Here follows the first of several guest posts by Judy Maynard, my mum, who grew up in Kenya and climbed both Mt Kenya and Mt Kilimanjaro in the 1960s, with nothing like the kit and facilities we have today! This account of her ascent of Mt Kenya in 1967 was published in "Africana Magazine", an apparently now defunct magazine, although a new publication of the same name has been in existence since 2004. I leave her to tell the story of her trip!

Arriving at our
rendezvous, the small village of Nanyuki at the foot of the mountain,
we consigned the car to a week of rest at the friendly garage. With
the rest of our party we squeezed into the waiting Land Rover which
was to take us up to the base camp, towards which the ponies and pack
animals were already making their way.
Our route lay along
the main road to the north for a few miles, then a narrow rutted
track branched off, leading us almost immediately up through thick
forest. At times we were more than grateful for the wire tracks laid
by the British Army for use in their training manoeuvres on the
steeper gradients. Up and up, climbing steadily, the monotony of the
endless forest being broken only by the occasional glade, or tiny
stream. Colobus monkeys, clad in their long, thick, black and white
pelts, barked at us as we passed, and bright green touracos with
their flashing red wings flapped heavily across the track ahead.
Suddenly, without
warning we emerged onto the open moorland and stopped for our first
real view. It was magnificent. Three thousand feet below us the
shimmering plain emerged from the base of the mountain and stretched
out until it became lost in a heat haze. Above and behind us, the
peaks were hidden by a thin veil of mist, lifting occasionally to
give us tantalizing glimpses. Around us stretched a sea of tussocky
grass and giant heather, broken here and there by splashes of
gaily-coloured wild flowers interspersed with patches of duller,
everlasting flowers. A couple of miles further on we rounded a corner
to find our camp set up in the lee of a sheltering rocky outcrop. The
ponies, and pack-animals were grazing hungrily in the afternoon
sunshine, although the cold wind made us glad of our thick jackets.


That evening, contentedly munching their ration of easily-transportable cubes, the animals seemed little affected by the 14,000 ft altitude, and the only concession made being the thick blanket and sacking rug which the ponies wore overnight. The mules and zebroids seemed impervious to the bitter cold. The ponies had carried us remarkably well, taking their time and picking their way through the swampy stretches with ease. Dismounting, we led them down any really steep hills, but when one of our party sprained her ankle and had to ride for the rest of that day, her pony managed the rocky slopes with gay nonchalance
Hyrax screeched incessantly from their citadels higher up the hillside, challenging this intrusion into their private territory. As if to make amends for that breach of etiquette, our first visitors were the ultra-friendly hill chats – perky little brown fellows who lost no time in welcoming us with open wings, as it were, and certainly with open beaks. Hopping to and fro, perching on the food boxes, they would disappear inside them to inspect our stores. Hungrily they accepted any tasty morsel of bread, cake or biscuit before retiring to their snug nests in old, decaying stems of the lobelias. At dusk the clockwork rats intermittently began to visit us, wearing their thick brown coats and looking like animated pom-poms so round and fluffy were their bodies. They, too, fully appreciated the temporary windfall, and after making quite certain that there was not a single edible crumb left, they trundled off into the night to their perpetual quest for food. As we huddled round the fire watching the the sun sink reluctantly behind the buttress above, the silver-white of the snow shone clearly against the stark blackness of the encircling rock, providing an air of magic, of mysticism. Surely this must be an altar of the Gods.
Waking early next
morning we found the mossy turf frozen with rime, which crackled
under our feet. To get water for cooking we had to break a thin film
of ice on the little stream nearby. Soon we were on our way towards
the most difficult and exciting part of our journey – the ascent of
Lenana, the third highest peak (Batian and Nelion being unassailable
for mere amateurs such as ourselves). Now we mounted the mules which
were stronger and more sure-footed than the ponies. My mule,
Margharita, seemed to think nothing of carrying me up the seemingly
vertical slopes of loose shale, and each time we stopped for a
breather it was as much for my sake as hers. The thin air at this
altitude precluded any un-necessary expenditure of energy. The going
was rough but we made slow, steady progress on and on, higher and
higher, with each rise bringing us a little nearer to the summit.
The first snow slope
gave us a few moments of anxiety as the mules plunged in up to their
hocks, but when we dismounted we found that they were quite capable
of making their own way, while we struggled behind. But at last even
they could go no further. We had reached the foot of Lenana. So,
after a short rest, they were escorted back down to the camp to await
our return. They had more than proved their worth and we had nothing
but the greatest praise and admiration for the way in which they had
tackled a very tough assignment. Their display of courage and sheer
“guts” was an inspiration to us all.


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