Uhuru — summit, descent, and out

It was 6:30 the night before, and the usually relaxed mess tent was replaced by quiet tension. The snowstorm was still going. We were tired, cold, scared. My boots, it turned out, weren't waterproof; nor were the tents. We spent as much time discussing how to keep our gear dry as we did the summit itself. Between our support crew we had over 300 summits of experience, and not one of them had seen weather this bad at this time of year.

We turned in for a couple of hours of sleep before being woken at 11:30 to prepare for the summit march. We woke to a clear, star-speckled night. A miraculous turn — but as we'd find out, the heavy snowfall had been compacted into ice by climbers ahead of us, making the ascent treacherous. I solved the wet boot problem with layered socks, chemical toe warmers and plastic bags. I felt better about our prospects. Chris was apprehensive. Kelly looked steely.

We got a late start but were soon scrambling up the campsite rocks onto the route proper. Above us, a long snaking line of headlamps climbed the face towards Stella Point. The trick was to find a rhythm that made distance without breaking a sweat — sweat freezes — and without going short of breath, which at this altitude leads to blackouts. The mere act of pulling off ski gloves to drink water took extreme concentration. We rested every hour, briefly, never long enough to begin freezing.

Stella Point seemed impossibly far. When we asked Gerry or Kush how close we were, the answer — two hours moving, four to go — was demoralising. Chris fell back. Kelly led, and I strained to keep her pace. The path iced over. We made Stella Point in just under six hours, exchanged congratulatory hugs, ate, drank, and pushed for the summit proper. Bobby reckoned the temperature was -20°C without windchill, and as we stepped onto the exposed ridge of the summit walk the wind picked up and dropped it further. Boots iced over. Toe warmers gave up. We covered our noses in pawpaw extract and twitched our fingers in our gloves to generate friction. Eight to ten very slow steps, ten seconds rest, suck in oxygen, repeat. Even Bobby and Kush were finding it hard.

From Stella Point to the summit took another 45 minutes. At the top there was a traffic jam of teams trying to get summit photos. Bobby muscled us near the front. Godson was crouched on a rock with his hands tucked inside his pants to try to thaw them — good to know one can always use one's testicles to stave off frostbite. There was no view. Just wind, snow, and the exhausted faces of our comrades. The moment we had a passable photo, we pushed off.

If the ascent was treacherous, the descent was worse. Faster, sure — the muscles need less oxygen on the way down — but hundreds of feet had compacted the snow into ice, and every step involved some degree of slide. We linked arms in pairs to arrest each other's falls. By the halfway point the sun was out and the ice softened. Godson, who I was paired with, wanted to descend at Magumu pace. I felt like a child being dragged down a shopping aisle, but I was OK with it. I just wanted off the mountain.

Three hours later we walked into camp. The Magumu came out of their tent and applauded. Sade brought us cordial. It was done — up there in the hardest 10 hours of my life. But it wouldn't end there.

A fierce new snowstorm hit the high camp, drenching everything again. Our gear was soaked, the Magumu's tent was soaked. Once you've summited you can't stay at Barafu, and our permits were running out. We had two options: go to a lower camp and try to dry gear before another sub-zero night, or walk out — five hours down to the emergency gate.

We chose the gate. By the time we reached it, just after seven, we were the walking dead. No jump for joy, no hugs, no speech. We lay on the concrete in silence waiting for the second half of the team to arrive.

It was a silent hour back to the hotel. Soon we'd have our trophy: a beer, dinner, and the chance to drain the hot water system.