A moment of joy and tears

African ascent London - Arabstoday It was 2.30am and I could see my breath in the cold air as I struggled to put on thermals in the warmth of my sleeping bag. It was summit day and everyone was nervous, not least because there were a couple of extra guides in case some of us didn't make it. Outside it was pitch black except for a tiny necklace of lights, the head torches of another group in the far distance. We started walking at the speed of the slowest in our group as a cruel wind whipped around us. We had begun our ascent of Mount Kenya, the country's highest mountain, and second highest in Africa (after Kilimanjaro, about 250 miles/400km south), four days before. There are a few classic routes, but we were following the little-used Burguret trail and would return on the Sirimon route. For two days our porters had been hacking back the overgrowth. Added to the huge amount of kit carried by our 27 porters, cooks and guides for 11 of us, were chainsaws and machetes. Mount Kenya is an extinct volcano, where glaciers have tumbled over the ancient lava and the peaks are snow capped. The two highest peaks, Batian (17,057ft/5,199m) and Nelion (17,021ft/5,188m), are almost vertical in parts and are classed as technical climbs. Batian was first climbed by Sir Halford Mackinder, an Englishman, in 1899. Our goal was Point Lenana at 16,350ft (4,985m). To reach our starting point we left the fertile agricultural land belonging to the Kikuyu tribal villages and headed to the foothills. We skidded and slithered through the dense and swampy forest. When one of the all-terrain vehicles became stuck, not even the army of porters could free it without building a dam of branches under the wheels. When we could go no farther we started walking, leaving the forest and heading into the bamboo. The hoped-for wildlife – elephant, buffalo and zebra – did not materialise, though I think there was a sighting of the scarlet-winged touracos, a native bird. This area used to be the route of elephant migration but to protect the farming land a huge ditch was built to stop them. We only saw a few colobus monkeys and the odd pile of elephant dung. Our first camp deep in the bamboo was at 8,530ft (2,600m). Fires were lit, tents pitched and prepping began for the three-course evening meal. Huge vats of water were boiled. We were supposed to drink up to eight pints of water daily, dehydration being one of the causes of AMS (acute mountain sickness), commonly known as altitude sickness. Afterwards, we all sat around the fire. To welcome us the Kikuyu sang and danced to the "Jambo Bwana" song (jambo meaning hello). A wave of horror spread among us as we realised we were supposed to reciprocate. My tentmate, Katie, took control, falling back on a song from her Girl Guide days: She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain. Later, we lay in our tents, falling asleep to some eerie-sounding birds and the giggles of the Kikuyu porters, who were all sleeping in the mess tent. A hive of activity greeted us the next morning and after a breakfast of champions – eggs, bacon, fruit and pancakes – we set off, crossing streams and gaining elevation. At last we broke through the giant bamboo, climbed beyond the pencil cedar forest and into the rosewood zone. By now we had reached around 10,000ft (3,000m). Over just a few days, our journey traversed a landscape so varied that one moment it resembled the Scottish Highlands and the next might as well have been the moon. On the higher slopes, the combination of the altitude and being so close to the equator results in some unique vegetation. There's the water-holding cabbage, for example, found in the tussock grasslands; and the ostrich plume plant, an exotic-looking fern; and giant groundsel, also found on Kilimanjaro. After more than six hours of walking we pitched our camp at Highland Castle (12,140ft/3,700m) under some lava cliffs. For the first time we saw the mountain's twin peaks, still alarmingly far away. A soft rain and the light of the setting sun fell on the moorland grass, making it glitter like tinsel. We gave our wet clothing to the porters who draped it in a cave to dry. The night was cold but the sky was filled with stars as we ate around a table set up in the cave and lit by candles stuck on tins of beans. Early the next day we hit 13,000ft-plus (4,000m) and the air was noticeably thinner. It was a long day as our goal was to reach the Hausberg Col at 15,000ft (4,600m) and then descend the other side to Shipton's Camp. At this elevation the scenery shifts dramatically. We left the boggy moorland and hit scree and lava. Occasionally, to clamber over some of these massive boulders we had to go on all fours. It started raining, followed by hail, then wet snow added another layer of misery. I was too soaked even to contemplate getting something to eat out of my sodden rucksack. By the time I struggled into Shipton's Camp I was in a state of exhaustion that gave me doubts about the next day. A few of our group had killer headaches, a symptom of altitude sickness, and one felt too sick to eat. Our last carb-loading meal was pasta and peanut soup, which was surprisingly good. No one slept much. When we left at 2.30am with our head-torches on, the dark rather comfortably disguised our daunting task – the final three or four-hour ascent that lay ahead. There was a sliver of moon and a sky of stars. Snow crackled under our feet. To be on the safe side we kept our water inside our jackets so it didn't freeze. Then it was a slog: left, right, left, right, keeping a steady rhythm, hour after hour. We witnessed every second of the sunrise, suddenly noticing definition in the shape of the rocks, dark turning to light and then a band of colour coating the shadows until a wave of golden sunlight stretched ahead. In the distance I saw water simmering – a small tarn – and then more and more peaks slipped into view. We passed the turn for the Chogoria route as the sun started to appear and then almost raced up the few shimmering boulders to catch the sunrise. There were a couple of fixed wires and metal rungs to negotiate, and then there was the Kenyan flag billowing in the wind. It was a moment of joy and tears, and relief that everyone had made it. The view was spectacular, a huge landscape with snow-covered, sunbathed peaks piercing the sky. The way down was tricky, but once back at camp we relished the moment and savoured our big victory breakfast while rock hyraxes begged for crumbs. Then came the bad news. Our next camp for the night was six hours' walk away and rain was on the horizon. What got me through was my cheerful Cath Kidston umbrella, adorned with little dogs, and my Swahili mantra: "Hakuna matata". No worries.