Apparently, I Have to Practice Walking

Kilimanjaro

In three weeks I will attempt to climb Mount Kilimanjaro: Africa’s tallest peak.

I will do this with my cousins Ross and Alan, and a girl named Claire, who I happen to love. We will begin in a tropical rainforest, and 19 341 feet later — with any luck — we will be standing on a frigid arctic peak.

I feel tremendously unprepared. There are 1000 things I still have to do. Or maybe there are 37 things, but counting the things I have to do would only be one more thing I have to do.

Pale Canadians cannot just go to Africa. First, we have to put on our space suits: to stick needles in our arms, have pills prescribed, to drink foul concoctions that give us night terrors but keep away cholera. We have to arrange flights, buy gear, and nod like an idiot pretending to understand as hiking enthusiasts say words like ‘moisture wicking’ and ‘thermoformed’.

We also have to practice walking. I thought I’d mastered the old left-foot-right-foot-repeat by the age of 3, but apparently walking uphill for hours on end is a different story.

Claire has found the perfect trail to test out boots. The humidity makes it feel like 41 today. Celsius. If you use Fahrenheit all you have to know is 41 Celsius sucks. Our plan is to hike 11 kilometers around Charleston Lake, carrying extra weight on our backs because ‘It’s more fun that way.’

“It’s going to be forty-one with the humidity tomorrow,” I texted last night. I didn’t say I wanted to call the whole thing off to stay inside our air-conditioned basement and wait for a cooler day.

“Sounds like perfect training weather,” Claire texts back.

So we’re going.

Sure it’s hot; sure there are bugs; sure I left my water bottle in the backseat so now my only source of hydration is a temperature reminiscent of warm urine. But it’s Saturday and I’m out in the sunshine, breathing in air that doesn’t know brake dust. I’m bending over to say hello to every little frog and butterfly. Best of all: my hiking boots are holding up splendidly. Kilimanjaro is just a long walk. I know how to walk.

Confidence is a key ingredient when making a fool of oneself. We’re three kilometers away from the parking lot when my troubles begin. The first traces of a blister are easy to ignore. Maybe it’s nothing: just a twisted sock rubbing smart. If I can wedge my fingers into my boot I can fluff myself back to serenity.

“How’s it going back there?” Claire asks. She’s a seasoned hiker and she’s pulling ahead. This practice hike is entirely for my benefit. Her boots fit like old friends. My boots?

“I feel a bit of a pinch, but I’m fine.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I’m fine. Hey, look at that little frog. That’s neat.”

Changing the subject is the best way to maintain a state of denial. My right foot hurts. My mind’s eye can see the skin — red and stingy and peeling back from the heel. We are only halfway through this romp in the woods. In the second half, there will be blood.

We stop on a big rock by the shore of Charleston Lake. I look like I’ve won a wet t-shirt contest. I have sweat in places that aren’t supposed to sweat. Picture moist ear canals. I take a gulp of warm pee water as Claire eats her kale and couscous. We’ve only rested two minutes before the blackflies find us.

“Ugh. We should keep moving.”

“Great idea.”

It’s not a great idea. It’s an awful idea. I want to dip my blistered foot into the lake. I want to wave down a passing boat and have them motor us back to the parking lot. I want to drive to a pub and have a frank conversation about how booking flights to Tanzania on a month’s notice might have been a tad hasty.

But I don’t. I get my ass off that big rock in the shade, I put a smile on my face, and I say: “Ready when you are!”.

And we practice walking.

Six kilometers. Don’t think about your feet . . . Just walk . . .

Seven kilometers. Ow . . . Ow . . . Ow . . . Ow . . .

Eight kilometers. This couldn’t have been my idea. This woman is a witch. How else could I have been tricked into this?

Nine Kilometers. Oh no. Not the left foot too . . . Please not the left foot too . . .

Ten kilometers. Almost there . . . Almost there . . . Almost there . . .

Pain is a lesson, for those willing to learn it. Next time I’ll put tape over my heel. Next time I won’t wear these stupid bulky socks. Next time I’ll know that I don’t have to stop when it starts to hurt.

Because it’s going to hurt. Nobody climbs a mountain without a certain amount of suffering. If you need your adventures to be perfect, book a week at Sandals and drink Pina Coladas on the beach. If you want to live a story worth telling, then suffer that blister and take another step.

Eleven kilometers. I can see the car! . . . I can take these miserable boots off! . . . I didn’t quit!

Kilimanjaro: here I come.

If you’d like to know a bit about my travel philosophy, read on!

Also check out this epic road trip from Valerie Delzer: