Kilimanjaro was the first of my Seven Summits, the collection of mountains that comprise the highest peak on each of the world’s seven continents. It marked the beginning of one of the most colourful chapters of my life, taking me from the Himalayas to the virgin forests of West Papua and the icy wastelands of Antarctica. It is also the one mountain to which I have returned time and time again—each time leading a group of international women studying for an MBA at the Rotterdam School of Management. In total, I’ve been privileged to accompany 70 women on the mountain—each has been touched by it in their own special way, but more of that later.
My introduction to Kilimanjaro took place a very long time ago when, as a student, I spent three glorious months working on a farm in Africa. My eyes fell upon its domed, pudding shape across the savannah or from the window of an aeroplane—always at a distance, beyond reach. But the germ of an idea was sown. Years later, while working as a journalist in London, a friend, Lucy, called me to seek suggestions on what she might do while on holiday in East Africa. No surprise that I answered, unreservedly, “Climb Kilimanjaro. Can I come too?”
Kilimanjaro might be the highest mountain on the African continent, but it isn’t a technically arduous climb. There are tricky features on the mountain, such as the Breach Wall and the jagged spire of Mawenzi that pioneering climbers have sought and scaled. But essentially, it is an oversized mound with gentle slopes running down to the sun-bleached plains of the Maasai steppe. And whether you climb it from the north, south, east, or west, you can be sure of a footpath to the summit.
Kilimanjaro is a dormant volcano—one of the best known in the world, in part because of Hemingway’s famous story of a dying writer, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.” In Swahili, Kilima Njaro means ‘the mountain that glitters’, and its snow-capped summit is an instant symbol of East Africa. It lies 250 miles south of the equator, just inside Tanzania’s border with Kenya. A quick glance at the map reveals a curious kink encircling the mountain in an otherwise ruler-straight boundary between the two countries, explained by the fact that, in 1886, Queen Victoria gave the mountain to her German grandson, Wilhelm, as a birthday present. The mountain is surrounded by the hot, dry plains of the Maasai steppe and is known for its widely contrasting vegetation. Of the Seven Summits—the highest mountains on each of the world’s seven continents—it is the easiest and most accessible to climb.
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Entry to Kilimanjaro National Park is tightly controlled, so climbers pay a permit fee to enter the gate—and for each party, it is obligatory to employ a local guide and porters. Tents, sleeping bags, and food are usually included, and for those opting for the well-trodden tourist trail—or the Coca-Cola trail—there is bunk accommodation available as well.
Poring over maps, we opted instead for the Machame route, which curls around from the south and, back in 1991, was rarely climbed, offering a sense of remoteness. A little more circuitous than the Coca-Cola route, it also had the advantage of taking a day or two longer, allowing us more time to acclimatise. As for the obligatory guide and porters, we would welcome their company, of course, but we planned to provide our own camping equipment and food in an effort to be as self-reliant as possible.
Before we set out, I spent hours on the telephone with Lucy, reading and checking lists, striking items off as much as adding them on, all with the aim of minimising the loads we would carry. We decided to bring equipment and clothing from home, but we would buy food and fuel for our MSR stove locally. I recall it was in Nairobi, before boarding the bus across the border to Arusha and then to Kilimanjaro, that we wheeled a trolley around a supermarket, stocking up for the climb. I threw tens of chocolate bars into the trolley as fast as Lucy whisked them out again. "You’ll want those," I insisted. We left purchasing fuel for the stove until we arrived in Moshi, a small market town at the southern foot of the mountain. Fuel in Tanzania was notoriously contaminated at the time, and I spent most of an afternoon sitting in the garden of our guesthouse, filtering it from one can to another through coffee filter papers. Finally, we were ready for the mountain.
Kilimanjaro, as we know, is a populated mountain, which has frightened much of the wildlife away—the sum total of my animal spotting was a four-striped grass mouse. Yet, the mountain retains a unique character, and its unusual topography continues to fascinate. When Kilimanjaro’s snowcapped peak was first discovered by the missionary Johannes Rebmann in 1848, it was dismissed as fantasy for over a decade. The Royal Geographical Society of London insisted that snowfall couldn’t possibly occur, let alone persist, at such latitudes and considered Rebmann's report to be a malaria-induced hallucination. How could it be, on the equator?
It is, of course, a textbook illustration of the effects of altitude on temperature. To climb it, you first walk through banana plantations on the rich volcanic soils of its lower slopes, then through forest, heath, high desert, and finally—when the extreme altitude causes temperatures to plummet below zero—onto a glacial summit. Parallels can be drawn with walking across the lines of latitude from the equator to the north or south geographical poles.
Our journey was almost without mishap. "Poli, poli, sister," the guide gently chastised, "slowly, slowly," mindful that it never pays to force the body’s natural pace of acclimatisation. Slowly we climbed the mountain’s lower slopes, drinking excessive quantities of water and resting far more than we had in years. Only our stove let us down—or rather the fuel—still clearly far from free of grit and grime. The stove spat and spluttered and finally gave out with a gasp of exasperation from me, and a humble acceptance of rice and beans cooked on the porters’ open fire. They had seen it all before.
With the patience of angels, they stood by and watched as we struggled in the thinning air on the upper slopes. The last day is a killer—rising at midnight and climbing "poli, poli" on the steep, grey scree slopes of the mountain’s summit cone. There’s little chance of speeding up now. Here, oxygen is in radically reduced supply. Every step is an effort—lungs gasping for air, feet slipping infuriatingly on loose scree. Poli, poli. Breathe deep. Regroup. Find a rhythm. "Don’t fight nature, but gently find a way to work with it," I whispered to myself. This is the secret to conserving energy and making progress in the upper reaches of the atmosphere (and in life, generally, should we but remember).
At last, there was a hint of light in the expansive African sky, and we found ourselves standing on Kilimanjaro’s caldera rim, looking out at a plump, rising sun and, far below, a blanket of pearly grey clouds stretching to the horizon. A slow stroll around the crater rim brought us to Uhuru Peak, the mountain’s highest point, where we took in the view of two further summits poking their heads above the clouds. Far in the distance lay Mount Kenya, a peak I had climbed the year before, and closer to hand was Meru—a volcanic peak standing sentry over Arusha, some 50 miles away. It felt exhilarating to stamp our feet in the snow, high up on the roof of Africa. "We can climb that one now," declared Lucy, pointing in the direction of Arusha. And in the course of the next few days, we did. The mountaineering bug, it seems, shows clear signs of being contagious.
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Decades passed before I returned—this time with groups of women from every corner of the world, studying at the Rotterdam School of Management. Each woman had to write about her expectations and the lessons she learned on the mountain. But the real learning was in the experience itself—whether or not it was put into words. Most had never climbed or trekked before, and many had never spent a night in a tent. The learning curves were steep, but the bonds forged between the women were strong and lasting. They still gather to socialise, travel together, and network for that prized job.
For each woman, the mountain reflected something different—lessons in leadership, living with uncertainty, resilience, the power of teamwork, and camaraderie. However, the two most profound and consistent teachings from the mountain were about confidence and a sense of purpose. One remarkable, value-driven woman had been struggling with her career choice for many years and longed to work in humanitarian aid. The day she returned home, she wrote her letter of resignation and made that call. I believe, without exception, all the women grew in confidence. As one woman’s words aptly summed it up: "This mountain reminded me that I’m made of steel."
Rebecca Stephens MBE is a British author and journalist, known for being the first British woman to climb the Seven Summits.