Nyakalagijo

Birds flying high, you know how I feel.
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel.
Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel.
It’s a new dawn! It’s a new day! It’s a new life for me.
And I’m feeling good.

— Nina Simone

 

 

Scottish author and physician, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (the famed creator of Sherlock Holmes) was known to stretch a good joke. In one of his more fiendish pranks, he anonymously dispatched an identical telegram to twelve of his friends. “All has been discovered. Flee at once,” it read in full. Within twenty-four hours, all twelve men had fled the country. Every time I think about this, I chuckle to myself. I wonder what those men did that Sir Arthur was never clued on. While I would never manage a cruel stunt of this magnitude, I quietly pondered if any of us had any scars from the years that the elements on the mountain would bare over the next seven days. We have been around each other for the better part of twenty years but the last decade has seen us scattered to the four winds. So much for my fleeting thoughts. There was a palpable camaraderie and lightness of heart as all six of us embarked on the six hour drive to Nyakalegija base Camp in Kasese, 350 km from Kampala. Unlike the Fort Portal passage, this route goes through the picturesque Queen Elizabeth National Park.

I woke up bright and early the next day. The cottages and facilities, managed by Rwenzori Mountaineering Services (RMS) were surprisingly spick and span. The taps had run dry the night of our arrival but that was compensated for by an overly energetic young man whose enthusiasm knew no bounds. He ensured there was an ample supply of water, both cold and warm, for all our cottages. Having a sharp eye for talent and good attitude, I quickly conscripted him, informally as it were, into a personal assistant of sorts the moment I spotted him again in the company of our porters. The breakfast was equally to scratch – Spanish omelette, toast, milk and coffee. All very welcome surprises. Coming to this mountain, I had had my threshold for comfort adjusted to near zero.

After the leisurely breakfast, we had a chat with a senior official of RMS, who was visiting the base camp that morning. He regaled us with tale upon colorful tale of the mountain. The last thing I heard him say was that if, for any reason a rescue was called for, helicopters that can reach this altitude are only available in South Africa. Your guess is as good as mine on what was doing the rounds in my mind. I decided he was talking too much. I excused myself, reached in my pocket for my ear pods and continued listening to Nina Simone. Nobody was going to rain on my parade this early morning. For life, and especially daunting endeavors such as this, I fancy bare facts and trim the fat. I chose to be the proverbial deaf mouse that did not heed any warning on it’s way to the top.

Before we could embark on the climb, we were given a detailed briefing, got introduced to our guides and settled the RMS charges. The trail we would be trekking, the so called Central Circuit, goes through four distinct vegetation zones – the misty Montane Forest, Bamboo, Heather and Alpine Zones. We fitted for equipment needed at the higher altitudes – crampons, ice axes, helmets and climbing harnesses. All of us had to have two sets of baggage; what we were going to “check-in” for the porters to carry and the “carry-on” packs. Typically, my Day Pack consisted of a water bottle (to be refilled from the many water streams and rivers along the way), a sandwich for lunch, an energy snack, a pen and notepad. Depending on the altitude, I included several items of clothing. The mountain punishes you for carrying anything beyond the basics. As I also quickly found out, the weather on this mountain is at best temperamental; it goes from being sunny and nice to rain and dump and back to sunny in an amazingly short span of time. “Layering” took on a whole new meaning here; my daughter would be impressed. The number of porters was determined by the sum total weight of our expedition packs, food and cooking equipment. Given the terrain, the manual stipulated each porter carry a maximum of 15 kg. The actual practice of that is far removed from what is professed. Because they always broke camp after we did, the din of voices in the distance daily prepared us for a swish march-past of the porters at dumbfounding speeds, skipping like hunted deer from low rock to high rock, heavy packs firmly strapped to their foreheads. They certainly were the envy of our lot.

And so gung-ho style and with sunny optimism, we trekked up to the Uganda Wildlife Authority office for the final registration. The folks at this remote outpost were very friendly – the kind of people that add color to the circle of life. One of the men was able to talk one of the ladies into letting him borrow her rain jacket. Am so glad he did. At high altitude, substandard goods are put to the ultimate test. When the going got really bumpy i.e. once my rain poncho was shredded to pieces by the elements, I wrestled the borrowed jacket from him. All I had to do was remind him of “The Look.” My wife had sternly warned him she would never forgive him if anything ever happened to me. Having done the climb before, it was him that had finally challenged me to the mountain. God bless her heart, that look was going to work in my favor in the coming days.