Visually challenged trekking

I realised that I haven't posted at all on this blog about the issues of trekking up mountains when you cna't see where you're going. In some ways, this is much more challenging than the medical problems I have to deal with, as it really affects me mentally as well as physically, and it's hard for others to understand.

I've done a fair bit of trekking since I lost my sight 15 years ago, but I don't think even my closest friends really can appreciate what it's like for me. People often say they'd never guess I was partially sighted, but once you know, it does become more obvious. It affects my trekking in a number of ways: some serious, some just frustrating. And while I'm used to not being able to see properly, and indeed often forget that others can see more than me, there are some things that will always remain challenging.

How does it affect me on a practical note?

My sight condition has a number of different aspects:

• I have 3/60 vision. This means that I see at 3 metres away what most people can see at 60m away. And what I can see at 60m away isn't really worth seeing. So, it means I can't see much in the distance, only things that are very close to me, which means that I have great difficulty route finding as I have little to get my bearings from, and I often can't see what happens to the path more than a few feet away, or indeed, if it really is the path or not. And even what I see at 3 feet is pretty blurry. Imagine wearing your glasses or sunglasses and then smearing butter on them.
• I have 2D vision, i.e. I have pretty much no depth or distance perception. This means that everything looks flat and I have no sense of perspective (like looking at a photo where it looks as if there's a tree on someone's head, for example). This seems to enable me to take good photos at times, since I see htings the same way they come out in the photo. But it's not always helpful for figuring out what the path looks like, where there are steps, slopes, rocks and so on, and how big they are. Close one eye and try negotiating steps, kerbs and touching a piece of string held in front of you, for example.
• I have a distorted sense of colour. This means that similar colours look the same to me (dark blue, dark brown, black, grey etc are virtually indistinguishable, as are similar light oclours). This makes identifying things hard, as sometimes things blend into one. But it's more of an issue socially.
• I have a very reduced field of peripheral vision. Since I have virtually no usable sight in my left eye, I see nothing to my left side unless I turn my head, and I have a reduced field of vision to the right also. This is mainly a problem for avoiding obstacles (and especially, avoiding bumping into people walking beside me, especially on my left side). Try walking around simulating a pair of horse blinkers with your hands, and you'll see what I mean.
• I have a very limited ability to adjust to different light levels, which means that going from dark to light conditions and vice versa suddenly is very problematic. But worse, I see almost nothing at night - even with a really good torch I can only see a couple of feet away - and I have limited sight in bright sunshine, even with sunglasses, although they help immenely in almost all conditions by increasing the contrast. Try turning your TV set to minimum contrast, and you'll get the idea.

Combine all these issues together, and you get an interesting picture...Of course, I've learnt to deal with some of these aspects, and I have to train my brain to ignore what it thinks it's seeing, and go with what I know I should be seeing. For instance, if I know there are steps, even though my brain interprets them as being flat, I have to remind myself to ignore that little voice. Sometimes, especially in the dark, my brain invents things that aren't there (this isn't me going senile, don't worry, it's a recognised phenomenon). For example, sometimes I'll suddenly stop dead because my brain has gone into impish mode and will be trying to convince me there's a cliff edge right in front of me. If you've ever been half asleep and had that feeling of suddenly falling off a cliff  or down a big hole (allegedly the result of your heart momentarily skipping a beat, though I'm not sure that's true), you'll know (sort of) what I mean.

So, in terms of trekking, in practical terms it means that I can't see far ahead of me, I can't easily find my way if I'm not following someone, I can't always tell what kind of terrain I'm walking on, or how big rocks are that I'm about to stand on, how far below me the step down is when descending, and of course I often can't see the incredible views others can. On the other hand, it makes looking down from high places slightly less scary, though I'm still not great with heights, because I can't really tell how far down it is. I get around some of the issues with walking poles (when I use them), which help a lot with feeling the terrain and depth of descents, and of course when walking with other people I don't have to worry about route finding unless I'm in front. Of course, people often forget this, and sometimes I like to walk in front, but this means that I often have problems figuring out which way to go, on what look like obvious paths to others. Trekking at night is of course another story, and perhaps it makes more sense now as to why the summit attempt was so hard for me.

But it's often the other aspects of a trek that are more problematic for me in terms of sight - and it's the mental aspects that are the most challenging. People tend to forget easily about my sight problems, and juts moving around the campsite is highly challenging. Even in daylight, I can't always figure out how to get from my tent to the mess tent, or where the toilet tent is. In the dark, it's even worse, and I frequently get completely lost walking around even a very small campsite at night, as I have nothing to guide me. One evening I got hopelessly lost trying to get from the mess tent to the loo, and was wandering aimlessly in the wrong direction for a while, getting more and more nervous by the minute. Luckily on the Kili trek, there were always plenty of people around - watu, guides and porters - and on that occasion, someone (I have no idea who) found me lost and brought me safely back. Getting to the loo in the middle of the night (and getting back safely) is always a bit challenging, and on several occasions I've tried to get into the wrong tent on the way back. Luckily those involved have always managed to laugh about it, and I've realised in time, but it could be potentially a lot more awkward. Imagine if it was one of the guides or porters, or if I didn't realise until I had actally got into the tent? Even worse would be to trip on a rock or even fall off a cliff in the night - easily done, though I try to take note of any obstacles or difficulties while it's still light, if I can.

What always gets me the most is my lack of recognition of people, however. I'll never get used to this in everyday life, let alone in these kind of situations, and I find it quite upsetting, especially as so many people forget. I have terrible difficulty telling apart porters and guides, which can be embarrassing, and awkward for them too. For instance, I started explaining to one of the porters who asked how I was one morning all about my various medical symptoms, only for him to retreat rather puzzled. I had thought he was one of the guides. Similarly, I can't always tell the guides apart, unless I can remember what they happened to be wearing that day (which of course is problematic first thing in the morning, or when they put a hat on, for example). This makes it awkward socially, partly if I want to ask specific questions of e.g. the head guide, or if I want to carry on a conversation I've had previously. Even worse, if I want to ask one of them something specific, for example, if I want to speak to the cook, I often have to ask someone which one they are. Those who know me are very good at "taking me over" to the appropriate person, but most people don't really get it, and just point in the general direction, which doesn't help much, or worse, laugh at me. This is pretty much the ultimate humiliation for me.

I try not to let it get me down, but it is frustating. It's perhaps my own fault for not mkaing it clearer to people when I need help, but I like to try to manage on my own if I can. And I enjoy travelling with strangers rather than travelling with someone I know just so they can constantly help me with all these things, although it's nice when people offer. It's a very fine line between trying to deal with things yourself, and not make too much of an issue of it, and asking for help when you need it. I'm getting better at it, but it's far from easy. All I ask for is a bit of understanding, so that when I make mistakes due to my sight, or when I have problems and ask for help, people can help as best they can.

Thoughts on returning from Kilimanjaro

I've been back at home for a week, and it was down to earth with a huge bump. I'm still trying to adjust mentally to "normal life", and it's proving very hard. I often get a bit of culture shock combined with post-holiday blues after incredible trips to places with very different cultures, such as after I visited Cuba and Peru, but this time it's hit me far harder than ever before. The enormity of the challenge and the expectations I put on myself, the sheer physical endurance of the trek, the disappointment of not quite achieving my goals, or maybe just the incredible experience of the whole thing -- I'm not sure what the exact cause, but I miss the place and the people in a way that's never really happened before. It's probably not helped by the emotional journey of blogging about the trip and constantly reliving the memories, nor by making the (what I think are) quite moving videos of stunning scenery, nor by the lovely correspondence I've had with Abraham and Joseph since getting back. They were both very keen to reassure me that my lack of success in summiting was by no means my fault, and that you just have to accept defeat sometimes. The mountain is always going to be superior in the end. Even both of them have had to descend due to altitude problems on at least one occasion, despite having summited hundreds of times. But what really got to me was both the tone and the content of their emails, from which it was very clear that far from being a burden to them, or "just another job", they also felt a great pride in having done what they could to help me, and the fact that my attitude made them look at things in a different way. Ben Fogle told me the same thing when I met him last year, that the impact that those with physical and mental challenges had on him during his various treks was what made it all worthwhile. Abraham and Joseph told me how much fun I'd made the trip for them, how much they appreciated me learning Swahili and practising it on them, especially with my home-made Swahili jokes, but more importantly, how I'd made them feel special when I'd relied on them for help. They were both keen for me to come back and have another go at the summit, and they clearly want to be the person who helps me finally achieve that goal. So I guess the feeling goes both ways -- not only am I indebted to them, but I'd like to think I also gave something back to them too. Joseph was also incredibly proud of the present I gave him, claiming that he would now be the envy of everyone else for looking so smart and neat, and how they would all talk about his wonderful gaiters! I just wish I'd been able to give both him and Abraham something more personal. I did, however, make a little tribute to all the guides with this video (below).


In writing this blog, I haven't been looking for sympathy, admiration or anything else. But I've been overwhelmed with responses about how much people have enjoyed reading about my adventures, not just from the interest point of view but also how much they've admired my spirit. Of course, I think it's mostly a load of nonsense, and there are certainly people who've done much more challenging and adventurous things, but a little part of me is still proud of being able to inspire other people occasionally. I've posted about some of the gory details not to show particularly the tough things I went through, but as inspiration or advice for others with similar challenges, because that's the kind of thing that inspires me.

Will I go back for another attempt at Kilimanjaro? Initially, I didn't think I would. I talked a lot about it with Joseph and the other guides in the last 2 days of the trek, and I felt at the time that I'd still achieved enough, I'd had a fantastic trip, raised nearly £2000 for charity, and I didn't need to prove anything to anyone. Joseph clearly didn't believe me at the time, and I think he was right. I'm fiercely competitive, and while I don't have a need to prove anything to anyone else, I do have a need to prove it to myself. Some part of it needs to prove that I was just unlucky with the altitude, and that I could still reach the top. Some part of me wants to see the incredible views on the summit that I only saw later in other people's photos. But perhaps most of all, some part of me just wants to go back and do it all again with Abraham and Joseph. Maybe a different route, maybe in combination with Mt Meru or Mt Kenya to aid acclimatisation, almost certainly with a daytime ascent though. Christmas 2013 is looking good.....




I leave you with more memories of wonderful scenery and good times.

Diabetes on a mountain (part 2)

After my trek in the Atlas mountains in September, I blogged about the issues I faced managing diabetes on a mountain. Following my Kilimanjaro trek, here's a little update on what worked for me this time. Amazingly, things went remarkably well and the only real problems I had were following my failed summit attempt, no doubt due to the stress on the body.

Everyone is different, but here's what worked, and didn't work, for me. During the trek, I reduced my basal insulin from 7am - 10pm from 0.9 units per hour to 0.7 units per hour. I then set a temporary basal rate of approximately 60% (from 0.9 down to 0.5) from breakfast (about 30 minutes before we started walking) until about an hour before we finished walking (if I could predict when that would be). At night, I experimented more, but mostly a basal reduction of about 10% (from 0.7 to 0.6 units per hour) worked well for me. Bear in mind that 0.7 is my overnight setting for active days anyway (most days) - for non-active days it's more like 0.9 units per hour. This turned out to be a bit more hit and miss, though I mostly woke up with good results and had very few major highs or lows.

My biggest problem was the dreaded dawn phenomenona and the hour after breakfast, when my levels would often spike up to about 13, and it was hard to know whether to let it drop naturally with the exercise or to take a small correction bolus. Mostly I went with the latter, which was quite successful. Amazingly, I had no almost no hypos on trek at all. of the 6 packs of glucose tablets and 2 bags of jelly babies I took with me, I only used about 1 1/2 bags of jelly babies and no glucose tablets, and many of these were to stave off an impending hypo rather than fight a real one. I also had cereal bars which occasionally I'd use for a minor hypo.

Interestingly, the increasing altitude seemed to have no real effect on me at all, even up to base camp at 4900m, although the lack of hypos and a few high levels in the evening suggest that I was probably reducing my insulin a little bit too much (based on a normal trekking day, which actually involves a lot more mileage than we were covering, due to the difficulties of altitude). I should probably take this into consideration in future, although frequent testing and correcting meant I had little problem. Summit night started off well and after the first hour, at 1am, my blood sugar was still at a perfect 7. Due to the intense difficulties I faced after that on the summit, and the severe cold and lack of time at any stop, I didn't test again, which was probably a mistake, as when I reached base camp at around 7am my blood sugar had spiked right up to 33. I felt desperately sick and dehydrated, but whether that was a result of the high  blood sugar, or more likely, the cause of it, is hard to tell. It responded very quickly to a large dose of insulin (7 units) and lots of water, so I suspect again that the high blood sugar was reactionary to my condition caused by altitude sickness, rather than vice versa.

I also had no problems with infusion sets or filling reservoirs with insulin at altitude, unlike when I was in Peru. I had to gradually remove a little air from the insulin vial as we got higher, to prevent the bottle exploding, but just sticking the needle into the vial and allowing the air to escape was sufficient.

All in all, it was a valuable experience and I was very relieved to find that I was able to manage things so well. Of course, it would have been very easy for it all to have gone horribly wrong, so I shall definitely not be complacent next time. But it's nice to see that lots of practice and experimentation seem to be paying off.

Day 8: Descent from Millennium to Arusha (1650m)

Our last day of trekking was rather frustrating for a number of reasons. Most of the group were still tired from the climb, although I was feeling totally recovered and full of energy, even if my mind was all over the place. An early start at 6am to make time for the traditional tipping ceremony, conducted by Phil with a very moving speech which had me in tears throughout. I kept catching Joseph's eye, and despite his big grin I knew he understood what I was feeling: the emotions of the trip, the reasons for my undertaking it, the disappointment of not making the summit, but at the same time the incredible experience of it all. I glanced at Nicholas and George, and then at Abraham, and they clearly understood too. All the guides are used to the incredible emotional experience that the trek is for many, and no doubt for some in the past who endured far more than I did. It was clear to everyone: guides, trekkers and even some of the porters (as I found out later), not to mention you the reader by now, that Joseph and I had developed a special bond in the last 36 hours that had nothing to do with romantic interest. I wished I had something to give him, but the only thing that came to mind was my gaiters, which I hadn't used all trek (or even ever in the 10 years I've owned them), since he was the only guide without a pair. I caught him in a quiet moment and handed over the gaiters and an extra tip: no words were needed.

The tipping ceremony over, the guides and porters sang the standard Kilimanjaro song for our entertainment, which they had been busy practising over the last few days. I'd seen and heard it many times, so it wasn't novel, but it was beautifully done and with great gusto, as if it was the first time for them too. Unfortunately, the effect was marred by several members of our group requesting a repeat performance so they could video it. I'm sure they meant well, but the repeat and the videoing turned it abruptly from a moving and personal experience into something that felt commercial and touristy. The porters performed creditably, but you could tell their hearts weren't quite in it the second time.

Finally, after much faffing (still, on day 8, people had not figured how to adjust their poles, remembered to apply suncream, sorted their rucksacks and so on, which made me incredibly annoyed), we began the descent. Due to the tiredness of some, or perhaps general apathy, it was painfully slow and I became more and more frustrated, along with several other members of the group. It was a huge anticlimax at the best of times, and the mood was not improved by all the delay, especially as the porters were all desperate to get home. It gave me the chance to spend some more time chatting to Joseph and the other guides, who clearly shared my frustration but were of course too professional to do anything but grin and bear it. The fact that I had buckets of energy and no outlet for it made me more despondent: I had recovered fully and had no sore muscles, just a lot of bruises. I found it increasingly hard to rein in my feelings, but Joseph and George sensed my mood and did their best to cheer me up and make me laugh.

The bus journey back to Arusha, however, lifted everyone's spirits as we crammed in guides and porters, some of whom were dropped off en route. The bus was stuffed like a Turkish dolmus, but somehow George had managed to save the extra jump seat next to me for Joseph and he climbed on board at the last minute, enabling us to spend a final couple of hours chatting. He was eager to point out all the sights of his local area, including where he'd been to school and college, and to educate me more about local life. The porters on board were in jovial mood and were laughing and singing, led by James the cook up front. The whole bus soon erupted into a frenzy of singing and clapping, which brought home to me the spirit of the whole trip - much more so than the organised song they had prepared for us earlier, which though beautifully sung and with great gusto, was a tourist performance as opposed to the wonderful display of spontaneous warmth, fun and excitement of a group of Africans going home after a week of trials, tribulations, hard work and bonding, both amongst themselves and in many cases with us too.

While the trip was an incredible experience, as is often the case it left me finding it increasingly difficult to deal with the mundanities of everyday life once we had arrived back at the hotel - the inane chatter of the rest of the group, the petty complaints about food and service that night and the next day. I could see a couple of the others felt the same way, and we found it hard to socialise, preferring the solitude of our own thoughts and emotions. I was also devastated that due to some miscommunication and the extreme lateness of the hour at which we got back to the hotel, I missed saying goodbye to Abraham and the other guides who were supposed to be staying for a drink or two with us. Much though goodbyes are difficult, the trip felt incomplete without a final farewell to those who had looked after us so well and become real friends. Phil, Mo, Gail and I shared a bottle of wine over dinner, and then lingered over another bottle after the others had gone to bed, but I didn't feel like sleeping even though the wine had gone to my head a little. The next day, I reached for my MP3 player for the first time, and deliberately shunned conversation, opting to go for a run around the coffee plantation instead. Of course, there will be other trips to look forward to, new memories and excitement, but I find it hard to believe that anything can ever match my Kilimanjaro experience.

Day 7: Descent from Barafu to Millenium Camp (3800m)

After a couple of hours' rest I was woken by Coleman the kitchen porter with a very welcome cup of tea. My blood sugar had risen to 30 mmol/l (almost 10 times what it should have been) and I was feeling very dehydrated and sick. I lay in my tent for another couple of hours and finally heard the others returning. All were too shattered to even speak to me except Phil, who came to check if I was OK. Several of the guides came to see how I was feeling, and it was decided that after a quick brunch, Joseph would take me down to the next camp as quickly as possible, where the lower altitude should make me feel better, as I was still looking pretty ill and shaky.

As we descended, I started to feel much stronger and we talked more about the events of the morning, as well as many other things. It was lovely to have some peace and quiet and to descend at a fast pace rather than having to wait for the group as a whole, and we got down in record time. Here's Joseph striding through the forest. Unfortunately we were so fast that the porters were still behind us and we had to wait a couple of hours for them to arrive and pitch camp. On the way down, we saw a girl collapse, and a little later the stretcher bearers were despatched from the camp to collect her. She looked in a terrible state when she arrived in the camp, and it brought home to me yet again how lucky an escape I'd had. I also learnt that one of the WOK paragliders had successfully taken off from the summit that morning with his guide, in incredibly dangerous conditions, with strong winds, no navigation equipment (since the batteries had died) and a lot of cloud. the remaining pilots had not been able to take off (since they had some sense of self-preservation, unlike Babu) and had had to descend on foot after 2 days of being stuck at the crater rim. I was to hear a lot more about this story, and the conroversy, later when I met one of the pilots back at the hotel.

It was actually quite fun watching the porters setting up camp, as usually they'd done it all before we arrived. One of them brought me a chair and I sat in the middle of the campsite "supervising". It was very entertaining watching all the arguments between the tent porters about where to set up the tents, each fighting to get the best spot for their "client" and arguing about how many tents you could fit in one spot. My tent porter, whose name I still can't pronounce or remember, was one of the first to get his tent up, although the spot he'd picked was not ideal as it was on one of the slopiest bits of ground, but by this time I was very used to sliding down the tent in the night (unlike some of my companions who complained constantly about this problem).

Day 7: The Summit Attempt (5895m)

Contrary to all expectation, I managed 4 hours sleep with a brief interlude as usual for a loo break. I couldn't possibly contemplate the descent to the toilet tent in the dark with a howling wind and temperatures well below zero, so I hoped that for once the night watchmen and/or porters and guides (who had a tendency to pop up at unexpected moments in the dark and scare me to death!) would not make an appearance while I was peeing outside my tent. No doubt there would be an interesting patch of ice marking the spot in the morning, but to be honest that was the least of my worries.

At 11pm we were woken by the guides and it was a tremendous effort to wriggle out of my warm sleeping bag, put on several layers of clothes and emerge into the freezing midnight air. My summit attire consisted of:

• compression leggings, thermal leggings and softshell trousers
• liner socks plus thick Bridgedale "Summit" merino socks
• two thermal base layers, a thich fleece jacket and my down jacket. I may or may not have put on also my thin fleece jumper under the jacket - I deliberated about it and can't now remember the decision I made.
• balaclava and woolly hat
• hand warmers in both my boots and my gloves (as advised by Abraham, although what I didn't realise is that because these work on the oxidation principle, they rapidly lose effectiveness the higher the altitude)
• Smartwool liner gloves and thick ski mittens

For water, I had a 1 litre thermal drinking bottle in my rucksack, and my 2 litre bladder which I had cunningly managed to fit into the inside map pocket of my fleece jacket (since water would freeze very quickly in the tubing otherwise). Since we had been given warm water this time to fill the bottles with, this made for a very cozy hot water bottle (though it was actually a little bit too warm for the first hour or so of the trek). It was also very tricky to have to undo 2 sets of zips in order to retrieve the mouthpiece to drink, necessitating the removal of at least one mitten and a full stop rather than drinking on the move as I was used to. However I was determined not to let my water bottle freeze and risk becoming dehydrated, so this seemed like the best solution. I think everyone else was slightly jealous of me as they tried various tactics - some more successful than others - to keep their bottles from freezing.

After a cup of tea, a spoonful of porridge which I managed to force down despite feeling rather queasy - whether from altitude, apprehension, or just getting up at 11pm, I'm not sure), and a couple of ginger biscuits , it was time to move. We set off shortly after midnight and I soon realised this was going to be far more challenging a start than I had anticipated, as we set off up an incredibly steep and rocky path. I started out at the front behind Abraham and was a little dismayed that, having been promised that Joseph would walk with me, he was nowhere to be seen. Our chests were heaving, but I managed well enough for the first hour or so.
After a brief stop, long enough to check my blood sugar (a perfect 7), drink some water and eat half a cereal bar, we were on the move again and I now found myself at the back. At least Joseph was accompanying me this time and I felt very relieved that he was close beside me. Soon I felt myself falling behind the others and my torchlight appeared to grow dimmer and dimmer until I could barely see anything. I asked Joseph if it was working and, puzzled, he told me it was fine. It seemed rather odd but I shrugged it off. Gradually my legs became weaker and I fell flat on my face after tripping over a small rock that I hadn't seen. Joseph and Lazaro picked me up and I continued, but I soon realised I was fast losing coordination. They began to encourage me and we reached an easier section of scree where I didn't have to concentrate quite so hard on where to put my feet. My spirits rose as Joseph in front of me, and Lazaro and Saidi (who had somehow appeared out of the blue) started to sing and I found the energy to join in. Surely I could make it now! But this was shortlived, and we soon reached another section of steep rock, where I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Saidi had disappeared and Joseph and Lazaro continued to encourage me, but my legs wouldn't do what I wanted and I soon found myself unable to think, coordinate my limbs, or even speak. Joseph was asking me questions but I couldn't produce words. By now I was repeatedly falling over, which sapped my energy further, although Joseph managed to catch me several times, and we had to keep stopping. He suggested more than once that we quit, but I was determined to keep going. Every time we sat down, I would literally collapse, and several times nearly fell off the rock I was sitting on, only saved by Joseph's quick reactions.

Eventually, Joseph made the decision that I could not carry on. We had reached around 5550m and there was still about an hour's climb to go, but I had nothing more to give. I could clearly not make it any further and I was drifting in and out of consciousness, not to mention feeling desperately sick. I tried to protest but since I couldn't speak, it was impossible to argue with him. We were all getting very cold with the numerous stops and, amazingly, Joseph had no gloves! Apparently he had some but didn't like wearing them. Of course, in supporting me, he couldn't keep his hands in his pockets which made it worse. I gave him one of my handwarmers, as his hands were completely numb, but it didn't help much. Lazaro left us at this point to continue his ascent, and Joseph and I began the treacherous descent.

By now I could see almost nothing at all, and I realised both eyes were haemorrhaging, as dark flecks of blood swirled around my vision. I was absolutely terrified at the thought of descending this steep, slippery set of rocks totally blind and with so little coordination. We stopped for a moment while Joseph gave me a big hug and we tried to warm each other up.  He reassured me that there was no shame in descending, that the mountain would wait for me another time, and that there was no point risking my life, and then, taking my left hand in his, and with his right arm around me, we began the tortuous descentm while he constantly kept me motivated, urging me to trust him and that we would be safe. How we got down, I will never know, but the man was incredible. I fell numerous times, once landing on a rock so hard, and with such a loud snap, that he thought I had broken my leg, but it was no more than superficial bruising. Apparently he also fell numerous times, as he only told me later. I don't think I have ever been so terrified, but with a combination of his physical strength and constant reassurance in my ear, we gradually descended, passing many others who were vomiting by the path, or descending with their guides like me.

Eventually I realised that the sun had begun to rise and I could see a little. Without even consulting me, Joseph unzipped my jacket, grabbed my camera from the inner pocket, and started snapping photos of the sunrise over Mawenzi, and a couple of me. I realised that my headtorch was still on, although it had been of no use to me at all for the last couple of hours.  I felt desperately dehydrated, but at least my legs had started to recover a little. Suddenly, the emotions overtook me. Joseph stood and hugged me as the tears flowed down my face, and we stood on the rocks watching the sunrise. I showed him my dad's watch I was wearing, and the fleece bag my mum had made me, and we talked about the reasons for my trip. I shall never forget that moment, perhaps more intense even than the moment I would have reached the summit. They say you learn twice as much from failure as from success, and I heartily agree.

As we descended the final stretch arm in arm, we talked about the experience and the possibility of returning another time to make the ascent in daylight, with Joseph as my guide. To be honest, I don't know whether I want to return. A part of me refuses to admit defeat and would like to come back and make a successful summit, just to prove I can do it. But the other part of me does not need to return. I have nothing to prove, I still managed what I perceive to be a tremendous achievement, and while I'm obviously disappointed, reaching the summit was not necessarily the ultimate goal. As one of my colleagues is forever reminding me at work, "life is a journey not a destination", and the journey was a momentous one.

In  a previous post about success or failure, I talked about Jerry Gore and other people who had not necessarily achieved all they set out to do, through no fault of their own. I think I know just how Jerry and others felt on not quite achieving their goal. Do I see it as a failure? No. It could have had a better ending, and I feel an incredible stab of jealousy that other people who were less fit, less well prepared, and who did not have anything like my mental strength, still managed to reach the summit. Of course, they didn't have my medical conditions. But that's no excuse - people with far more challenging problems than I have have made it to the summit. Still, such is life, and I have long had to deal with the limitations of my body despite putting in sometimes twice as much effort as other people to achieve the same goal. What matters most to me is the fortitude to deal with the difficulties life throws at me, to keep trying and not to get dispirited by setbacks. As a teenager struggling with the usual angst, my prayer to God was never for money, happiness or even good health, but always for fortitude. I like to think he answered my prayer at some point. One thing I know is that I shall keep putting challenges in front of me, I shall continue climbing mountains, and overcome as many of the mental and physical obstacles afforded by them as I can. I reiterate Jerry's words: Bottom line – Diabetes is a real pain in the bum, it can really depress and shut you down sometimes and inhibit you but if you have the motivation and insulin and equipment it is definitely and absolutely NOT an excuse to live an unfulfilled life.

Later that morning, I heard that a man died at the summit the same morning. The others saw his dead body. No one quite knows the full story, but the likelihood was a heart attack and instant death. If I had any qualms about Joseph's decision to abort the climb and bring me back down, they were rapidly quashed and things put into perspective.

Day 6: Karanga to Barafu Camp (4600m)

Today's walk was only about 4 1/2 hours, all uphill but at a very slow pace on compacted scree, and I felt strong throughout with not even any difficulty breathing until the last 10 minutes, despite the steam train noises emanating from Mark's lungs behind me. To be fair, he had a cold all week, which he very kindly gave me, resulting in constant nosebleeds and a blocked nose at night, and the consequent sharing of my pot of Tiger Balm with him. Barafu Camp was cold, windy, busy and on a very steep hill, but as usual our team of porters had rushed to get the best spot and had found a quiet spot for us amongst the rocks on the far side, away from the general hullabaloo. For some unknown reason, they had placed the loo a long way down a treacherous descent which proved challenging in daylight with walking boots on, let alone at night in a pair of Crocs! I'm sure they do it deliberately for fun. At least my tent was near the mess tent, if far from the loo, as even that stretch was not easy to negotiate!




More stunning views of Mawenzi Peak, and I whiled away an hour sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, soaking up the sun despite being bundled up in down jacket and several layers against the biting wind.








After lunch we had a very detailed briefing from Abraham and the other guides, which for the first time had a very serious tone, and which left me feeling more nervous - at least momentarily - although I'd heard it all before and there was nothing new. Until then I'd been looking forward to the challenge, but suddenly the reality hit me and thoughts of freezing cold, altitude sickness, hallucinations and even death were I not to descend quickly enough, scampered through my brain like mice. At least the rest of the group were fairly subdued and there were no stupid questions. I caught Abraham in a quiet moment afterwards and reminded him about my sight difficulties in the dark. He reassured me that I had been assigned Joseph as my personal guide for the summit, which I was very relieved about. All the guides are lovely and I didn't mind at all which one I was assigned, but I felt a special affinity for Joseph which was, unbeknown to me at the time, soon to grow into an incredible bond.

After more discussion about clothing, I finally made my decision about what to wear, and tried on what I had planned, although at 2pm in a boiling hot tent with the sun beating down, the 5 layers including down jacket felt a little superfluous.  After an early dinner at about 5.30pm we were packed off to bed to try and sleep, which amazingly, I did.