‘I was expecting something good, but the exquisite loveliness of that sunlit peak, floating high above a still sleeping world of tropical colour was far beyond anything I could have imagined.’
Eric Shipton’s first impression of seeing Mount Kenya, Upon That Mountain
4th April
Grey light seeps through the windowpanes. Dawn has broken, but it’ll be a while yet before the sun touches us. ‘Sunrise’ at the foot of a deep valley is a relative term. Méli is still asleep, so I roll over and doze a while longer, slipping in and out of dreams.
The grains in the wood of the bunk above remind me of a dry riverbed. My eyes are open. Outside a flock of red-winged starlings are performing their noisy réveille as they search around the hut for scraps. It’s warmer now. Time to put the kettle on.
As we’re sipping our tea, and basking in the first rays of sun flooding over the skyline, I inspect one of the bowls that the hyena attacked.
‘Check this mon amour,’ I say to Méli whilst raising the blue, plastic bowl. ‘He managed to puncture a hole clean through without cracking it.’
Méli nods in acknowledgement.
‘I am going to fix it,’ I declare, as if it is some task of vital significance. ‘I’ll use a piece from the destroyed bowl, you know, the way the Samburu fix their plastic sandals with another bit of plastic’.
‘That’s great babe,’ comes her distracted response. She’s giving breadcrumbs to a small bird - a speckled seedeater, which hops boldly around our feet. She calls it the ‘leopard bird’ due to its spotty markings.
The bowl repair is a success, although having squidged down the hot plastic my fingerprints are left indelibly on the patch. A professional restoration artist will usually leave no trace of their handiwork. This isn’t always the case though. In Japan there is an art of repairing fine ceramic vessels (often bowls) by sticking the broken pieces together with lacquer and gold dust. More than just pretty work, Kintsukuroi as it is called, is also a philosophy of life whereby the flaws are celebrated, and not hidden. The grey blotch on the cheap blue bowl is definitely not hidden. ‘Perhaps it represents a single cloud in an otherwise blue sky…’ Buzzed on coffee, morning sun and thin air, my mind is wandering happily.
The sun is well up now, and we’re shrugging off our warm clothes. Beyond the lichen-bearded boulders and the giant groundsels in the foreground, the peaks of the central massif rise steeply into the blue. I’m looking from the dark bulk of the main peaks, to Midget peak cowering in the shadows and across to Pt. John’s orange western face, following jagged ridgelines and dark gullies. I feel a part of myself being pulled out of my body and drawn up there, like an augur buzzard floating on a thermal. ‘Not today,’ I think. Today is for gently easing into the mountain, together.
‘Let’s go for a swim,’ Méli suggests. ‘We can walk up to Teleki tarn, have a nice dip and maybe even wash a few things.’
‘Fantastic idea.’ So off we go, hopping from tussock to tussock over the boggy bits. It’s a short walk to Teleki tarn, but we move fast and the steep rise at the end leaves us puffing and sweaty. Once there you’re in another world. Cupped in an amphitheatre of crumbly rock spires and avalanche cones, the tarn lies like a piece of captive sky. The shallows are coated in pale silt, and on a sunny day like today it turns the water aquamarine. Towards the middle the water deepens to dark blue. Fringed by green-leafed groundsels and with boulders standing from the shimmering shallows like tiny islands, it feels like a tropical lagoon. We are on the equator after all.
Teleki Tarn
Still warm from the walk, I strip off and stalk gingerly into the shallows before settling down into the burn of icy water. After a short bathe accompanied by high-pitched shrieks and hoots, we retreat to shore, our limbs tingling. The warmth of the sun on our bare skin we squat beside the water and do some laundry. This includes a valiant effort to clean a pair of dishcloths from the hut, so filthy they resemble oil rags. Having turned a slightly paler shade, we deem them clean, drape the wet things over a plant and lounge in the sun.
I leave Meli reading at the water’s edge and scramble up the scree, south of the tarn. Halfway up there is a cave where water drips from above onto a slimy green floor. From up here you can admire the circular swirls of algae in the tarn; dark shapes, 8’s and O’s and infinities drawn on the clear bottom. I glissade down an avalanche cone of scree, and rejoin Méli. We gather our things and wander back to the hut to prepare lunch.
Later, whilst collecting water near the ranger base, I catch up with the two rangers on duty. Huddled in the simple hut we sip mugs of sweet milky tea, and chat about the current state of affairs. They explain that shifts are halved due to COVID, and they’ll be walking off that evening after only five days on the mountain, as opposed to the usual ten. Their replacements will be coming up tomorrow.
In the evening Méli and I walk up to American camp, and admire the peaks above us. The weather is perfect… more like mid-May than April. The dirty ice of the Tyndall glacier hangs to the North, flanked by Piggot’s curved summit ridge and the towering mass of the main peaks. A flap of corrugated iron on a nearby latrine creaks in the cold wind. A few rusted food tins and pitiful huddle of rocks mark an old camp kitchen. I feel as if we are exploring an abandoned world.
After dinner, I prepare my gear for the following morning. My mind is on the route - what I’ll need and what I won’t. A coil of rope, bits of hardware, sun block, rock shoes and an energy bar; each finds its place in the pack.
‘So you’re going climbing,’ comes Méli’s voice, bringing me back into the hut. She’s huddled in a pile blankets on the bunk, peering at me from behind her novel.
‘Yeah, I’m going to check out John, should be back by lunch.’
‘O.K’
I go outside for a last pee. The peaks are a blue-black silhouette against a star-filled sky. There is no wind.
Snuggled in bed, with her head on my chest, I feel warm and at ease.
5th April
I step out into the darkness at 5:30 to have a pee.
Up in the sky
There is a stream of lights
Flying northwards,
Out of Scorpio’s chest
Ignoring the cold, I stand watching this celestial mystery. I even drag Méli out of bed, and she sees it too; a line of evenly spaced ‘stars’ flying one after the other to fade away above the northern horizon.
Back inside the hut, as I sit on the bunk to meditate, my thoughts keeps reaching out for these strange lights, then turning to preparations for the climb ahead. Slowly the stillness of the valley filters in and my mind settles.
‘Enjoy my love, and be careful.’ I’m out the door at eight after eggs on toast and a mug of tea. Despite all the gear, my pack feels light. The whole world is still, the only sounds coming from a distant stream, and the crunch crunch crunch of needle ice under my boots. No wind, no clouds - perfect weather.
At the foot of Lewis tarn, I force myself to gulp down half a litre of very cold water, then refill my bottle. From here I can look up at Point John. Unlike the blank face to the southwest, this southeastern side is rugged, with more obvious lines of weakness. My intended route is the standard route; a slight variation on the classic SE Gulley, first climbed by Eric Shipton and R E G Russell in 1929. This line follows a prominent gulley then branches left, following a few crack systems on up to the summit. ‘It’s easy, you know where you’re going.’ I shoulder my pack and begin the approach, hauling myself over whale-like bulges of glacier-polished rock.
A cairn marks the base of the route. Twenty metres to the right is a little nook where you can stash the non-essentials. I sit for a moment, breathing. Once my breath is back to normal I empty my bag of everything but a rope, my jacket, some water, a biscuit and a few pieces of passive protection in case of an unexpected retreat. A muffled thud makes me look up in time to see rocks tumbling down the scree on the far side of Lewis tarn. I watch the dust settle, then gaze at the sun-filled valley far below, and think of Mélissa. By now the rangers will be long gone, and she’s the only other person nearby. It could even be that we are the only two on the whole mountain. I am aware of how alone I am up here in this barren jumble of rock and ice. The sun is shining, this rock is solid, and I feel strong and clear-minded.
It is 09:35. I squeeze my feet into rock shoes, shrug off any creeping doubts and begin scrambling up the gulley. The route is still fresh in my mind from when Julian and I climbed it together in February. Now, with no thoughts to placing gear, faffing with ropes or going off route, I simply climb. It feels sublime. I am aware of the texture of each hold; sharp nubs of rock indenting my fingertips, ledges for my feet to shuffle across and slimy cracks seeping ice-melt. I am aware of the everlasting flowers somehow clinging to this tower of stone, and the warmth of the sun as I climb past the multicolor cords of belay anchors. Time is suspended. No extraneous thoughts trouble me as my hands and feet reach and step, grip and feel their way instinctively up the pale rock. Half an hour after setting out, I heave myself onto the summit, grinning like someone who’s just woken up from a good dream.
I peel off the rock shoes and relish the cool air on my feet. Cloud is swirling around, obscuring the main peaks, but the visibility is better than when I was last here. I clamber about the pointed rocks of the summit, looking in all directions. The MCK hut is a tiny speck of faded red down there in the Teleki valley. Lewis tarn lies beneath me; a tooth-shaped emerald. These rocks I lean on now are the same ones which look like figures sat at a table when viewed from far below. My back against a rock, munching on a chocolate biscuit, I watch as alpine swifts traverse the depths of nothingness. When they come close enough you can hear their wings roaring like a jet.
I’m going down now, rope length by rope length. Before the final abseil, I leave the rope and traverse a few meters to the south to where a lonely carabiner dangles from a grey sling. These are mementoes of my first attempt to climb this peak back in January. Dark clouds smothered me, the wind was howling down the ice filled gulleys and I’d been unsure, tentative and afraid. I didn’t make it higher than this. I’d gone off route and scrabbled around desperately, cold fingers clawing at uncertain holds, before deciding to retreat and abseiling off this flake. I smile at the memory as I clip the carabiner onto my harness, then traverse back to complete the descent.
Point John, Lewis Tarn and a glimpse of Hut Tarn, the morning after my failed attempt on John in January
Soon enough I’m back at my stash chugging some water. There is a faded snickers wrapper, folded in a neat square and wedged in a crack. I’ve seen it before. Generally I pick up litter whenever I can whilst on the mountain, but I’m reluctant to remove this little testament to someone else’s presence here… some other pilgrim come to test themselves upon this ancient rock. With no-one around it feels oddly like company. I leave it there and make my way down, sliding down the scree, walking on air, ready for lunch.