This morning we headed for Barafu Camp, elevation around 15,500 feet—our last camp before our summit attempt. It was a fairly easy 4-hour hike, except for the last little bit of climbing over rocks to get into camp. Along the way, we met up with some of our 6-day climbing buddies, who had just made their summit attempts and were heading down the mountain to Mweka camp. All of those whom we met up with made it to the top, although some were ill (altitude and other problems) along the way. Everyone said they’d wished they had climbed in 7 days, like we were doing.

Barafu camp is very rocky, and our tents were set up on the edge of camp, closest to where we would "jump off" for our final uphill climb of the mountain that evening. The porters set up our tents and loo as best they could, tying the ropes down to rocks. The loo was at its most precarious, perched on uneven slate rocks. A fellow climber sharing our campsites, a thirty-ish woman from England who was climbing with a girlfriend to raise money for cancer research, used our loo and had the seat collapse under her. The afternoon sun shone through the shelter of the loo, leaving the covering translucent and providing little privacy for the occupant. Plus, since we had arrived at this camp fairly early and the porters did not have much work to do that afternoon, their pass-time was to sit in a row on the rocks and watch us and our activities in camp. Their habit of watching us in the afternoons seemed to arise from their culture, as I have observed this phenomenon in other parts of Africa as well. Once again, a private spot in the rocks, amidst nature, seemed a better alternative than the toilet facilities provided.

At an early dinner that day, both Joaquim and Jonas came in to brief us on our summit attempt. The mood was somber. Because we were slow hikers, we were planning to arise at 10:30 that night for tea and cookies, and leave at 11:00 p.m. for our hike to the summit. Joaquim thought it would take us about 8 hours to reach the top. We should dress warmly and carry our water and bring our backpacks with cameras, but little else. Our first stop at the top would be Stella Point, at the crater’s rim—well over 18,000 feet high. We would rest there and have tea, and decide whether we were up to continuing on to Uhuru Peak, the highest point in the continent, another uphill trek of an hour or so. After reaching the peak we would return to Barafu Camp for a brief rest and some lunch, and then head down to Mweka Camp at 10,000 feet, where we would spend our last night on the mountain.

We were nervous and, like other days, asked Joaquim whether he thought we would make it to the top. He always said yes. He also told us that it was just one brief day of our lives: a few hours. We should give it all our effort and accomplish what we set out to do—reach the summit—and then we would not have to come back and try to do it again. In fact, he said he did not want to see us come back to try to climb Kili again!

Susanne and I retired and agreed that if we made it to Stella Point the next morning we should go on to Uhuru Peak unless we were too sick to go on. Sleep eluded us as we lay in our little tent, apprehensive about the coming hours. We did not need anyone to awaken us at 10:30—we had not slept at all.