climb up the subsequent Gold Hill without transitioning. Taylor and Gold are pretty short, but the steepness makes them true stingers. We put them behind us as quickly as possible.
At the top of Gold Hill, we ripped our skins for the third time and made the descent to the Barnard Hut. It was about 12:30 and at that pace, we were sure to make it to Aspen before the 4pm cut off at the Sundeck.
As we entered the checkpoint, a volunteer casually asked us how we were doing. “Fine except I can’t breathe,” replied Sean. The volunteer turned out to be a doctor and asked Sean if we could examine him a bit further. The doc was pretty blown away by our team, both of us being two-time cancer survivors, and offered Sean a treatment for asthma. I sat drinking soup and eating while the doc checked Sean out, wondering if we’d be allowed to continue.
Twenty minutes passed. I prepared our gear, refilled water and ate. I went to the medical tent to find Sean seated and inhaling from a tube that was releasing some sort of white vapor. It was making him feel better momentarily, but wasn’t curing the congestion and constriction in his chest. The realization started to sink in: the chest cold was winning and it didn’t look like our team was going to continue.
The doctor said, “Sean, I think we’re going to have to take you out on a snowmobile.” To this, Sean replied, “That doesn’t mean HE has to go out on a sled, does it?” Generally, teams aren’t allowed to continue without both members. The nature of back country travel is too dangerous for individuals to head out alone and the race organizers have stated that only teams of two are allowed to continue. Luckily, Sean’s very charismatic. He explained our mission, to compete to raise funds for Cancer Climber. He added that this was my fourth GT and that I was very knowledgeable about the course. The section remaining was very benign as far as back country travel goes, as it follows a jeep road all the way to the sundeck.
The decision was made to let me continue on. Not giving the officials a chance to rethink their decision (not that they would have, the route had no major challenges or potential avalanche danger remaining), I thanked Sean for his super-human effort, stepped into my bindings and began the final leg of the journey.
I felt GREAT. The pace we had been setting through the night was a finishers pace, certainly not a high-placer’s pace. We were strolling, largely because of ‘ole one-lung’s handicapping cold. When I got the go-ahead from race officials, I took off like it was a 100 meter dash. And continued at that pace. Up and over each minor climb on Richmond Ridge, plowing over the whooped out snowmobile troughs that have been known to make grown men cry and carrying past the heartbreaking flats between. I got in the zone and got to the sundeck in amazing time.
At the sundeck I ran into three other teams, in various stages of celebration and exhaustion. We knew we had made it, and everyone shared that stupid, aww-shucks grin of a school boy that got away with a solid prank, or maybe just stole a kiss from that girl he likes. Joy abounded. Jokes were made during the slow, much less urgent transition from up to down, and I eventually stepped down into my bindings and pulled on my goggles for the final decent. The decent into Aspen. A place where the beer flows like wine (unless they run out! Yeah, I arrived so late that the kegs had been kicked. WHAT?!? Luckily Joan was on hand to grab a PBR for me before I turned around and stormed back to Crested Butte), where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. ASSSSSSPEN!
The descent was glorious. I reveled in the corn. I hooted and hollered as a overtook fellow racers, offering what encouragement I could in an effort to make their burning legs hurt a little bit less. I was there. I was going to make it! For me. For Sean. For Cancer Climber. For all the patients, young and old, going through treatment. Cancer Climber for the win!
My face was still plastered with that silly grin as I crossed the finish line. The journey was complete. Sean was there, arriving earlier via snowmobile, already in his signature flip-flops, to give me a big congratulatory hug. “Next time I won’t be sick,” he said. “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “We gave that thing hell for as long as you could. I’m amazed you made it as far as you did in your condition. Great effort, dude.”
Cancer Climber will be back to the Grand Traverse. We’re used to adversity, we can handle challenges. We met our goals we set from the start: Maintain a reasonable pace: check. Even if it was slower than we could have gone because of illness, we made progress and would have finished in time. Remember WHY we’re doing it: check. Especially through the dark, beautiful night, I took the time to think about loved ones who have battled cancer. Some have won, some have lost. Remembering those battles fueled my strides and with each step along the way, cancer patients were with me. Hit checkpoints before cutoffs: check. Maybe we didn’t proceed as a team past Barnard, but technically, we reached every checkpoint before the cutoff time. I guess the sundeck has a cutoff too, but come on. We did damn good. Drink beer when we’re done: check. PBR never tasted soooo good. Next year we’ll be more prepared and healthier. Look out, GT’14.
I’m not nearly as excited as that title might suggest!!!!!
The hotel I choose to stay in during my business travel is the best. It’s got an ideal location to major freeways. It’s in very close proximity to several restaurants providing many options for both chain and local flavor. It’s near the airport and has a complimentary breakfast. It even has underground, heated parking for free.
But the fitness center sucks.
Apparently I don’t care enough to stay at a different hotel, but I do care enough to complain about it.
This inconvience has forced me to become very creative with my workouts while traveling. (And a quick note on this: If I can’t fit a work out into my business travel, I go nuts. Traveling inspires the most healthy people to eat like crap. I spend most of my business travel days driving around and sitting in coffee shops, milking free internet. Also, working. But for me to remain sane, I have to fit in a workout as often as I can.)
I now know how many stairs lie between the Springhill Suites Chicago O’Hare basement and 10th floor. A fitting number, 187. (Fitting because, legend has it, 187 is the cop code for murder. Yeah, I’d classify 10 floor stair-repeats as murder.)
I do step-ups on the treadmill and ski jumps over towels. The ceiling is too low and when I do burpies I practically punch through the tiles above me. On the weekends, I walk aimlessly through the city, hoofing it waayyyyy further than a typical commuter might in an effort to counteract the hours of sitting behind the wheel and eating unhealthy food.
I’m glad this will be my last travel season 🙂
If an apprehensive vibe was felt on the first day of the hike, on the start of this day the nervousness was palpable. We knew we were waking up to the most physically demanding effort of the trip: First, we’d be faced with a climb up the Barranco Wall, a pitch that rises straight out of camp and gains 1,000 feet before you’ve even started to digest your breakfast. After that, the day becomes a long approach to high camp, dipping into the Karanga Valley for a spell and then soaring to 15,000′. Once arrive at camp, we’d be treated to a quick meal and a three hour nap before setting of on our midnight summit bid.
Climbing the Barranco Wall is very similar to Colorado’s Wetterhorn Peak: some exposure, a few hands and feet moves, but mostly fun stair-step type climbing. I’d consider it the most difficult climbing of the trek, if altitude was eliminated. Nothing more than easy class three makes it clear why so many people attempt this mountain each year.
Kyle, looking back from where we came. This was a really enjoyable section of climbing.
The porters impressed us further on this section, carrying tons of weight on old shoes and taking the most difficult path in order to get around us slow gringos. They’re amazing people.
Arriving at the top of the wall, we were blown away by the view of the peak. It was right there, in front of us, in all it’s majesty. Mt. Kilimanjaro, 19,341′ above sea level. And we were climbing it.
Boom. Thar she blows.
For the rest of the day, Kili loomed large above our heads. We dipped into the Karanga Valley shortly. Sean and I lamented the lack of a ladder bridge spanning the valley, which would have cut two hours and several hundred vertical feet off the day. Those Westerners sure can dream
..and regaining lost footage.
Topping out above Karanga Valley put us at Karanga Camp aka “Dirty Camp”. Because it’s gross. Lot’s of people get sick here, Sean said, and for this reason we made a quick lunch stop and kept moving. Onward and upward.
A quick break in the clouds to refuel.
We were working towards a ridge that seemed to get further and further away as time went on. I started to believe it was a mirage, but we finally crested it.
Dropping down the backside, we could see our work laid out in front of us. Camp was up on the next ridge, and we knew there was only one way to get there. Keep climbing.
Cairns on the final pitch.
After a long a tiring day we reached camp. We knew there were just a few short hours remaining before we’d have to get up and put in a solid physical effort once more, so each team member set to the task of making final summit preparations.
I made a few gear alterations and ate as much food as I could muster on an exhausted stomach. Terry told us she would not be accompanying us during the summit attempt as her health issues had gained the upper-hand. It was tough to learn our entire group wasn’t going to make it up to the top, but so it goes in mountain climbing. I deeply respect her decision and applaud her for having the strength to call it quits. More often than not, that’s harder than going on.
Sean took the opportunity to make a few people smile and break up the seriousness of the atmosphere by donning “Big Sexy”: a ridiculous outfit consisting of a red onesy (complete with trap door butt) and Soviet-style mad bomber hat.
I made sure to think about the reason I was up on the mountain. Survivors. I thought about friends. I thought about family members. I thought about those who didn’t survive. Most of all, I thought about my goal for the trip: to give just one current cancer patient something to look forward to. To let one patient know that he could do this some day. I hope I reached that goal.
I went to bed thinking about the climbs I’ve done in my life. Some were more difficult than others. I knew this one would be like nothing else.
The goal for the day was aclimitization. We’d begin from Shira camp at ~12,000′ and climb up to the Lava Tower just below Arrow Glacier at an altitude of 16,000′. After reaching the high point, we’d descend back down to and camp at 12,500′. Woohoo, elevation!
It certainly wasn’t t-shirt weather, but it wasn’t too bad.
The trail was very gradual and pretty smooth. It was interesting to see how the elevation played with my fitness.
Just as we reached the Lava Tower, the wind kicked up and blew the high clouds off of Uhuru Peak (the high point on Kilimanjaro). We got a great view of the Arrow Glacier route and the immense magnitude of the summit we were attempting to gain.
With Lava Tower as the high point, we had a nice long descent to get to camp. Some of our hikers discovered how difficult hiking downhill can be. We moved slowly.
I took in the sights…
…enjoyed the unusual fawna…
…and thought about the task before us.
We camped at the Baranco Huts, knowing the next day we’d have to face the storied Baranco Wall, a thousand vertical foot pitch that rises dramatically out of the valley floor. I couldn’t wait.
We awoke to Gasper, our server, knocking on the nylon of our tent. Groggily, I unzipped the door.
“Coffee or tea?” he asked, holding a tray with an assortment of morning beverages.
What a way to wake up.
Kyle, my tent-mate (and all around cool guy, check out his long-term cause at everestendeavor.com) and I sat in our tent in disbelief about where we were and what we were doing. “Oh, just having a cup of coffee in my tent on Kilimanjaro. What are you doing today?” It was time to pack up and get moving for our second effort of the trip. Our mission today was to reach Shira Camp at around 12,000 ft.
Breakfast was served. Each morning we could count on porridge, fruit and sausage (and every once in a while, eggs.) The sausage was actually hot dogs and the porridge was akin to watered down Malt-o-Meal, but I ate ever last bit I could stomach. Your body works a lot differently at high elevations, and I had discovered how much fuel mine needed each day.
The morning began in a dense, lush rain forest setting but quickly transitioned into more barren moorlands. Like, really quickly. Like, in four steps. The contrast between the previous ecosystem and the point to which we ascended was stark. In a matter of feet it seemed that all had dried out and the thick vegetation was replaced with rocks and alpine grasses. This section rose very quickly and we found ourselves on steep, switchbacking terrain.
Up, up, up we went, through the mist and out of the clouds.
Soon the sun was shining and we took a break for lunch. A hot meal was waiting for us, prepared by Double D and Gasper.
Recharged and refreshed, we hit the trail again. The terrain had leveled out a bit and we faced an ascending traverse to reach camp. The hiking was a bit of connect-the-dots through boulders, finding the best line and stepping from rock to rock. It was a fun change from the previous steep climbing.
We got to camp and were treated to beautifully wispy clouds, rolling over the lower peaks.
As the sun set, we prepared for the next day.
It’s good to be on a mountain.
There was plenty of nervous energy in the air when we awoke on Day 1. We didn’t really know what to expect, but thought we had our bases covered. Sean had checked our gear out the day before. Some climbers had it totally dialed, others were planning on carrying a pretty hefty load, but Sean helped ensure everyone had what they needed.
We had met our guides the night before and were excited to see them again. Zaratours.com was the agency we went through and I recommend them completely and without hesitation. “A1” the entire way.
The bus was loaded with our gear and then our nervous bodies. The trail head sat an hours drive from Moshi town. As the pavement turned to dirt and the desert shifted to rain forest, casual conversation was struck up with the friendly Canadians hitching a ride. Sean’s story is endlessly impressive, but he would never tell it without a little prying. Luckily, mom was along to spin the yarn. I reflected on how much this guy has done as she sat and chatted up the Canucks. I felt more and more honored to have the opportunity to do this with the Cancer Climber Association.
Tanzania is a pretty cool country, for a number of reasons. One reason that sticks out to me is that they require all Kili climbers to be accompanied by a guide (and usually a number of porters.) We were no exception. Upon arrival at the Machame Gate, our porter bags were unloaded and weighed.
(Yes, dear reader, a porter carried my stuff. A porter will carry your stuff, too, if you ever do this mountain. I hope that doesn’t shatter the majestic image I’ve built up to this point. During the day, we all carried day packs with essential items. Food, water, extra clothes. Pretty basic. I brought a super light CAMP pack and hardly felt the weight most days. I’d be strolling along in my own little contemplative world when a porter would blaze past me, an enormous back pack strapped on his shoulders and an even bigger burlap sack balancing on his head. He’d be dressed in worn out dress shoes and sweat pants. And he’d be singing.)
Once the weigh in was completed, we snapped a few typical trail head shots and began our trek.
Mt. Kilimanjaro is not a fast hike. The motto on the mountain, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, is “pole, pole” which translates to “slowly.” Guides will constantly remind you to slow down. While I live in Colorado and did my best to get in a good amount of high altitude training, I trusted their expert opinion and never balked at the slow pace. It paid dividends later.
The section from Machame Gate to Machame camp was pretty smooth and pedestrian. We stopped for a nice boxed lunch, but other than that moved pretty consistantly and arrived at Machame camp at 10,170′ in about five hours.
Our camp site gave us a beautiful and intimidating view of our ultimate goal. Kilimanjaro looms large in the distance, no matter where you might be. It stalks you. Only one thing to do: keep climbing.
Highlights from the 2012 Cancer Climber Kilimajaro Expedition.
Hakuna Matata …
Tembea pole pole
Kunywa maji mengi
Bwana: Respectful address
Habari gani: How are you?
Mzuri sana: Very fine
Wageni, mwakaribishwa: Foreigners, You are welcome
Hakuna matata: There are no worries
Tembea pole pole: Walk slow, slow
Utafika salama: Come safe
Kunywa maji mengi: Drink plenty of water
Our guides would break into songs and echo calls when you’d least expect it. It served as a big morale booster to call back their cries of “Koochie koochie!”, “Jip jip jip!”, “pop pop pop!”, and “daron daron daron!” It also let them know how gassed we were.
“Man, when you lose your laugh, you lose your footing.”
-Ken Kesey, One Flew Over The Cuokoo’s Nest