Summit fever

Writing like my life depends on it - part 2

In a series of unfortunate events, I was hospitalised in August and sentenced to strict bedrest, followed by weeks of inactivity in the name of recovery. This time is also known as hell for someone who “cant sit still” and is used to a life of activity and movement.

As is the case for most when they are stuck in a bed with little more to do than pluck their eyes out from boredom, I took a little trip down memory lane…

This is me, 16 years old, on the tippee top of Africa. This trip was a milestone, to put it lightly. This was the first time I had been on an aeroplane, the first time I had seen snow, the first time I travelled anywhere without my parents…

In hindsight, I was so young, so un-worldly, and so excited by the prospects of an adventure. Everything that led to this moment made me believe that I was to live an extraordinary life, and that I could achieve anything that I wanted, despite it all.

During this trip, I kept a journal, meticulously noting everything that happened, lest I forget. This was my practice since before I can remember. I always had a journal or a notebook for drawings and observations, and I wrote with a fear of forgetting the most important moments of my life. Maybe one day I will transcribe it all into a story of some kind.

Kilimanjaro was the first time I felt full-body awe. A dizzying feeling of “omf, where am I?”, and being brought to tears without even realising what was happening. It was realising- almost all at once- that this moment is so much bigger than me.

A huge part of being able to feel so much on this journey was from being held in an embrace of safety and warmth on the mountain. For that, I thank my second family, the Flanagans- who have always had space in their lives for me. Thanks is also owed to the incredible humans whose livelihoods depend on people like us wanting to get to the top of Africa.

I will probably never be able to fully convey how privileged I felt to be walking (yes, walking) up this mountain while a constant stream of porters carrying tents, cooking equipment, chairs, food, and our own clothes and supplies overtook us, to get to the next camp and set up before we got there.

The porters are the ones who deserve more praise and higher honour than anyone who has ever summited the mountain. It was because of the generosity of the Tanzanian men and women that I was able to have this experience, a debt that I could never truly repay.

Since I was little, I was quite shy. I had a bit of stage fright, and hated attention. Over the years, through debating and public speaking, this has gotten better. But on the mountain, I felt so small, so incapable of speaking in the face of so much gratitude and awe.

On the very last morning, before we made our final descent, our entire team- including porters and fellow hikers- stood in a big circle. One by one, everyone said a word of thanks, and a highlight from their experience. By the time it came to me, the last of us, I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

I wanted to say thank you for showing me that I can do hard things. Thank you for exposing me to the Tanzanite skies and obsidian valleys. Thank you for singing when I couldn’t breathe. Thank you for the food. Thank you for letting me walk on your beautiful mountain. Thank you thank you thank you!

But I had no words, and just started to cry. Maybe that was enough thanks for them, I hope it was.

Getting to the top of Kilimanjaro, and the in-between moments, showed me more than what I can express with words. At the time, I felt like the luckiest girl alive- and in many ways, I was.

This experience blew air into my soul-fire, a kind of knowing that this life would be big and meaningful.

If nothing else, it left me adamant to find my words.

Writing about Antarctica feels similar, especially after filling a journal of big feelings on a big ship in a big ocean. I am writing like my life depends on it - because I am terrified of forgetting, but I also want to give thanks in a way I should have when I was 16.