Just. Keep. Going.
When I moved to Chicago in 2003 I saw a trifold brochure for running a marathon in support of the AIDS Foundation. "Anyone can do it!" it said. Anyone, I wondered? I hadn't run more than a mile in gym class in high school, so the consideration of a marathon was cute of me to entertain. One week later, however, I was lacing up my Nikes and run/walking a 12-minute mile. Six months later I was crossing the finish line in Honolulu. Grand goals have always enticed me, so considering I went from 0-100 with running, it didn't really surprise me when I put my deposit down to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro with no prior mountain climbing or camping experience. With enough drive, I like to think I can do anything. Sometimes I can. Other times this level of confidence gets me into trouble.
A year after setting the goal, I found myself on Day 4 of the climb sitting in my tent as I mentally prepared for what came next: Summit Day. It was 4:00pm, we had already climbed a straight and narrow path for eight hours that looked like it was leading us right to the heavens. It had been tedious, arduous, slow. Instead of winding up in the heavens, we landed at base camp, 15,000 feet, the last stop before there's no turning back. Despite the already intense day, we had a ripe wake up call set for seven hours later, at 11:00pm, so we could set out for the final 4,000 feet to Uhuru peak, 19,341 feet in the air, just shy of the threshold where you typically need oxygen. I knew we would have to leave at midnight to summit. I knew it would be tough. But my brain compartmentalized that knowledge and filed it into “worry about later.” And that “later” had finally arrived.
When you climb Mt. Kilimanjaro you're required to have guides and a crew who carry your main duffel, set up camp, cook, and lead the way. It's a large part of Arusha's livelihood, so going it alone isn't even an option. Because of this I had it set in my head that the climb couldn't be that bad. I figured it would be challenging, yes. Cold, sure. But insurmountable? Nah. Worthy of crying over? Certainly not. The hardest thing I'd do in my life? Doubtful.
As everyone else laid down and tried to get some rest, my adrenaline had other plans. I obsessively organized my gear, going over my layering strategy with maddening detail until we were finally called to dinner two hours later. If any inkling of fear had been present prior, it was now at a full blown 9 on the Richter scale of nerves. Our main guide's name was G Love, short for Godlove. If his intent was to prepare us for the fiery gates of hell, it was working. His prep speech was terrifying and seemed to last an eternity. Expect to be cold, he said, no matter what you wear. Put all of your gear on even if you don't think you'll need it. Pack snacks in your pockets. We'll be filling your camelbaks with warm water so the pipes don’t freeze. We got here as a team, he said, we'd go up as a team. If we have to split into two teams though, we would. Pole pole. We'll go slow. Use your mantras. Use your poles. One step at a time. Pack lightly. Make sure your headlamps have full batteries. As he continued, my appetite rapidly dwindled while the wind rapidly tortured our mess tent. It was HOWLING, RIPPING, causing genuine concern that it might suction the mess tent right off its stakes and send it into the ethers. It was a ferocious, unrelenting wind that added even more drama to what was quickly becoming the most dramatic scenario of my life.
We were released from dinner and told to sleep. To not think about what was to come. A comical suggestion, I thought, as I laid in my own tent and continued to worry that it would fly off its stakes, me wrapped up in it, the thrashing wind catapulting me into the next layer of atmosphere. Maybe that would be better? I laid in my sleeping bag from 7:30-10:30 half awake, half in another dimension, fully in delirium. And then Joe came to “wake” us up, as if I weren’t already conscious. Coffee at 11:00pm. Porridge at 11:30pm. Gear check. Do I have enough layers on, should I pack this additional layer, can you help with my gators, WILL I SURVIVE? Team huddle. G Love leading a prayer in Swahili, the wind carrying his words, tears coming out of my ducts already. A sudden realization that this was serious. This was real. There was impending danger, a possibility I might not make it, potential for something to go wrong. And then. The first step.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I didn't realize would be the hardest moments of my life. "You'll be cold no matter how many layers you have on," G Love warned. I didn't really know what cold was until February 14, 2019, when I had 10 hand warmers stuffed into my coats, two in each boot, one in each mitten. One of my climbing comrades surrendered one of his layers for me after a few hours in. I prayed that my hands and feet would just go numb instead of the barking pain that kept pulsing through my extremities. I imagined my organs calling a team meeting. Mayday, Mayday, we don't know what Jenna's doing right now but we need all hands on deck! My feet shuffled through the scree like Charlie Brown characters dancing. Everyone kept telling me to just wait until the sun came up, then it would get warmer, it'd be better, there'd be real light at the end of the tunnel. Three more hours, Jenna, just wait until you see the sun. Two more, one more. There it is! But nothing changed. I'd been a fool to think that the sliver of sun that peeked above the horizon would provide any sense of relief. I asked the MD we had on our team if my lungs could actually freeze, and when he said yes, they could, I was convinced this was where I would meet my maker. I would make it to the top and then I would die on that mountain proving to God-knows-who God-knows-what and I vowed in that moment that I would quit trying to prove myself. I would quit with the crazy adventures and solo traveling and if I made it off the mountain I would be so kind to my body, so gentle with myself.
In the good ol' USA we are blessed with options. We have millions of ways we can live life. You want a new car? Take your pick from hundreds. Want some pasta sauce? There are probably 50 options on the shelves. Don't feel like going to dinner with your friends? You can be a flake, call and cancel. Being on the mountainside at 17,000 feet was the first time in my life where there wasn't a way out. Even if I turned back and went back to camp, I was still on that damn mountain and then my ego would suffer the blow of failure. Even if I just chose to sit down and cry, I was still going to be in pain. Even if I had 20 coats on, my body would likely still feel like it was shutting down. I'd take two steps, pause and breathe. It sounded like I was in hospice and connected to a breathing machine, my breath labored, my brain confused by the lack of oxygen, stunned by the cold that had seeped its way into the bottom most belly of my lungs. Our guides chanted in Swahili. I muttered my own mantras through windburned lips. Inhale - "I," exhale - "am strong." When we got to Stella Point, about 45 minutes from the peak, G Love said it might be wise for me to turn back, to just return to camp. Leon would go with me. "Not a chance in hell" I said. "I did not come this far to quit now." There weren't options. I had to just keep going. One step. One small breath. One second at a time. That's all there was. I had to be in the thick of it because there was nowhere else to run. The sun had fully risen at that point. "Let's go," I said.
While I know this isn't the case, I think of the wrinkles on our brain as our most important memories. Like our most pivotal moments in life etch out a new wrinkle so that it stays imprinted forever. This climb carved out the deepest pathways, the most blazing memories of what it is to be truly scared, to be starkly vulnerable, to be pushed so far past my own limits, so far past the vicinity of my comfort zone. To pull from a deep reservoir of strength that I never knew existed. A permanent mantra now exists when challenge arises: I am strong. A permanent reminder when options don't exist: Just keep going. There's no getting out of this pandemic right now. Just keep going. There's not a clear solution for the strife that is present in my family. Just keep going. There's so much unknown in this life. All the time. Every day. Every year. Every unforeseen event that pops up. What other option do we have? Lace up your shoes. Borrow a coat. You didn't come this far to quit now. Just keep going.
