I’d be hard pressed to tell you exactly why I’d never been drawn to climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

I’ve been to Tanzania several times and love the country deeply. I’ve seen Kilimanjaro from the air and from the plains below — that iconic snow-capped peak rising above the savannah — and yet I’d never once thought, I want to climb that.

I’ve never been especially motivated by summits. What draws me to the mountains is the journey: long hut-to-hut treks, moving through landscapes slowly, watching the terrain change step by step. Reaching a single high point has always felt secondary to the experience of being out there.

There was also something else.

Treks that rely heavily on porters carry real ethical weight. As a white Western traveler in a country with a long history of colonialism and exploitation, I try to think carefully about labor done on my behalf. Kilimanjaro, with its large support crews, raised questions for me. Not deal breakers — but questions that required thought, research, and intentionality.

So, when my friend Sayuri kept texting me about an open spot on a Kilimanjaro climb with Women Who Explore, I kept saying no.

“I don’t think it’s for me,” I told her.

Then one day I looked at my travel calendar and realized something slightly absurd: I would be finishing a trip in Mongolia just days before the Kilimanjaro climb began. Technically, with enough long-haul flights and questionable decision-making, I could make it work.

I asked Melissa (co-owner of Women Who Explore), a previous Kilimanjaro trip leader and someone I trusted deeply, if it was completely ridiculous to fly from Mongolia to Tanzania to climb a mountain.

She laughed and said, “It’s my favorite trip I’ve ever done. You should go!”

That was enough.

Sometimes the best adventures begin with a spontaneous yes.

Pole, Pole

Kilimanjaro is not a technical climb, but it is demanding.

Six days up. One day down.
High altitude. Thin air. Slow progress.

The mountain has a mantra: pole, pole — slowly, slowly.

And they mean it. The pace is almost comically slow, designed to give your body the best chance to acclimate and avoid altitude sickness. You walk gently through changing ecosystems: lush rainforest, moorland filled with giant groundsels, volcanic rock fields, the otherworldly alpine desert, and eventually the eternal ice of the summit.

By the second day, we were already above the clouds, watching sunsets that looked like they belonged in a dream.

By the third day, we were climbing to Lava Tower at over 15,000 feet to help our bodies adjust to higher elevations.

By the fourth day, we were scrambling up the Barranco Wall, clinging to rocks and laughing nervously while trying not to look down.

By the fifth day, we were at base camp, preparing for the midnight summit push.

The mountain was beautiful and humbling.

But it still wasn’t the most powerful part of the experience.

The Heart of the Mountain

There were eight women in our group.

It took nearly 35 people to get us up that mountain.

Guides. Cooks. Camp staff. Porters. Summit support. Logistics coordinators.
An entire team working quietly and steadily behind the scenes.

Every morning they greeted us with hot tea and warm smiles.
Every afternoon they had camp ready before we arrived.
Every evening they sang, laughed, and shared meals together as the sun faded behind the peaks.

They carried tents, food, water, gear, and supplies — sometimes balancing towering loads on their heads while moving with a grace that made it look effortless. They passed us on the trail, smiling and joking, already on their way to set up the next camp.

It wasn’t just the work that struck me.

It was the spirit.

They moved with joy, with camaraderie, with pride in what they were doing and in each other. The mountain felt alive with their energy — humming with song and laughter in the thin air.

You couldn’t help but feel lifted by it.

Calisti

Each of us had a personal porter.

Mine was Calisti.

He was shorter than me, had a brilliant smile and a delightfully lazy eye. He spoke almost no English. I spoke no Swahili. Our conversations were mostly smiles, gestures, and the occasional shared laugh.

But connection doesn’t always need language.

Every afternoon Calisti met me on the trail near camp, grinning as he took my pack and guided me the rest of the way in. He would brush dust off my shoes and pants before I climbed into my tent, proudly making sure everything was in place.

He pronounced my name “Me-Shellie,” repeating it with joy every time he saw me.

On the descent from the summit, when my legs were shaking and the rocky trail felt endless, he came up to meet me part way. He sweetly held my hand and carefully guided me down steep sections of the mountain.

It was a simple gesture.

But in that moment, it meant everything.

Summit Night

We started the summit push at 11 p.m.

Darkness. Wind. Cold. Scree sliding under every step. Headlamps forming a slow, silent line up the mountain.

Between 3 and 6 a.m., the altitude hit hard. Exhaustion settled into our bones. Every step felt like a negotiation between body and will.

Then the sun began to rise.

A glowing blanket of clouds stretched endlessly below us, lit from beneath in shades of gold and pink. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still and impossibly vast.

By 8 a.m., after trudging the final push through an icy wonderland, we stood at the summit — the Roof of Africa.

We were exhausted. Emotional. Running on fumes.

And strangely, full of joy.

But what I remember most isn’t the sign at the top or the photos or the accomplishment.

It’s the thought that kept me moving in those hardest twilight hours:

They are working so hard to help us get there. I don’t want to quit on them.

The Gift

At the end of the trek, we gathered with the crew to thank them.

We told them what they meant to us — how their encouragement carried us through moments when we weren’t sure we could keep going. How seeing their smiling faces at camp lifted our spirits. How their songs and laughter made the mountain feel like home.

We told them that years from now, when people ask about Kilimanjaro, we will talk about the summit.

But we will talk about them even more.

Because the truth is this: Kilimanjaro isn’t just a mountain.

It’s a community of people who return to its slopes again and again — not for glory, but to help others reach something meaningful.

They carry gear.
They carry supplies.
They carry responsibility.

And sometimes, without even realizing it, they carry the spirits of the people walking beside them.

What Kilimanjaro Left Me With

I went into this journey with few expectations and a fair amount of uncertainty.

I came down the mountain profoundly changed.

Yes, the landscape is unforgettable.
Yes, the summit is powerful.

But what stays with me most is the feeling of being part of something bigger than myself — a shared effort, a shared goal, a shared human experience built on trust, care, and mutual respect.

The mountain gave us a summit.

The people gave us something far more meaningful.

And that is what I will carry with me long after the dust of Kilimanjaro has washed from my boots.

Asante sana.

The pictures don’t do the trip justice. I made some fun videos of the adventures, which you can find on my Instagram!