Tanzania: Kilimanjaro, So Many Animals, The Best Guides. Chapter 1: Baby Dwarfs Mountain

The fat, round crest of Kibo, tallest and largest of Kilimanjaro’s three volcanic cones, the highest mountain on the African continent, the one reaching all the way to 19,341 foot Uhuru Peak, confidently looms over Tanzanian plains 16,000 feet below. Way down there you find the Chagga city of Moshi and the hotel room from which this photograph was taken. Sharlene, Katharine, and I stood at this window, drunk with jet lag, luggage less, disoriented, staring at this thing that had straddled my bucket list for as long as I can remember. "Really?" Maybe we all said it aloud, "We're climbing that?" That was the plan.

For the next 10 days that Mountain would be the center of our world. There it was peeking up through the clouds, it's 16, 890 thousand foot sub peak, Mawenzi, off to to right, both behind the much shorter but closer Mount Meru as we landed at Kilimanjaro International Airport; or hanging over Maasai herdsmen and the massive Salada crossroads market between Moshi and Arusha. Taunting us from one camp, climate zone, and stretch of trail to another; the Shira Plateau, High Alpine Desert zone, Baranca Wall, Karanga Camp, Heather and Moorland zone, Barafu basecamp.

Or sometimes hanging behind the clouds above us as we marched along, rested, or built our own cairns in a field of cairns, our own prayers for peace with whatever might have a hand in our climb.

We were there, urged (insisted is more like it) by Katharine, to finally try to climb Kilimanjaro while Shar and I still have the legs, and because we'd been dying to finally experience a little bit of Africa. Spoiler Alert!

We summited. We survived the stresses of erratic Covid testing rules, jet lag, lost luggage, and the quiet, cruel joke the mountain plays on you as it silently, steadily removes the oxygen you need more than ever as you slog higher and higher. We finally stood on Uhuru, the summit, after climbing for 7 days, fending off altitude sickness, and stepping over other climbers’ vomit. Struck speechless by the glaciers, by the endless cloud carpet thousands of feet below, by the fiery, intense, orange sun pouring through a narrow slice along the eastern horizon just as we reached Kibo’s cone, and the mesmerizing, shadowy pyramid of 14,000 foot Mount Meru miles away, we took quick photos and stumbled off. Two hours of steep down hill later we were welcomed back to our upper Barafu basecamp by porters singing and dancing, celebrating our success, and theirs. All five of our group had made the summit, everyone was still heathy, uninjured. And we had walked the edge of Kibo's crater, felt her icy (and I mean ICY) breath.

I wouldn’t trade that experience, no…I have to say “those experiences”…for anything: the time with Shar and Kat, our smart, eager, capable guides, the things we learned, saw, enjoyed, the struggles, the Mountain, the safaris after the climb. All of it. And I intend to share some of that here, in the next handful of posts.

But the truth is…

This summer, mighty 19,341 foot Mount Kilimanjaro was dwarfed by the 19 and ¾ inches and 6 pounds one ounce of this guy, Joseph Robert Pepin, the grandson and nephew Conor and Kelly gave us on June 25, five weeks before we stood atop Kili. So, while there will be more posts about the mountain, those safaris, and the wonderful people who helped us along the way in Tanzania, there are mountains and there are miracles. And here with a few words about this summer's miracle.

We've known Kelly Rushing since she and Conor were 14 years old, a full 9 years ago. On the snowiest day of the the snowiest Colorado season, much to our delight, Kelly and Conor were married. I've never seen a happier couple, although, dang, she had to have been freezing to get this picture taken.

The pair of them were so excited to be parents. Their little boy was due July 7 and we planned to be in Colorado with them then. But...on June 24, Kelly went into labor. Our plans for both of us to drive to Denver changed in a flash. Katharine was camping in Moab, Utah and headed for Denver. The morning of the 25th, we had just left the house to get Sharlene to the airport. Kelly was in the hospital, Shar was on a FaceTime phone call with Conor from the delivery room. It looked as if the birth would take a few hours so that three or four mile stretch between our house and Port Angeles, the stretch where we lose phone service, wouldn't be much of a problem. But we no sooner got back in touch with Conor than it was obvious, the baby was forcing his way out.. And it was happening right now! Shar and I just made it into PA, pulled into the Super Saver grocery store parking lot, and watched the delivery from Conor's phone propped up on the hospital window behind Conor and Kimberly, Kelly's mom. Here's a screen shot, Conor peeking back at us over his shoulder, having the time of his life. (Of course, he wasn't the one in labor.) Before we knew it, little Joey was in his mother's arms.

This compelling photograph of Kelly and Joseph moments after he was born is, I know, of my own grandson and daughter-in-law, but I'd find it difficult to imagine any of the lavish, pious Madonna and Child artistic renderings over the centuries that could communicate a clearer, more miraculous connection.

And Conor as a father, his hand securing that tiny, beautiful head. That's a form of beauty that I didn't know existed. When I learned that they named him after Kelly's brother, Joe, and me...well, the truth is, I'll probably still be glowing when I breath my last breath.

At the risk of sounding even more corny, there is a ton (a mountain??heehee) of love surrounding that tiny little guy. And it really is just beginning. We are all so thankful.