After consuming a cup of tea and a few cookies, we gathered up our gear, turned on our coal-miner-like headlamps, and started up the mountain at 11:00 that evening. We were the first ones going up the mountain. It was pitch black out and there was no moon, but as always the sky was full of stars.

We climbed up and over rocks until we reached about 16,000 feet. By then, it was after midnight, and other hikers had joined us on the trail. We could see the pinpoint beacons of light from their headlamps as they slowly wound up the path below us, and then as they passed us by and continued up the mountain ahead of us.

We trudged up the hill at a very slow pace, feeling nausea and headaches from the lack of oxygen as we reached higher and higher altitudes. We stopped to rest periodically, sitting down on rocks even though we had been advised not to. When we stopped, clammy chills ran over our sweating bodies, and we sat there not wanting to move. After a minute or two, Joaquim would have to prod us verbally, "We have to keep moving. We can’t stay here." We would haul ourselves up and keep plodding upwards. Some of our fellow hikers had a pace comparable to ours, and we would pass each other on rest stops up the mountain. Everyone looked grim. No one talked. No one laughed. We just concentrated on the task before us, and the effort to push ourselves to reach the top of the mountain. Step after step after step.

After 16,000 feet, the trail turned into "scree"—a mixture of loose sand and gravel that we walked through all the way to the top. The trail through the scree consisted of countless switchbacks—back and forth, back and forth, higher and higher. We couldn’t see the top of the mountain—we just knew that it was somewhere up there. Maybe it was better that we couldn’t see how steep it really was or how far we had to go.

There were many points when I didn’t want to go on. I asked Susanne whether we were sure we wanted to do this. She was lost in her own thoughts and didn’t respond. I tried to take my mind to more pleasant places—anywhere would be better than the present. I tried to stop once in a while and look at the majestic night sky, to give me something uplifting to view, and to give myself a break from the constant, hour after hour, downward view of my feet moving through a narrow pool of light from my headlamp. I kept thinking to myself, I’ve come too far to stop now. I thought of my friends and family and the encouragement I’d received, and the goal I had planned and worked for so long to accomplish. I had to keep going.

I started counting my footsteps, and calculating how many footsteps it would take to go ten feet higher. I had an altimeter on my wristwatch, which was a saving grace—letting me know that we were making progress and steadily rising. Towards the end of the uphill climb, I was telling Susanne each time we’d gained another 50 or 100 feet, to help her keep plodding on, too.

Susanne’s light went out and she didn’t try to replace the batteries. Then Jonas’ light went out. We trudged on by the lights in my headlamp and Joaquim’s flashlight. When my batteries died, I replaced them with the spares I had been carrying in my waist bag, close to my body, to keep warm. I dug out a disposable flashlight for Jonas to use. Susanne and I had, early on, passed our backpacks on to Joaquim and Jonas to carry. Dispensing of that extra burden, no doubt, helped us reach the top.

As the hours progressed, we finally noticed that the sky was not quite as black. Dawn was coming and it was finally light enough that, on one of our frequent rest breaks, Joaquim reached over and shut off my headlamp. We could see the top of the trail we were climbing on through the early rays of morning sunshine. At the time, I didn’t realize that the top of the trail I was looking at, 100 or so very steep yards above me, was actually Stella Point, and the rim of the crater. We were almost there.

We crested the trail at 6:30 that morning, and by that time the sun was intense. I looked at the crater in front of me, and I finally realized that we had reached Stella Point. We were exhausted. I collapsed on the closest rock. Tears welled up in my eyes and ran down my face as I took the drawing my son created for me, depicting me standing at the top of a mountain, out of my waist bag and held it up, along with a small family photo. In a choked voice I told my companions that I wanted a photograph of me with the drawing and the family photo so Bill and Tyler would know I was thinking about them when we first reached the crater rim.

We took additional photographs, and sat down together to drink our tea and to decide whether to go forward or back. Joaquim said, "I think you should go on to Uhuru." We had doubts about whether we had the strength to keep climbing, but I reminded Susanne about our resolution the night before that we would go on to the top unless we absolutely couldn’t continue. So, after a brief rest, we pulled ourselves upright and again started heading upward to the highest point in Africa.

We trudged upward through the desolate terrain, tired and stumbling over small rocks and gravel. Kilimanjaro’s caldera was on our right, and glaciers were on our left. What should have been our view of all of Africa, below the glaciers, was obscured by clouds. We met some of our fellow hikers on this last segment of our quest; they had already reached Uhuru Peak and were heading down the mountain. They gave us encouragement and told us that the remaining climb was not bad—nothing like what we had already experienced that day—and told us that we would be there soon.

Finally, at 8:00 a.m. on June 30, 2000, we saw the sign that we knew marked the highest point in Africa! One small rise to climb and we were there! We had done it! Susanne and I hugged each other, and then we hugged Joaquim and Jonas. Tears came to our eyes again as we realized we had accomplished what we’d set out to do: climb to the highest point on the continent of Africa.

A dozen or so people were at the Uhuru Peak area, signing the log book, taking photos, and enjoying the triumph of making it to the top. We proudly signed the log book at the top of Kilimanjaro, adding our names to the list of successful climbers. After posing for several photos in front of the sign we had struggled for 5 ˝ days to reach, I had one more important task to accomplish.

I stepped away from the group and walked about twenty feet to the left of the sign at the top of Kilimanjaro. I stopped at a spot right next to the crater’s rim. I took my fat picture out of my waist pack, got on my knees, and buried the picture under some small volcanic rocks. On the back of the photo I had written the words that were told to us a week earlier at our hotel in Arusha: "The mountain will set you free." I wrote that the photo was placed in this location by the woman in the picture, and signed and dated it.

When I was done, I picked up a handful of small rocks from the ground near where I buried my photo, and put them in a plastic baggie in my waist pack. When I returned home, those rocks would be distributed to my family and close friends who had supported me throughout the recent, turbulent years and who would understand just how significant those rocks I gathered from the top of Kilimanjaro were. There is not enough money in the world equal to the value of those rocks and what they symbolize to me. I had never worked so hard or so long for anything in my life. They represent the culmination of a six-year transition, a journey of change from miserably unhappy, unhealthy, morbid obesity to happy, healthy fitness. A new lifestyle and a new life. Feelings of accomplishment and self-esteem where there once were none. A woman who had hated herself and who had been afraid—and physically unable—to go anywhere or do anything because of her extreme weight had just conquered her own limitations and lingering self-doubts by conquering one of the world’s seven summits. It was a defining moment in my life, and no one or nothing would ever be able to take that away from me.

I rejoined the group. It was now time to begin our journey down the mountain. The trip down was almost as hard as the trip up. It was faster, but steep, slippery, and hard on both knees and feet. I fell down repeatedly in the scree and had to rely on Jonas to help me up off the ground. Plus, I had the misfortune of becoming ill with intestinal problems on the way down, where the mountain affords no privacy for such matters.

We reached Barafu camp around 11:30 a.m., and after a brief rest and lunch we packed our gear and continued our descent to Mweka Camp which rests at around 10,000 feet. My toes were blistered from the hours of downhill pounding by the time we reached Mweka Camp, and each step was arduous. It was 5:30 p.m., and except for brief rest periods, we had trekked for 17 ˝ hours that day.

The Speedo Boys were set up next to us in camp, and were standing around drinking beer when I dragged myself to our tent. They asked what I thought of the climb down, and I told them it was almost as bad as the climb up. They asked if I reached Uhuru, and told me "Well done!" when I replied that I had. They were a healthy-looking group of young guys from Great Britain, and I suspect they were surprised Susanne and I hung in there and made it to the top with the rest of them.

After dinner, we crashed early and slept soundly through the night.