Immediately, the big challenge is getting into the tiny, pretty yellow tent before 220-pound Joel—staking out precious space, organizing gear and preparing. In fact, almost unconsciously, we all begin creating little life systems and routines that we’ll try and recreate each night.

Already, there are interesting sights:

• Joel: Standing forlornly over mounds of disorganized equipment atop his hotel bed while he tries, unsuccessfully, to Crazy Glue his shoe back together.
• Mac: “Losing” the quarts of water from his brand-new Platypus as he unsuccessfully tries to understand how to use it.
• Andy: Admitting cryptically that he’s considering becoming a porter and going “native.”

And, by the way, the porters are amazing. In addition to head guide Erick, our group consists of an assistant guide, cook, assistant cook and twelve—twelve—porters. Each day, these twelve porters dutifully follow us wearing a strange array of donated, mismatched clothes, even rubber flip-flops, lugging atop their backs and heads most of our gear: tents, cooking equipment, ten days of food, emergency oxygen and first aid supplies.

Each day, for the paltry sum of $3.50, before tips, the average porter begins with over 75 pounds—three times the weight of our own daypacks. Then, one by one, in less than an hour, nearly trotting, porter after porter overtakes us and, high above, breaks camp and begins cooking well before we ascend to what for the next ten days is home.

October 4, 2003: Last night was tough. Up with jet lag and a bad cough, I fight hard to stay cool inside the culture shock of living in a tent. Somewhere in the middle of insomnia and simply worrying if I can breathe, I remember the last time I slept in a tent was with Hank Martin when I was 12. Thank God for adult tent mate, Joel, who happens to have 500 mg of Cipro and an Ambien.

Planning medications into four hours of sleep, I survive and wake up feeling good after thoughts of family and friends rock me ultimately to sleep.

Now, this morning, I’m better and stronger—the internal athlete slowly returns. We hike comfortably—4 on a scale of 1 to 10—for 7 hours to 12,000 feet and back to 11,500 feet to sleep. In fact, I’ve been to this altitude before in Colorado; and this helps, as do the three aspirins that cure the beginning of my altitude headache. Sitting for dinner, we can now begin to see Kilimanjaro before us, and it looks awesome and mighty. And who could describe such a sight better than

Ernest Hemingway:

“There, ahead, all we could see, as wide as all the world, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro.”

October 5, 2003: I sleep for 7 hours. For me, the cold tent-life and 7:00 p.m. bedtime are harder than the hiking.

I feel groggy, but good. Erick gives me encouraging news as my blood oxygen percentage/pulse reading is 89%/108. More importantly, he convinces me that my persistent cough is not so bad and that, if necessary, you can take medicine up to 14,000 feet—one guy, he remembers vaguely, made it coughing all the way to the Summit.

Today, we hike up, steady, with sensitive stomachs, to Shira I at 13,000 feet. We’re feeling good.

At dinner, at 6:00 p.m., the hot soup tastes as good as the cold air feels bad—driving us rapidly into our tiny, pretty yellow tents and puffy subzero down sleeping bags.

Again, the night moves along with discussions about what pills I should take to defeat cough and insomnia. Two nights before, I take 3 Aspirins, 1 Diamox, 2 sips of cough medicine and 2 Ambien—and survive. This sub-14,000-foot regime seems to work. I sleep 7 hours.

October 6, 2003: We hike today seven-and-a-half hours from 13,000 feet to a high of 14,500 feet, then down, then up, and then down again to our Baranco Camp at 13,000 feet. Hiking across this moon-like surface, I keep thinking of a movie I once saw: “Robinson Crusoe on Mars.” Like the space adaptation of Daniel Defoe’s Crusoe character—a futuristic, tough, shorthaired, short-sleeved astronaut—I’m amazed at how quickly we adapt to this extraterrestrial hiking, survival and perpetual one-step-ahead planning.

“What will we need next?” “After that?” “What if it rains?” “Snows?” “What do we need to sleep?” “What do we need to wear tomorrow?”

“What about the day after?”

It’s amazing, too, how dirty and dusty everything becomes. It’s like, I imagine, being a U.S. soldier in Iraq: There’s no chance of defeating the constant invasion of dust—everywhere on everything—and we soon wisely surrender to the enemy of filth.

Now, as we hike along this moon-like mountain I reflect on our guide and fellow hikers:

• Erick: The quiet, intelligent and very professional guide who looks younger than his 26 years—like a star halfback on an inner-city football team. With each super-slow and sure step I gain confidence in Erick’s judgment and coaching.
• Joel: A former championship high school wrestler, Carter White House aide, political consultant and now a Buddhist, and head of a newly created pharmaceutical company. Joel isn’t necessarily ready to climb this mountain—but his bull-headed focus and previous hiking experience will get him to the top.
• Mac: A successful businessman, former high school football player, not to mention Joel’s younger brother and “straight man.” Mac is hyper-Diamox man, prepared, thoughtful and caring. And the daily scene of older brother and younger brother pulling each other up the mountain tells it all.
• Andy: A 6’4″ former Penn crew champion, Andy looks, as he climbs, like the last scene in the movie “Frankenstein” when the monster falls off the burning tower into the screaming crowd of townspeople. Andy may be the slowest of us—but he’s the prototypical crewman, slow, steady, sure to the finish. It is no surprise his oxygen level is a few points above all of ours.

Today, as we break back into Baranco, I’m surprised, too, by the clarity this stark challenge brings to one’s mind—helping and treating others well, loving loved ones, enjoying every hidden ounce of life. Through the rain and hard descent I feel great. Like confident warriors, we all decide to accelerate our attack and go for Lava Tower and 14,900 feet tomorrow. Time for my last pre-14,000-foot Ambien and, I hope, a good night’s sleep.

I’ll try to dream of loved ones rather than our battle in a few days with the Western Breach.

October 7, 2003: We wake feeling refreshed—7 or perhaps even 8 hours of sleep. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I dream I’m making a presentation to my client, Nike, and that I’m rooming with another client, billionaire David Bonderman, at a hotel in a town at the bottom of the mountain. I can’t believe how great the warm shower and room service are. Then I wake up.