On the top of Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, Africa
Photo. Me on the top trying to look happy and fresh.
Gathering the last strength left in my body, I let out a huge Tarzan roar and hammered my chest with both fists. For a brief second, standing almost 5,900 metres above Africa, I felt completely alive. I had made it!
Even though Kilimanjaro is not the highest mountain on Earth, standing on its summit felt like standing on top of the world. The sky above Tanzania was perfectly clear, and for a brief moment I saw the wide volcanic craters and the ancient glaciers glowing in the morning light. But there was no triumph in me, only exhaustion.
More than two decades have passed since I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in the summer of 2003, yet the memories still feel strangely alive. I can still remember the silence of the mountain at night, the freezing wind against my face, and the surreal moonlight shining across the glaciers high above Africa. At the time, Kilimanjaro was my first real encounter with high altitude, physical exhaustion, and the uncomfortable feeling of pushing beyond what I thought my body could handle.
What began as an adventure slowly became something much deeper. Step by step through rainforest, volcanic desert, and icy darkness, the mountain stripped life down to its essentials: breath, movement, fear, determination. Somewhere along the climb, far above the clouds, I stopped thinking about reaching the summit and started reflecting on why we are drawn toward difficult places in the first place. What is the meaning?
This article is both a travel story and a personal remembrance of that journey in 2003. It`s about the people I climbed with, the moments of doubt and exhilaration, and the overwhelming feeling of standing on the Roof of Africa beneath a clear African sky. Looking back today, I realize Kilimanjaro was not only a mountain to climb, but also the beginning of a my lifelong curiosity about human limits, remote landscapes, and the hidden experiences waiting beyond ordinary life.
Never before had I stood so close to the sky while still feeling the earth beneath my feet. After days of climbing through rainforest, volcanic desert, freezing winds, and endless darkness, Kilimanjaro finally allowed us onto its summit. In that moment, I believed I had beaten the mountain. But deep inside, I also understood the opposite was true. Kilimanjaro had tested every weakness I carried with me as fear, pride, impatience, doubt, and had exposed them one by one.
The climb had demanded blood, sweat, and tears. Every breath near the summit felt borrowed. Even the small celebrations I had imagined before had disappeared; I needed every remaining bit of energy for the descent.
Those who arrive with clearer minds than mine may notice the famous sign near the flagpole carrying the words of Tanzania’s first president, Julius Nyerere, marking the highest point in Africa. I barely remember reading it. Yet perhaps that was fitting. Some journeys are too overwhelming to fully understand while they happen. Only later do you realize the mountain was never just about reaching the top, but about discovering how far the human spirit can climb before it meets itself.
Before leaving the final camp, our guide Marc had warned us not to stay too long on the summit. “Five to seven minutes,” he said calmly. At nearly 5,900 metres, the mountain does not forgive carelessness. The body and mind begin to drift apart in the thin air, and even simple decisions become strangely difficult.
For me, even seven minutes felt impossible.
I took one last glance across the frozen summit and immediately turned back down. My legs trembled beneath me, and my thoughts came in fragments. I knew I was close to losing control, and on a mountain like Kilimanjaro, irrational behaviour can become dangerous within seconds. A misplaced step near the icy slopes or loose volcanic gravel could quickly turn victory into disaster.
What surprised me most was how little the summit itself mattered in that moment. I had imagined celebration, pride, perhaps even clarity. Instead, Kilimanjaro stripped everything down to something more primitive: survival, awareness, and respect for nature’s limits.
Perhaps that is why mountains continue to pull people toward them. Not because they make us feel powerful, but because they remind us how fragile we really are, and how much courage it takes to keep moving when the world grows thin beneath your feet.
Stein Morten Lund, May 2026
Additional information
Read my complete article from part 1 og 4 on this website.
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