Climbing Kilimanjaro - the world's highest single mountain peak
It started as a quiet thought - a dream I didn't dare call a goal. To stand on the highest peak in the world. To breathe in the thin air where the clouds are no longer above me, but all around. I don't know when it took root, but it has grown silently. Maybe it is foolhardy. Maybe it's too late. But the thought won't leave me: What if I just do it? Just book the ticket, find a trip that fits into my busy calendar—where flight times, hiking days, and money all align for once—and let fate decide the rest.
Can I handle the altitude? Can I sleep in a tent? Can my body handle this? I just don't know. But that's the appeal—to dare to do something without guarantees. Because it's now or never. Right now, I have a body I can trust. Not perfect, but strong. And I don't know how much longer it will stay that way.
The dream is waiting up there. The question is: Do I dare to face it?
Six months of preparation
I have to prepare myself. Not just for the altitude, the cold, and the challenge, but to really enjoy every step. Because I know that the more I give now, the more I’ll get up there. So I'm going 'all in', as I usually do. The training program is on the kitchen table. Strength sessions alternate with hill training, long walks with a pack, and the usual run.
Boots are to be tried—not just any boots, but the ones that will carry me all the way to the top. Toe socks, poles, and zip-off pants. The details matter. The backpack is filled with dumbbells waiting to be exchanged for real packing. Yes, the backpack. It's our new RevolutionRace product, not yet fully developed. Dare I take it? Is it up to scratch? Or should I bring another one?
Vaccinations are booked, airfares compared, visa rules read. Each practical step becomes a secret ritual—part of the journey that has already begun inside me. With every act of preparation, my mind drifts to the mountain. Kilimanjaro. The name tastes vast. Too big, even—I’m almost ashamed to say it out loud. Who do I think I am? But I am drawn there. By something deeper than adventure. Maybe it's about feeling alive. Maybe it’s about proving something to myself.
We will walk from heat to ice. Through rainforests, across moors, and up into the silence of glaciers. We'll carry only the essentials, but everything must work. There is no room for carelessness. I think about my journey every day—in every step I take, every weight I lift, every time I tie my shoes. The mountain is already a part of me
Now I am leaving
First stop: Arlanda airport. I met some of my new travel companions. Some, like me, are traveling alone. We don't know each other, but there is a shared buzz in the air—an unspoken "we're going to do this together". We chat, laugh a little nervously, and try to understand how everything will unfold. Then comes the night flight to Addis Ababa—long hours in the dark while drifting in and out of sleep.
We land early in the morning, tired but excited. The next flight to Arusha feels like a transport to another life. As soon as we set foot in Tanzania, everything becomes real. A warm, dusty air greets us. We’re picked up by bus and welcomed by the tour operator. We receive a short presentation and briefing—instructions, rules, and guidelines. Then dinner. Nervousness creeps in as we check our packing. There's no chance of buying anything now if I've forgotten something. A lump in my stomach forms when I can't find my hat. I know that I packed it...
At six o'clock in the morning, the backpacks are weighed. Five kilos maximum. The duffel bag: fifteen. I have to start unpacking. A few items of clothing go, and several bars too. I had not realized how much everything weighed. It's frustrating—I want to be prepared, but I also need to pack light.
We are divided into two groups, each with about fifteen people. Our main guide, Stefan, knows his stuff. He has to. We will hike in separate groups but break and spend the night together, all so that he can keep an eye on our health. No one can get worse without it being noticed.
The tension rises. My mind is spinning. Will I make it? Am I really prepared enough? Will I freeze? Everything I've been thinking about for the past few months is suddenly a reality. This is where it starts. This is what I've been training for. This is it.
First day of the walk
But as soon as we checked in at Lemosho Gate, calm came over me. It's like something inside falls silent. The rainforest closes in on us - moist, alive, deep. Monkeys play in the treetops, birds call to each other in a language that doesn’t need understanding.
Here we are guests, small creatures walking through something much bigger. Our steps instinctively soften. We walk in a line, almost like a ceremony. There is no crowding, no stress. Pole, pole—slow, slow—is the word. But it's more than a word; it's a way of being.
Routines must be practiced. Every break has a purpose: drinking, eating, peeing, adjusting clothes. You have to plan before you stop. Every evening, we have a health check: oxygen levels, how many times we peed and pooped, how much we drank. Stefan notes everything in his little black book. At first, we giggle, a little embarrassed, but soon it becomes normal. Obvious, even. The body is our most important tool, and we have to learn to listen to it. It's the only way to reach the summit.
The tents are ready when we arrive at camp. Food is prepared on site—hot, tasty, simple—but tastes like a feast. Toilet tents are set up both at lunch and overnight. It's as far from comfort as you can get, but somehow it feels completely right. Everything is well thought out. Everything has its place
We walk between four and ten hours a day. Five to ten kilometers. But it's neither the distance nor the time that determines how tough it is. It's the altitude. The adaptation. You can't rush it. 5,896 meters doesn't sound unreasonable on paper—you could do that in a day—but altitude doesn't care about logic. The body reacts as it wants. Some start to feel sick in the first few days. There is no way to predict who it will affect. I started wondering: Will I feel it too? Have I been training for nothing if my body decides to protest?
The thought occurs to me: Can you lie? Saying you're fine when you're not? But how dangerous is that, really? How do you know the difference between nervousness and actual danger? I want to reach the summit at all costs. But I also understand that all I can do is follow the instructions. Eat as much as I can. Drink regularly. If I can go to the toilet at every stop, I know my body is working. And always: pole, pole… slowly, slowly.
All around me are lovely people, but I realize that I can’t bear their worries, only my own. I have to take responsibility for myself. Breathe. Drink small sips often. Walk slowly. Keep an eye on the sun—don't take off too much, don't get burnt. I'd rather sweat than freeze. In my backpack, I carry everything I might need during the day. The rest—warm clothes for the summit—is in the duffel, carried by our amazing porters.
There is a whole crew, over a hundred people, who make this trek possible for us. They carry our tents, food, water, toilets, and garbage. They build our camps, tear them down, and greet us with songs and smiles. It's hard work, but we know it's a valued and well-paid job. And there is something deeply human in this whole community—we are all part of something bigger.
This is not just my journey. It is ours.
It takes our breath away
When we leave the rainforest and come out onto the Shira Plateau, everything changes. It's like the world opens up. Suddenly, it stands there—the summit. Kilimanjaro. The one we've talked about, trained for, and dreamed of. It takes our breath away. It looks unreal. Mighty and terrifying at the same time. There's a hush in the ranks when it appears, as if everyone feels the same: Now it's real.
We follow the path north of the mountain. From there, we can see all the way across the savannahs of Kenya. The sunsets are magical—like the sky is on fire. But it's the sunrises that really hit you. When the light slowly creeps across the landscape, painting the rocks in pink and gold, it’s hard to believe you’re not dreaming.
The landscape changes with every step upward. The plants grow lower and sparser. The soil becomes more barren. The sand and rocks shift in color and shape, from reddish brown to grey, then almost black. And it's getting cold. Really cold. Frost on the tent canvas in the morning. The air stings your nose when you breathe.
My tent buddy, Penny, has become one of the best parts of the trip. We clicked right away—same crazy sense of humor, same chaotic packing, same excitement for what we're doing. We often sit in the tent in the morning, talking animatedly at each other, realizing no one’s actually listening, and then bursting out laughing. That real, bubbling laughter that makes you forget you're cold. She makes everything a little easier. A little warmer
During the days, we get to know more people in the group, bit by bit. It happens naturally—with every footstep, conversation, and break. In the evenings, we sit for a long time in the food tent and share our thoughts about the dream of being here, but also about life at home, about choices, about what is really important.
We have passed the tree line, and soon the clouds. It's unreal, yet it all feels so real. It's the simplicity that makes it so precious—sharing a water bottle, carrying your own life on your back, being truly present
At one point, some have to go back to fetch water. That’s when we truly realize: water isn’t just water here. It's gold. A commodity that’s become a luxury.
The days begin to blur together, slowly, in time with our steps. We talk less. We walk more in silence. Focusing inward. Thoughts spin, sometimes they stop. And then comes the day before. The day before that day. Tomorrow night it will happen. The summit.
We need to listen carefully now. Everything has to go right. We arrive at camp—a little cold, giggly, and nervous. The wind is beating in the tent so hard it feels like it might blow away. Dinner is served early, at half past five. Then, packing for the summit. Then, sleep. We’ll get up again and have breakfast at 23.00. It’s so illogical that the brain almost refuses to take it in. Suddenly, all the instructions feel hard to remember. Do we pause every 20 minutes for 5 minutes? Was it two hats or one? Should the headlamp go in the jacket pocket or the backpack?
Stefan goes through the clothes with us. He’s clear: layer upon layer, with zippers. It should be easy to regulate the temperature. You shouldn't have to stop, remove layers, and dig through your backpack—it wastes time and energy. And the garment will be heavier in the bag than on your body. I laugh at myself as I stand there with seven layers. I didn't want to freeze! But it's impossible to move. We agree on four. It will have to do. It has to be enough.
It's hard to believe, but this is where we are now. The next time we pack up our tent will be after we have attempted to reach Uhuru Peak—5,896 meters above sea level. We've trained, prepared, laughed, and frozen. Now it's time.
And I think: Oh my God, I'm here. This is happening for real.
Attempting the summit
At midnight, we start walking. We move slower than ever, but every step feels sacred. Every breath is a victory. It’s so quiet. Just our steps on the gravel, our breaths in the dark, the glow of headlamps forming a narrow, undulating line up the mountain. I thank the supernatural, because we’re lucky with the weather. If it had rained or snowed, climbing the steep volcanic wall to Gilman's Point would’ve been impossible. It's scary to think how fragile everything is.
In the middle of the night, someone panics. They need to pee, but there's nowhere to go—the path is narrow, the cliffs close in. The situation is about to escalate, but Stefan is there. He steps in, calm and steady, and resolves it like it's nothing. The panic disappears. I realize his presence is vital.
A few hours later, we hear singing. Our porters. The same songs that have followed us all the way. The rhythm carries us forward. And just then, behind a rock whose name I can no longer remember, the sun begins to emerge. The first rays hit us, and it’s as if the world explodes in gold. We are almost at the crater rim. Not quite yet. But soon.
When we reach Gilman's Point, it feels unreal. We’re handed a cup of hot ginger tea. It's the best thing I've ever had. I’m so happy. But we can't stay long. Some of the group have started to feel sick, due to the altitude. My friend, who walked in front of me, later told me about the dark thoughts that swirled in the silence. But we were there. We had made it up. After a short rest, we started moving towards Stella Point. There, a few turn back. The body is speaking, and we have to listen.
The rest of us, an eager but exhausted group, continue slowly towards Uhuru Peak. The very highest point. Step by step. We don't say much anymore. We just walk. When the sign finally appears in the pale morning light, we’re almost surprised. Are we already here? Or rather: Have we really made it?
We take pictures. We hug. We cry a little. We try to feel everything. It is possible. We did it. The clouds cover most of the landscape, so we don't see much of Tanzania. But it doesn't matter. We're on the roof of Africa. 5,896 meters.
The descent
No one had prepared me for it. Fatigue hits immediately. I just want to sleep, but I have to keep going. All the gravel, all the little slips, every step matters. It's 16.5 kilometers today. We've been walking for over 20 hours. When we finally arrive at camp, my feet are screaming.
The next day is the last: five hours of hiking to Mweka Gate. Our bodies move almost on their own. For the first time, we walk together with the other group. And suddenly, I’m talking more than I have in days. I feel strong. I want to get down as fast as possible. To make the pain in my feet as short as possible… and to drink that well-deserved Kilimanjaro beer.
The adventure ends with dinner. Everyone gathers—porters, guides, and hikers. The porters receive their pay and our tips, and they’ve dressed up. They look proud. Maybe they'll do another hike next week—for us, this was life-changing; for them, it's work. But you can still see the pride in their eyes. The warmth. The respect is mutual.
I have a few days of safari to do before the plane takes me home. But honestly, I just want to stop. Pause. Breathe. Catch up with myself. This... this was something very special.
Magical. Awesome. Unbelievably real.
And I have pictures, lots of pictures, to help me remember. But there's something else I carry with me that doesn't appear in any photo. A sense of certainty and pride. I did it. We did it!
Gratitude
Now that I'm back home, with my body rested but my soul still a bit on the mountain, I feel it bubbling inside. A longing. An impatient curiosity. What will be the next adventure? It's going to be hard to find something that tops this... and yes, it's almost too easy to joke about—because peaks are my thing. I love to go up. Literally and figuratively. But there aren't many more peaks possible for someone like me—an amateur, albeit a rather stubborn one. I want higher. But I'm not reckless. I want to challenge myself. Not risk everything.
Trip overview
My Kilimanjaro expedition was an 8-day trek on the mountain, and I traveled with Swett. I can highly recommend this well-planned trip, but be aware that you’ll need to book your own flights, so that cost is added separately. The price of the trip is around 45,000 SEK, plus flights at about 11,000 SEK. It might sound a bit expensive, but honestly, I feel like I could give up many sunny vacations for an adventure this incredible.
Lessons learned
I have no regrets. Not the fatigue, not the sweat, not even the tears. But if there's one thing I'm taking with me for next time, it's this: batteries. Walking around night after night with my cell phone's flashlight—saving the headlamp for summit night—it worked, but it wasn't brilliant. Then there were the chocolate bars. I could have figured out that they would freeze at the summit in freezing temperatures. A simple test in the freezer would’ve told me. Next time, there will be more nuts and raisins. For sure. Just another small chapter in the story of my incomplete, but still perfect, packing.
I will continue to be curious. Continue to be brave. Travel, even if I have to do it alone. Dare to dream—and make those dreams real.
I have learned something important: Memories for life aren’t made when everything is easy. They are born when you dare. When you stand in front of something that might be too big, too high, too uncertain—and do it anyway.
That's what life is all about.
