Conquering the roof of Africa

travelogue

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro is often described as a bucket list adventure. For me, it became something far more intimate. It was a journey of endurance, faith, family and unity. I stood on that summit with my husband Shehzad, my son Sameer, my niece Noor and fifteen other members of our Kolachi team. Eighteen of us in total - eighteen determined hearts moving toward one goal.

From the very first day, the mountain made it clear that this would not be easy. We began our ascent on 26 February along the Machame Route. The rainforest was thick and alive, but within hours the skies opened. What started as a drizzle turned into relentless, pounding rain. The trail became slick and muddy. Water seeped through our layers no matter how carefully we tried to protect ourselves. Ponchos flapped in the wind. Boots squelched with every step. By the time we reached camp, we were soaked to the bone.

Our tents, pitched quickly in the downpour, offered little relief. Everything was damp. Sleeping bags were clammy. Clothes were wet. There is a particular discomfort that comes from knowing there is no way to dry off, no warm room waiting for you, no escape from the cold moisture clinging to your skin.

That first night was a true test of endurance. Lying in wet clothes inside a wet tent, listening to the rain hammer against the thin fabric, I realised the mountain was already testing not just our bodies but our minds. No one complained. Instead, we checked on one another. We laughed at the absurdity of it. We reminded each other why we were there. From that day onward, we adopted the mantra our guides repeated constantly: pole pole. Slow and steady. One step at a time. That philosophy carried us through everything that followed.

As the days passed, the landscape transformed dramatically. The dense rainforest gave way to open moorland and then to a stark alpine desert. Each altitude brought new physical sensations. Breathing became more deliberate. Headaches lingered. Sleep grew lighter and more fragmented.

Camping each night required compactness and dexterity. Inside the small tents, every movement had to be intentional. Changing layers without exposing yourself to the freezing air demanded balance and coordination. Organising gear in a confined space tested patience. Even pouring water into a bottle without spilling it felt like an exercise in precision when your fingers were cold and your energy depleted.

Yet there was beauty in that simplicity. The sky at night was vast and glittering. Without city lights, the stars felt almost within reach. We huddled together in the meal tent, sharing stories, encouraging the slower walkers, celebrating small milestones. The Kolachi team became more than a group. We became a family, forged by altitude and shared discomfort.

The third night was unforgettable for a completely different reason. It was my birthday.

I had assumed it would pass quietly, perhaps marked with a simple wish before crawling into my sleeping bag. Instead, I was surprised in the most extraordinary way. Out came a cake that had somehow been carried up the mountain. There was singing, clapping and even dancing in heavy jackets and hiking boots.

Celebrating my birthday at over 13,000 feet felt surreal. Surrounded by Shehzad, Sameer, Noor and our team, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. In that thin air, under a sky crowded with stars, I realised that this climb was about far more than reaching a summit. It was about shared strength and shared joy.

The Barranco Wall

From below, it looked intimidating. Up close, it felt treacherous. The rock face rose sharply, requiring scrambling rather than walking. Loose stones shifted beneath our boots. Hands searched for secure holds. At certain points, you had to lean into the mountain, trusting your balance and your grip.

It was physically demanding, but mentally even more so. Fear whispers loudly when you are clinging to a rock face at high altitude. Yet every time someone hesitated, a teammate was there with reassurance. Step here. Hold there. You’ve got this. Again, pole pole - slow and steady.

By the time we arrived at high camp, the air was thin and biting cold. The environment had turned stark and barren. No vegetation. No softness. Just rock and wind and the looming promise of summit night.

We prepared carefully. Layers were organised with precision. Headlamps were checked and rechecked. Hydration was deliberate. At altitude, small mistakes can escalate quickly. Physical strength alone is not enough. Mental discipline becomes critical.

We woke close to midnight for the final ascent.

The cold was sharp and immediate. Our line of headlamps created a quiet procession into the darkness. The slope was steep and covered in loose scree that slid backward with every step. Progress was painfully slow. Breathe. Step. Pause. Pole pole.

At nearly 6,000 meters, your body protests loudly. Every breath feels insufficient. Your legs feel heavy. Doubt tries to creep in. This is where Kilimanjaro becomes a true test of mental strength. You cannot rush. You cannot panic. You must simply continue. And that is when something profound became clear to me. Every distance is conquerable if we have the time and the commitment. The mountain does not yield to speed. It yields to patience. To consistency. To showing up for each step even when you are exhausted.

It struck me how similar that is to any relationship - a deep bond. They are not built on grand gestures. They are built pole pole. Slow and steady. Through storms, through treacherous climbs, through cold nights and thin air. With time. With effort. With unwavering commitment.

I focused on Shehzad’s steady rhythm beside me. I thought about Sameer pushing forward ahead of me. I saw Noor’s quiet determination. I felt the silent strength of our group stretching up and down the slope. No one was alone in their struggle. Hours later, the sky began to lighten. Deep blue shifted to gold. When we finally reached Uhuru Peak, the highest point on the mountain, it felt almost unreal.

The wooden summit sign stood against a horizon of endless clouds. The glaciers shimmered in the early morning light. Africa stretched beneath us in breathtaking stillness. Standing above the clouds, I understood that grit is quiet. Resolve is steady. Victory is earned step by step.

The summit was not just a physical triumph. It was a reminder that endurance, patience and commitment can carry us farther than we imagine. Kilimanjaro did not simply test us; it revealed what is possible when we move forward, pole pole, refusing to give up.

And if there is one truth I carried home from the Roof of Africa, it is this: whatever mountain stands before you in life, no matter how high, no matter how distant - it can be climbed.

Slowly. Steadily. With heart.

Ainee Shehzad is an educationist, scholar, Cambridge-certified trainer and an avid trekker with the Kolachi Trekkers. She can be reached at [email protected]