Memoirs of Mt. Rwenzori, Jacob Zikusooka by Kasaijag

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

MEMOIRS OF

RWENZORI Jacob Zikusooka

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

CONTENT

INTRODUCTION 3 LOOKING BACK 4 A SUNNY START 10 A VERY WET WELCOME 16 BOG, BOULDER & BEAUTY 22 SEE YOU AT THE TOP 30 GOING HOME 38

INTRODUCTION

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

INTRODUCTION A

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

LOOKING BACK

So glad to be on the road with my covenant brothers. We’ve set our sights on the snow-capped Margherita Peak (the 4th highest point in Africa) on the Rwenzori Ranges. It’s going to be a grueling 7 days of climbing, scaling and wading through mud and bog to the summit but we are so pumped up and have set our faces like flint.

LOOKING

BACK

Memoirs of Rwenzori

This is the moment of truth; this is where the rubber meets the road. And God forbid I should have to write a note thus; Dear Gloria: With a sad countenance, much torment of heart and a heavy hand I write to inform you that your beloved husband…no, he is still alive. It’s just that he did not make it to the summit with us. In fact, we left him squarely perched on a mound-hill not too far away from the bottom:)) — with Titus F. Bitebekezi, Allen Mirembe and Ian Mugarura in Mbarara Town.

One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now. Paulo Coelho

LOOKING BACK

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

Titus Allen

Ian

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

pril 6th 2014 (a year today) is a date I will remember for a long time. That date is etched in my memory not for the single feat that I set out to attain but the life lessons learned that I now carry with me. I hope I can somewhere share those nuggets in the story of my 7-day journey to the top over the next so many days.

“As a young man with high ideals in my early twenties, I set myself some lofty goals. One of them - summiting the highest point in Uganda...” As a young man with high ideals in my early twenties, I set myself some lofty goals. One of them - summiting the highest point in Uganda - had, more than a decade later, only found a place at the back recesses of my mind and on paper. Sometime in 2012, the idea of climbing the Rwenzoris started floating around on an email forum of mostly diaspora friends I’ve done life with. Once the numbers were confirmed (high school bravado style - we go, we go - you get the drift?!), I didn’t give it much thought save for shedding off the dates scheduled for the climb in my planner. There were so many emails exchanged

LOOKING BACK

before the climb that, looking back now (with 20-20 hindsight) I would have done well to read. I always knew Rwenzori was going to be a tough climb but so was I. So I thought. I really did. Again, from my twenties, I have kept a religiously strict exercise regimen that entails running 7-8km, three times a week and a spirited swim over the weekend. But for the frequent travel I do that is a disrupter, am always on the road at the break of dawn every other week day, come hell or high water, and in that water when the week ends. God gives us good friends. And one of those friends for me is Pendo, a very fine lady. She is always asking questions. The kind that give you reason to pause long enough to realize you were on the brink of jumping headlong into shark infested waters. Knowing my itinerant lifestyle, and having aspired to do the climb herself, I benefitted greatly from the item check-list she passed on to me. After answering a few questions, that is. Gum boots. Gaiters. Rain Poncho. Water Bottle. Fleece wear. No jeans. The list seemed endless but I quickly figured between my camping paraphernalia (my wife and I are outdoor enthusiasts), farm and winter gear, I pretty much had all I needed. It is Abraham Lincoln who said the best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time. But that time eventually comes. And April 6th did come. My annual health check had coincidentally been scheduled a few days before this date - a definite boon to my immediate climbing aspiration. Beyond the lab and organ tests, part of the routine I was given was to run up the eight floors to my doctor’s

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

“I pointed my wife to a folder in the house that had all my key contacts...I was not taking chances...my Last Will and Testament, and the unmarked envelope.” office. I did this in record time, without breaking a sweat. It was near impossible convincing my doctor I had actually run up the stairs, and not used the lift. All done, she gave me a clean bill of health and wished me my hopes. At this late hour, the other small spot of bother for me was how to (without seeming too fatalistic and almost suicidal) relay to my beloved what to do in the event I made the statistic of those unfortunate souls that do not make it down the mountain. I had the presence of mind to realize that was a real possibility. I know. The things that devil-may-care men such as I do to our loved ones! This was especially critical because the men who know the drill in the event death “occurs to me” where going to be on that mountain with me. Growing up with a father

who had a keen sense of his mortality taught me to live with that awareness too. My 16 years in the murky world of business has also taught me to always hope for the best but prepare for the worst. So, in a round -about way (with all the light hearted humor I could muster) I pointed my wife to a folder in the house that had all my key contacts; she knew most of these already but I was not taking chances. That, my Last Will and Testament, and the unmarked envelope. Again, I had to be sure. Even when veiled with laughter and banter, I was shaking like a leaf on the inside thinking what would happen in the most regrettable event something went terribly wrong. Before now, the last time I had signed a death liability indemnity was when I rafted the River Nile (the world’s longest river) and did all 9 rapids of the excursion (complete with several flips) a decade ago. And yet, compared to scaling the Rwenzoris, that was a walk in the park on a cool day. Around that time, I remember chatting with my friend Moses Galukande, a surgeon, who pointed me to the helipad at the hospital where he plies his trade. He told me the biggest number of evacuation operations that chopper handled were answers to distress calls from Adrift and the other companies that arrange white water rafting expeditions. Standing there, I couldn’t help but imagine speaker after speaker at my funeral saying how irresponsible and reckless I had been to put my family in harm’s way. And my friends walking off after, wagging their heads and labeling me “unserious, a loose shirt and a very thin vest.” That’s what I sometimes call them.

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

LOOKING BACK

FEEDBACK What my friends on facebook thought about this particular section of the memoir after reading it on my wall.

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

A SUNNY

START Memoirs of Rwenzori

A SUNNY START

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

A SUNNY START

cottish 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

“Coming to this mountain, I had had my threshold for comfort adjusted to near zero.” 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.

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

A SUNNY START

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.

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.

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.

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,

A SUNNY START

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

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,

A SUNNY START

“My wife had sternly warned him she would never forgive him if anything ever happened to me.”

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.

A SUNNY START

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A VERY WET

WELCOME Memoirs of Rwenzori

A VERY WET WELCOME

Challenge is the core of all human activity. If there’s an ocean we cross it. If there’s a record we break it. If there’s a disease we cure it. If there’s a wrong we right it. If there’s a mountain we climb it. James Ramsey Ullman

A VERY WET WELCOME

have my suspicions. I think the mountain has a mind of it’s own. And a personality to go along with it; a vicious and vengeful one at that, if you asked me. until this moment, Rwenzori must have taken us for daytime court-jesters. How clear blue skies could, without as much as warning erupt into a thundering rainstorm was hard to comprehend, let alone accept. On the street pavement, you stop for the rain. On the mountain, you look up, look down, shake some and carry on. On this terrain, you blend. That, as we were now painfully finding out, is the unwritten rule of engagement. We even stopped to take pictures in the rain. No, there was nothing romantic about it. This was the new life we were embracing, the road less travelled and we were not coming this way again. This marked the start of our grand foray into the future we had always talked about. Our ship was finally sailing, albeit under stormy weather.

“This marked the start of our grand foray into the future we had always talked about. Our ship was finally sailing, albeit under stormy weather.”

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

Lesson #1 came rolling in fast at this very early stage: Never, ever go to the mountain during the rain season. Never. Unless of course you are made of stainless steel. The word “Brutal” is an euphemism that only starts to describe what we were going to encounter in the next 5 hours; this rite of passage had a hefty price tag to it. The smiles on our faces quickly turned into grimaces as we started up the slopes to gain 4000ft (1200m) of elevation. But for the swishing sound of the rain and rubber boots and the wildlife around us, all was quiet. Not a word spoken. Much

A VERY WET WELCOME

“For safety, and because of the narrowness of the trail, we moved in single file formation throughout the climb.”

like that first night of boarding school, reality was starting to sink in. Our trail followed the Mubuku River crossing through lowland equatorial rain forest and involved scrambling up slippery rock surfaces before reaching River Mahoma where the vegetation noticeably starts thinning out, giving way to more “leg room.” That effectively took us half the distance covered for the day. For safety, and because of the narrowness of the trail, we moved in single file formation throughout the climb. Once we crossed the bridge over River Mahoma, the climb got really steep, so steep that the gaps

A VERY WET WELCOME

between the men became wider and wider with every heavy step. I could not help but picture the mountain shrieking with laughter, mocking and daring us to go on. And Darwinism - the art of survival was also now at play. Somewhere along this trail, I found myself alone. I got a glimpse of a couple of the men ahead of me but two of my traveling companions had fallen far behind. Reasoning they must be around the bend, I paused, resting my weight on my nkoni (walking stick) and waited. 5, 10, 20 minutes. Then along came one of the men. He too was surprised that the other man was nowhere in sight but continued to trek on as I made to go back down. Just as I turned the corner I peered over my back and saw him following me. I was greatly encouraged. The brotherhood was still alive and well. We were not leaving a man on this mountain. A porter we met along the way confirmed he had left the man we were looking for prostrate on the ground not too far from where we were. We did find him - stretched out on the ground, his hands propping up his upper body. By his own admission, he had not respected the mountain. We laughed about it, shared an energy bar and walked a little together. Not wanting to be pressured to move at our pace, he urged us on. We did. As soon as we caught up with the rest of the team, we compelled the guide to trace his way back to him. On arrival at Nyabitaba (the first camp in the national park), all dirty and dripping, we gathered around the smoking fire. The look on our faces betrayed what our proud selves could not admit. “What did

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

we get ourselves into?” was the rhetorical question written all over the men’s furrowed foreheads. The rain that was still falling had dampened not only our gear but also our spirits. And it had shredded to smithereens two rain ponchos. In a fit of rage, we contemplated shipping all the little pieces of those two offending items to the manufacturers in South Africa - with a protest note. The other affected man, who lives in South Africa, went ahead to lump the pieces together and vowed to do just that. When he picked me up three weeks later at the airport in Johannesburg, that obviously was the last thing on his mind. No, it was not even on his mind. To this day there has been no mention of the ponchos. Now, if I thought I could not take in any more after this day, I had something else coming. In near subzero temperatures, my blood ran cold as I unpacked. In my haste to catch my flight to Entebbe a few days earlier, I had inadvertently picked up my daughter’s comfort-zone grade sleeping bag; the one she uses when we go camping and for school sleep-overs. I was in for a long night. Sleep deprivation is nothing new to me but I needed my sleep tonight. A warm shower and several layers of my already damp thermal wear and all the warm clothing I could add did very little to help; I was freezing. And this was going to be the last night I would have any semblance of sleep; beyond this camp, the air is thin and sleep a luxury. On and off, I managed two hours of shut eye. Sometime in the night it also dawned on me that this was just the beginning. And that, until the fat lady sings, the opera was still on.

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Pictorial

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BOG, BOULDER &

BEAUTY Memoirs of Rwenzori

BOG, BOULDER & BEAUTY

Strip down, start running and never quit! Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in. Study how he did it. B ecause he never lost sight of where he was headed he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls! Paul of Tarsus

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ell, morning came. And the sun did shine again, dispelling the dark cloud that that had been hovering over our heads the previous night. The mood in the camp was upbeat. It was a new day and hope had taken it’s rightful place. Compared to the rude introduction to mountaineering 101 that we had been subjected to the previous day, today’s climb, though going through bog and boulders, was going to be an individual test of courage for me. Just as we descended from the moraine to cross the Mubuku River, I missed a step, slipped and tweaked my left knee. What irony, considering the many horrendous “opportunities” I had had the previous day to do just that. Only then, that tumble would have resulted in a free fall ending either in raging river or very hard rock. Coming from the many years of running on tarmac and uneven ground, I have what is termed “Runner’s knee,” the irritation of the cartilage on the underside of the knee-cap. Whenever this condition escalates, all I have to do is rest my knee for a fortnight. On the other hand, “Time-Out” is an altogether strange phenomenon that does not blend on this terrain. Sitting down to nurse myself, I had to quickly choose between two propositions: Carry on or Go on. You see, coming to this mountain for me was synonymous with going all the way up to Margherita peak. There was no two ways of seeing this. And sitting on the dirt that morning, it dawned on me that Margherita was not going to yield her beauty without a fight.

BOG, BOULDER & BEAUTY

I was reminded of a fellow in a similar predicament. Well, not exactly. There was a lot more at stake for John Stephen Akhwari. The country’s honor was on his head. On October 20th 1968 (at around 7pm, long after the winner of the marathon had tucked away his medal at the Olympic village in Mexico City, a forlorn, limping figure came out of the shadows and made his way into the stadium. Nobody glanced in his direction until, over the the din came the voice of the announcer requesting the few remaining spectators, all starting to leave the stands, to honor a true sportsman. A lone clap erupted into a deafening crescendo as he was cheered on to the finish line. Hardly anyone remembers who the winner of that marathon was. But of John Stephen Akhwari it was written, “today we have seen a young African runner who symbolizes the finest in the human spirit; today we have seen a performance that gives meaning to the word Courage.” For his part, asked why he did not quit even when it was obvious he was badly injured, John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania had this to say; “My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race. My country sent me 5,000 miles to finish the race.” It’s not how you start the race that counts. Its that you finish the race. In life, the highest mountains we climb are not physical mountains. And so with a limp and a prayer - and a bandage firmly wrapped on my visibly swollen knee - I carried on. Stumbling, wobbling or limping, it did not matter. For the joy set before me, I was going to summit Margherita.

BOG, BOULDER & BEAUTY

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

And nobody was going to know how badly injured I was, lest they conspire with the guides to send me back down. Yesterday’s events had schooled me enough to know that this was not a far-fetched notion. The Rwenzori mountain range is the most challenging of all African mountains to ascend. Over the next two days, we were going to climb up an elevation of 4600ft (1400m), a little over what we had already covered. Unlike the steep climb the first day, it was going to be a seesaw going forward - down and down, and up and up. Then down. And then up.

“You see, coming to this mountain for me was synonymous with going all the way up to Margherita peak. There was no two ways of seeing this.” And then down again. And that cycle would pretty much repeat itself for the rest of the climb. As in life, whatever altitude is lost is had to be regained; an obviously daunting task. We descended to a valley between two ridges at the confluence of the Mubuku

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

and Bujuku rivers. Here, the two rivers join up and flow as one - The Mubuku River. Mr and Mrs Mubuku (nee Bujuku); the imagery of Biblical marriage was not lost to us. Over this confluence is the Kurt Schaffer Bridge, one of the many bridges criss-crossing the mountain. Further from this crossing is a steep incline overlooking the Bujuku valley, allowing for the transition from montane to thick bamboo forest and eventually giving way to the heather zone that has trees coated with moss and ferns. Continuing from the John Matte hut, we traversed the Lower Bigo Bog that leads to the now abandoned Bigo hut and then onto the Upper Bigo Bog, ending at Lake Bujuku. We did the shorter part of this crossing by hopping from tussock to tussock; any misstep being sure to get you tumbling in the mire of the bog. A bridge consisting of irregularly spaced wooden slats is overlaid on the better part of this crossing and is a hazard of its own. With my bad knee, I couldn’t stop thinking what absolute torture I would have had to endure if it was the tussock dance, like we called it, all through. From majestic groundsel, giant lobelia plants to the Everlasting Flower (with a flowering cycle of 50 years), we were in awe. Waterfalls. Lakes. Rivers. Mystic Flora. All in a stone-throw’s distance of each other. It was a whole new world. My debilitating knee “disability” came with benefits. Being relegated to the rear guard meant I had all the time to take in the views and beauty. Yesterday’s frenzied scramble to the top morphed into an unhurried trek up the next boulder. This badly packaged blessing also came in the form of a very

BOG, BOULDER & BEAUTY

amiable and knowledgeable guide, Josephat Baluku. Am still in touch with him. And the cherry on the cake was the opportunity to hang with Titus, one of the men on the expedition. I have known Titus for the better part of my earthly existence. As always, we talked, laughed, wondered and rested at will. Josephat was at our beck and call. That took the sting out of the climb. And I was reminded that life is in the journey. Not even the formidable boulders or the waist-deep bog (swamp at high altitude, for the uninitiated) on successive days were going to steal our joy. The facilities at both camps (John Matte and Bujuku) are much the same but John Matte is still close to home for me. Not only did it give us our first clear glimpse of Mount Stanley but also had splendid views of the mountain. With the excruciating pain in my knee, I still afforded a very uncomfortable shower. And one of the men shook his head when he saw me apply my Giorgio Armani cologne. I intended to smell good even on the mountain; a certain level of propriety and decorum had to be maintained, I retorted. There was a lightness of heart at this camp as we prayed and talked late into the night and reminisced. We even talked about the trouble that brought the barbed wire many years ago. And the things we couldn’t change then. And how we told the girls we loved them. Wonder-smitten and awestruck, I later sat under the moonlit sky into the small hours of the night and was up at the break of day to worship the sun god. Oops, God the Son!

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SEE YOU ATMemoirs THEof Rwenzori TOP

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“If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” Jim Whittaker, the first American to summit Everest

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resh and still panting from another win at the Boston Marathon, a Kenyan long distance runner was asked what his secret is. Without batting an eyelid (and with a characteristic Kalenjin accent), his reply: I run. I run. I r-u-u-u-u-n. And then I win. I felt like this guy today, only I was trekking. And isn’t life like that? To win, you just have to start. And keep at it. And finish. The climb from Bujuku hut to Elena and on to the Margherita peak was precipitous; so sharply inclined as to be close to perpendicular. Even at this gradient, it was everyday the same for our amazing

“The Rwenzori mountain range is the most challenging of all African mountains to ascend.” support crew - Cooks and Porters. Even then, it was painful to see Vincent (our head cook) thermos flasks in hand, going over rock and crevice while doing a most precarious balancing act. This was nazi-type torture, I mused to myself. Transitioning from the Heather to Alpine zones came with its own set of challenges. From high altitude swamp to moss covered rocky ground and to ravines, the ascent was treacherous. Climbing up four and a half

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

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kilometers above sea level heralds a sudden drop in temperature. The air starts thinning, and so does the vegetation. You are literally competing with other living creatures for oxygen. Here also, the weather patterns are erratic and the danger of contracting Hypothermia becomes real. My bad knee was taking quite the beating; the “nkoni” (walking stick) effectively became the second leg. Now conspicuously stacked at the back of a book-shelf in my study, I smile and wonder what was driving me on every time I glance in it’s direction. I suppose the human spirit is always proved transcendent when pushed beyond it’s confines. Trudging on, enveloped in a cloud most of the way, we went off the beaten path and approached Elena hut by way of Mukandege and not the more frequently used Scott Elliot Pass. Here, we took a break and were treated to awe-inspiring views of Mount Speke and Baker but not Margherita. No, there was a higher price to pay to behold her majesty. After what seemed like an eternity, we hunkered up craggy rocks on all fours and made our entrance to the Elena hut “compound,” a flat 500 square-foot rock patch mid afternoon on Thursday, April 10th 2014. This was going to be our launchpad for the Margherita ascent. I felt a little like the intrepid Don Quixote on his final conquest. Having dispensed with the daily debrief, the guides implored us to have an honest self evaluation and if we had any inkling of altitude sickness to declare it so that an evacuation to more habitable terrain would quickly be arranged. This, I reckoned, was a fair request to make; the biting

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

cold, coupled with howling wind and very thin air were a stretch to even the fittest of us. As if this was not a mood dampener enough, our guides went on to inform us they still had to monitor the weather to decide if the climb to Margherita was going to happen when morning came. IF? Having come this far, this was going to be a very bitter pill to swallow. Thinking about it then (I was a few months away from turning 40), it occurred to me that my 30’s had made me so goal-focused that even now, all my being was about getting to the top of this mountain. It didn’t matter how I got there. I had to get there. It dawned on me that the desire to attain can become oppressive and like Been-Around Solomon noted, a “vexation of spirit.” Even with perfect preparation, which I was already so short on, there was this one thing I could do nothing to determine or change - the weather. As with many other aspects of life beyond this mountain, I had to look to Providence. While I unwound and took in views of our new surroundings, a middle aged lady - an American paramedic stationed in Rwanda, came by the camp on her “evening stroll.” She nonchalantly relayed to us her experiences of climbing the other mountain peaks Baker and Speke and that she was summiting Margherita the next day to complete her circuit. As she made her way back to her camp (managed by Rwenzori Trekking Services, the other alternative to Rwenzori Mountaineering Services), I marveled at her sheer willpower and fortitude. We had a GPS tracker that had been set to send periodic updates to our wives’ email addresses

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specifying our location. More than ever, our wives now had reason to be talking to each other. The daily changes in place coordinates must have been a comforting re-assurance for them. With all the climbing equipment - boots, crampons, ice axes, hard hats, harnesses, etc checked and ready for our use the next morning, we hit the sack. By this time, it was snowing and temperatures were hovering around the minus seven centigrade level. This was going to be the most uncomfortable night for me. My “Comfort Zone” sleeping bag was going to be put to it’s final test. It failed. Miserably. Even with several layers of sweaters, jackets, thermal pants and whatever else I could get my hands on for warmth, I just could not get myself to sleep. With ear plugs to keep the sound of the howling wind to a minimum, I lay still in the hope that I could retain the little heat my body was generating but that too fell to the four corners. In quiet desperation, I mumbled a prayer. “Have mercy on your suffering servant, O Lord!” I believe that earnest plea was granted because morning came quickly and I heard a knock on our rattling shack door at 3am. It was time to prepare for the climb. The overcast skies had cleared and the green light for the climb was on. Hard on the heels of my most uncomfortable night, the stage was set; this was going to be not only my longest but also most trying day. It was a full moon, against a backdrop of an ominous peach black as we started out from the camp. Our head and, now flickering, hand torches lit the way for us. The incline going up bare rock was so steep that it had to be

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

done with both hands and feet. At one point, we had to propel ourselves on using a rope that had been hooked to a higher gradient - about 15 meters above us. We hiked another one and a half hours on slippery rock to the Snow-line and the first glacier. It is at this point that the crampons (metal plates with spikes to aid our ascent on snow) are fastened to climbing boots, ropes knotted and harnesses applied. After being roped with Josephat and Titus (with me at the rear) we immediately embarked on a 20 meter vertical climb up the ice that left me wondering again what I had gotten myself into.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Rwenzori mountain range is the most challenging of all African mountains to ascend.â&#x20AC;? Another two hours of concentration - leaping over crevasses and digging in our ice axes and crampons as we methodically put one foot ahead of the other. With a limp and mostly bent over, I had to be careful not to sprain my spine; I had slipped two discs in a diving accident two years earlier. In all these maneuvers, visibility was at near zero. Still enveloped by fog, the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warm rays started to come through once we hit the Stanley Plateau,

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusooka

a sight for sore eyes. We crossed the plateau onto the Margherita Glacier via a rocky gorge. Unlike the Stanley Glacier where our chief occupation was to break into hard ice with our axes, the Margherita Glacier job description can be summed up in two: Skill and Hard Labor. It’s uphill all the way and one has to use the ice-axe for traction, being careful not to fall out of line. Falling out of line greatly increased the likelihood of falling into a crevice; these abound and are mostly concealed by snow. And that can be fatal. All the men took a fall either going up or coming down. In moments like these is when you appreciate skill. When it was my turn (and I did take my fair share!), Josephat was quick to wedge the metallic peg (attached to our climbing rope) quickly into the ice to prevent my free fall down the snowy terrain, very possibly to my demise. Once at the top of the Margherita Glacier, hoping for the much anticipated “plain” trek up to the summit, I was in for a rude shock when Josephat pointed us in the direction of ropes dangling from the top of a 90 degree rock front. We looked on in disbelief as he demonstrated what we had to do: harness ourselves to the rope and abseil (glide down) the full 20 meter distance on belayed rope. Alas! The stuff that was my fancy growing up. I used to read about such adventures in the “National Geographic” and “Reader’s Digest” as a kid. A wide-eyed kid. Here I was living it now! Now comfortably on clear territory but nonetheless still up all the way, the shocks were about to start rolling in, fast and furious. It all started with a member of the rear-guard. Did I mention there was only two

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“For safety, and because of the narrowness of the trail, we moved in single file formation throughout the climb we moved in single file formation throughout the climb the climb we moved.”

sadness and get on with it. 30 minutes into my now solo climb, I met the American paramedic and her team on the way down. Without asking after her climb, I congratulated her on summiting. Her response sent a cold chill down my burning spine: she had not made it! She had stalled right at the foot of the peak. Margherita was not going to yield her beauty without a fight. I steeled myself and trod on. And went past the perilous glacier to the foot of Margherita. And on to the peak. And finally the signpost welcoming me to the highest point in Uganda. Date: April 11th, 2014. Time-check: 12:20pm. I gave thanks and praise. I savored every moment of the 40 minutes I was up there. I was not going to stay only the prescribed 15 minutes. I had earned this one. Nobody was going to hustle me.

of us in the rear guard? Clear blue skies over us, banter and laughter abounding, Titus announced he could not go on. Without warning. Just like that. I was dumbstruck! I asked that we take a break so he could think this through. After 15 minutes of nervewrecking silence, he affirmed his decision. I was shellshocked. I just could not believe we had come this far and he could not make the last 2 hours to the summit. I was gutted to the bone. Even when the other men had accepted his alibi for not making it for the climb, it was me that had finally talked him into accepting to come. I felt a personal responsibility towards my friend. This was my lowest point during the entire climb. Leaving a man behind is a heartwrenching experience that makes one question the validity of a dream. I had to quickly shake off the

If I thought the descent from the mountain was going to be as easy as stealing candy from a baby, I was in for another shocker. My knee must have wailed long and uncontrollably all the way down to the base camp. I just did not hear it. The day’s climb that should have taken a lead time of 8 hours ended 14 hours later. My guide and I were caught up in a blistering snow storm that lasted two hours. To keep from frostbite and contracting High Altitude Pulmonary Edema, we had to keep going in circles. Snow-blinded and exhausted once the storm had subsided, we lost our way. Finally, by a long winding route, we arrived back at Elena camp after night had fallen - drenched to the bone. And nursing several bruises from the countless falls on the icy, slippery and sharp rocks.

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

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Memoirs of Rwenzori

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“Don’t play for safety. It’s the most dangerous thing in the world.” Hugh Walpole

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otoriously known for his cutthroat approach to business, a fellow told the famed author Mark Twain how performing pilgrimage to the Holy Land was at the top of his bucket list. “Before I die, he said, I will climb Mount Sinai and read the Ten Commandments aloud at the summit.” “I have a better idea,” Twain quipped. “You could stay home in Boston and keep them.” So much for grand posturing. The highest mountains we will ever have to climb in our lives are not actual mountains. I have been fortunate to be at the foot of the Sinai but I dared not climb it; I dreaded the fate the Israelites met with every pronouncement coming down from that mountain.

“Even going down, this mountain is the ultimate test for fitness, calling for a lethal combination of leaping power and aerobic vigor.” Rwenzori is the utmost mountain range in Africa, with

six massifs: Speke, Stanley, Gessi, Emin Pasha, Luigi da Savoia and Baker. Mount Stanley has the highest peak - Margherita - standing at 16,763 feet above sea level. Unlike Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya that are volcanic in nature, the Rwenzori Mountains are

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

a fault block mountain range that was formed as a result of tectonic plate movement (rifting) over ten million years ago. The flora and fauna of the Rwenzoris is otherworldly but the landscape is mercilessly unforgiving. It is rated the most challenging of all African mountains to climb. While you trek up Kilimanjaro and Kenya, ascending Rwenzori is a a scramble up and down and up sharp, rugged rock, moor, forest and bog (high altitude swamp). Even going down, this mountain is the ultimate test for fitness, calling for a lethal combination of leaping power and aerobic vigor. I suspect the natives had the sense to avoid the summit believing, perhaps, that an angry god squatted up there. The Duke of Abruzzi, Luigi Amedeo, the slim Italian noble who was the first known man to conquer Margherita and his team encountered much more extensive glaciation a century ago than is presently seen. His climbing party had to contend with ice avalanches tumbling down from the peaks; all six peaks were glaciated then. I have read that in the last ice age, glaciers covered the lower slopes of the mountain. Apparently, even Nyabitaba hut, our camp on the first day of climbing (at only 8600 feet above sea level) is built on a moraine from a long-retreated glacier. Fast forward to today, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only Mount Stanley that has any glaciation worth reckoning. It is expected that the ice will entirely be decimated in a decade. Having endured another sleepless night once I was safely back to Elena Camp from the Margherita Summit, I decided against rushing back to the base

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

camp the next morning. I asked the other men to go on without me. Whatever supplies I was missing they graciously left with me. Top on that list was Ianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sub-zero sleeping bag which I promptly jumped in. It was a whole new world. Only 30 minutes in it left me sweating with abandon. Obviously, even with all the complaining and protesting, my body had gotten accustomed to my daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s comfort zone sleeping bag! For the first time in six days, I slept a straight three hours. I woke up at 11am to white scenery everywhere. The falling snow had covered the entrance to the hut, and the wind had pushed open the door. This shack (I can now safely put all pretenses aside) did not have a latch and the ducttape that I had used to seal it had given way. The snow had drifted right on top of the sleeping bag I was tucked in and everywhere around me. Snowbound, I just lay back there and took it all in. My glasses, bible, pen and notebook to my left side had frozen. My bag packs were covered in ice. Snow gently falling outside the wide open door, my heart light came on in this blessed quietness. A sense of accomplishment flooded my heart. I scanned my environment and my gaze settled on the graffiti on the tin roof and wood walls. From my vantage point and with a flicker of light coming through a crack in the tin, I could tell the last climber before now had reached this point on March 20th 2014, right before the rain season had set in. They had been the wiser for that, I mused to myself. All the free-falling in the pitiless, incessant and un-forgiving sleet (ice and snow) had completely supped the little strength that I had left. And that is not to even talk about my now overly swollen, throbbing

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

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knee and the sleeplessness I had endured on account of the biting cold that was not helped by my ill-preparedness. My seven hour descent from Margherita had given me the beating of a lifetime and left me sprawled on the floor, feeling like Samson. In his hairless state, that is. The toil and suffering of the last five days now told upon me terribly. The vengeful Margherita had mercilessly let loose on me for squarely sizing her up and looking her in the mouth. Stung by my brave mockery, she saw to it that I pay the full price for daring her, on home terrain at that.

“The mountain was home to me for seven days. And I spent the last two days of that week without the other five men. I bid Elena, Margherita’s gentler relative, farewell.” The dictionary defines home as both an origin and end point. The mountain was home to me for seven days. And I spent the last two days of that week without the other five men. I bid Elena, Margherita’s gentler relative, farewell. Shafts of light broke through the early-morning clouds over the snow as I began

hobbling down the mountain. Well, sort of; the general incline is downward but being the mountain range it is, it was another repeat series of down and up, and down again. In that order. Sort of. I minced down a jumble of rocks and across icy and slippery bridges that span the mountain. Bridges. Bridges. And more bridges. It seemed I had not noticed them going up. I counted close to a dozen of them. Pondering, the life nugget I got here is that bridges in life are for crossing; and that when life affords us any, we should take them for the divine providence they represent. How many times can we count the ships have docked on our shores but we did not have the presence of mind to anchor them? That first night, plodding across the one kilometer wood bridge I had crossed days earlier, the sky flashed as the moon overhead played silhouettes on the starry night canvass. It was surreal. Magical. A scene from beyond planet earth. Growing up in a small country town, I loved to sit out evenings counting the stars and making out shapes on the moon. Stopping to gaze, I thought I saw a familiar one from my childhood; the shape of a father carrying a child. That would be God carrying me, I always thought. He sure was now. I cherish moments of solitude. I thrive on solitude. Solitude forces an engagement with the supernatural. Between loving my wife, raising my girls, being a mentor and good friend, supporting my pastor and serving at my church, and doing time at my workstation, there is hardly any time am left to myself. And yet it’s in these quiet moments that you hear the voice of God. You will never grow to be intimate

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with God in the fast lane of life. Here, faith stays surface-deep at best. Like Moses on Mount Sinai, I heard the voice of God during those last two days without the “noise” of the other men. It’s just as well. At 40, you don’t have the luxury of playing hopscotch with life. So I prayed. I dreamed. And wrote my mandate for the next 40, by reason of strength. In many ways, those two days were a personal renaissance for me. And then I gave thanks. Thanks to God for the ransomed life he has given back to me; mine is a life truly blessed. God continues to give me more than I could ever have bargained for. I gave thanks for Mona, heaven’s angel on loan to me, and my beautiful girls: Leesha-Namara, TanyaKirabo and Jasmine-Malaika. I would, without batting an eye, throw myself in front of a moving 18-wheeler to keep them out of harm’s way. I gave thanks for my earthly family and friends - every one of them, by name. I smiled (and chuckled some) for all the shared memories. There is a uniqueness to every one of my friends that brings untold joy to the journey of life. Then the men who I had just had the privilege of spending an uninterrupted five days of my life with. We had in the course of that week constituted ourselves into the Alpine Seal MOP’pers. Alpine Seals because we had all successfully scaled the precipitous alpine zone of the mountain and, in our formative years, had pioneered a transformational men’s movement - The Men of Purpose. My thoughts drifted to Titus. A man who knows me so well he could second guess me. And annoy me in equal measure. Ian, who for the last 20 years has pulled out every stop to ensure my wellbeing and now, with the distance

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

makes a big fuss every time am in Canada. Charles, who almost single-handedly organized my paltrybudget wedding 15 years ago. I was so in love and left all the worrying to him. I gave thanks for my earthly father, Old Man Zik, who had taught me - by first example - to be the man I am today. He died in my sister’s arms five months later. Coming from my childhood, I have always had a wandering mind. I reckon that is how I survived Old Man Zik’s relentless life lectures and unending

“I gave thanks for Mona, heaven’s angel on loan to me, and my beautiful girls: Leesha-Namara, Tanya-Kirabo and Jasmine-Malaika.” stories. Oh, and the most boring church attendance and rituals I was subjected to. I would always retreat to my little private box that was not limited in time and space. Here, I got transported next door or somewhere beyond the rainbow. Here, the trivial and grandiose shared the same platform. And that also happened when I had to escape myself.

Take for instance the struggle I had with my prayer life as a young believer. Whenever I knelt to pray, my mind would not budge from the doughnut I was going to have for breakfast; that stayed in the near subconscious for the entire time. And then one day it occurred to me that my life was like a doughnut, with a hole in the middle. And that I had to ask Jesus to fill that hole. Or the lingering thought I had at university - that I would miss a final exam because I was taking an afternoon nap in my room. It happened. Or that I would show up for the exam without my trouser pants on. Thankfully, that did not happen. Going down that mountain, my random thoughts drifted in the direction of the duo characters - Susi and Chuma, they of the David Livingstone fame. For the unschooled, David Livingstone was a British Missionary to Africa in the later half of the 19th Century. When their master succumbed to illness, they summarily decided he must be gathered and interred with his forefathers. If only that involved a trek to the nearest missionary station or colonial outpost. Alas, this epic journey is unprecedented. I still marvel at the faithfulness, sheer grit and tenacity of these two guys. They put together all of Livingstone’s personal effects (every single button was accounted for) and embalmed his body. Putting their very lives on the line, they traversed on foot - Livingstone’s body on square shoulders, through fierce tribal territories, rivers, mountain and forest. Nine months later, on a rainy February morning in 1874, these men of honor delivered their master’s body and belongings to Her Majesty’s Royal Consul at the seaport in Bagamoyo, a world away from Chief Chitambo’s village where

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

they had buried his heart under a mvula tree and where he had died, kneeling in prayer. After the time I slipped two of my discs, it felt as if the story of my life, the enchanted tale I liked to tell about myself, had screeched to a halt. No more marathons. No more adrenaline-filled, hair-raising thrills. No more extreme adventure sports whose prerequisite was a signed indemnification. I had become a character without a story. Am writing this more than a year after reaching the summit, and three years after the diving accident. In the time since, I have sufficiently been energized to attempt other feats. This Christmas, I’ll set myself up for failure again and go on to summit Uhuru - Africa’s highest peak - on Mount Kilimanjaro. You see, my dear friends, when you do the nearly impossible, the merely difficult starts to seem easy. And it dawns on you that in the race of life doggedness is even more important than method and motivation. I’m happy I dared the mountain. It was a terrific experience and a great reminder that the journey can be as gratifying as hitting the summit post. Looking at the photos I took then - especially the one across the glacier reminded me that, in the grand scheme of things, we are all but specks on the landscape of life; here today, gone tomorrow. And that what we do today is what will inform our legacy tomorrow. As a young impressionable teenager, I was enamored

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by the aura surrounding Kabaka Mutesa II, the late monarch of Buganda. Now, in many respects, the young King Freddie (as he was fondly called) lived quite the colorful life. The handsome, trim and fit fellow he was, he used to go on hunting expeditions in the wild and come out unscathed, game trophy in tow. Yes, I told my young self, this is the stuff that makes a man’s man. I even hang a black and white regal-pose portrait of him on my wall. Wherever that picture is now. I remember reading his very well written memoirs, “The Desecration of My Kingdom.” In one of the more poignant accounts, he recalls his escape by a whisker when his Lubiri Palace was attacked at the height of the so called 1966 Buganda Crisis. He narrated how he had to run through the siege and scale the high palace perimeter wall to safety. What a man, my very impressed teenage self mused. Much later as an adult, I read an independent account of this most intriguing scene. Far from the super hero I had made him out to be, this account said King Freddie was pushed up the wall, and plopped squarely on his backside once he was on the other side. Whoa. What?! Well, it is now my turn. In the most flowery and heroic descriptions, I cannot wait to regale my wife and daughters with stories of the mountain, I thought to myself - a twinkle in my eye. And yes, until the mountain gets it’s own historians, the tale of the ascent will always glorify the climber.

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Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

FEEDBACK Beatrice Langa: I have read your Rwenzori stories and I am so touched and impressed by your endurance and all the rich spiritual parallels you draw from your encounters. I have cut and pasted your account...beautifully written and very engaging...to re-read at some later date and possibly even share with my husband. I could probably try the pre-climb preparations, but unfortunately, I could never climb Rwenzori or any other mountain for that matter, unless a cure for the fear of heights is discovered - mine gets more intense with each passing year... Just thought I would let you know how full of admiration I am of you and your mountain-climbing adventures. The Lord bless you and your families. Jacob Zikusooka: Thank you Beatrice! Going up and down that mountain, I saw so many parallels of the life Christ has called me to, in the perilous world He has placed me in. Now, every time am tempted to get complacent or when a seemingly insurmountable obstacle stands in the path that I know has been hewn out for me, am quickly reminded to look to Jesus and continue on, on this mountain of life. And that His Spirit, who lives in me leads me on. It was a very rich experience. PS. I really think you can scale that mountain. This just might be the healing needed!

Memoirs of Rwenzori | Jacob Zikusoka

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