Читать книгу Mt Kilimanjaro & Me - Annette Freeman - Страница 4

My rock scrambling experience on the flanks of Roland turned out to be a minor rehearsal for a much greater, and scarier, scramble on the flanks of an African rock wall of much more significant proportions. Five days into the climb of Kilimanjaro I found myself stuck high up on a daunting, legendary feature known as the Great Barranco Wall. On the instructions of the African guide, who was somewhat improbably named Brian, I carefully reached out for the rocky handhold he indicated, and equally carefully moved my feet onto an eight centimetre wide ledge. I was to ease myself around the rock face to the comparative safety of the next small crack between the boulders. Brian would then reach down and haul me up another few feet. I was wearing a crash helmet, prettily pale blue. This had been issued at the base of the rock face. As far as I could recall, this had notbeen in the brochure.

Clinging to the rocks, I looked down and back. An incredible view spread out far below, if I could spare a little corner of my attention to appreciate it. Opposite and below me, on the other side of the valley, a glorious waterfall plunged down. Spread further back was the amazing Barranco Valley, through which we had just trekked that morning, with its unique and other-worldly giant senecio plants, arms up-spread like weird candelabra, and mysterious spiky giant lobelia. Beyond the waterfall were the colourful dots of the tents at the Barranco Campsite, far behind us. I gave it all about three seconds of attention.

It took me about one and a half hours to climb the Great Barranco Wall. I started up boldly, full of courage, but rock-scrambling isn’t my thing (as I may have mentioned) and one and a half hours is a long time to keep up the bravado. Possibly the hardest thing was to keep the fear out. That cold gripping feeling located usually in the pit of the stomach, foretelling the first signs of panic. Loss of control would have been bad right then, very bad. There were several moments when it almost snuck in – that glance back at the waterfall was one. So were the demoralising false summits. Just as I thought I was at the top, higher and ever-more-difficult bits revealed themselves. If I had let the fear sneak in, I think I’d still be there, clinging pitifully to The Wall in my pale-blue crash helmet.

My companions were the key, of course. They got me up that Wall. Apart from the strong and calm Brian, hauling me up rocky steps higher than me, I also had the company of fellow-trekker Peter, from San Francisco. Peter was nearly twenty years younger than me, which was kind of reassuring. He had a ready sympathy and patience, and a particularly fetching sunhat that made him look a bit like Paddington Bear. He had done his training riding a bicycle on San Francisco’s hills, which is no mean feat. He said The Great Barranco Wall was a doddle in comparison. But it wasn’t the physical effort of the wall which stymied me. Looking back, I can say that I managed that quite well, if a little slowly. The mental effort to hold back panic and stay focussed was the greatest challenge. I was way out of my comfort zone. The secure back-up and professional assurance of the African guides, and chatting distractedly to Peter about anything and everything, helped enormously.

This was also the day I first met Francis, an assistant guide. After about ten minutes on The Wall, Francis offered to carry my day pack. I accepted gratefully – gift horses’ mouths and all that – and he carried it every day from then on. In fact, Francis became my main man, giving me the valuable gift of an extra reserve of energy, as well as his comforting, if mostly silent, company. ‘We together,’ he would say to me. Indeed we were.