[Stylist] Lynda, all, Climbing the Ruwenzories
Jackie
jackieleepoet at cox.net
Mon Jul 29 20:59:02 UTC 2019
Lynda, and any who care to read this lengthy excerpt,
I have the same problem with opening attachments, but they open if you hit
f6, then down arrow, then spacebar. When I do that, I then change it to a
word document.
I do not know why this is necessary as all of my documents and my fellow
writers are in word.
However, I will cut and paste it, hoping everything, including photos, will
stay in place.
(The photo captions changed in a few places, and some of the text does not
read along the photos.)
I will also cut and paste the Query letter first, and have you tell me if it
generates your interest. Here goes.
Jacqueline Williams
1431 W. 7th Place
Mesa, AZ 85201
jackieleepoet at cox.net <mailto:jackieleepoet at cox.net>
Date
Name of editor
Name of publication
Address of publication
Dear MS
(use name):
How many ninety-year-old women can look back on their lives and say they
accomplished a mountain climb to the mysterious “Mountains of the Moon” in
Uganda, East Africa? I have, and this experience I had fifty years ago has
never been topped. So much of what I saw has changed since then and won’t
ever be the same. This climb might have been impossible two years later
because of the coup in 1971 of Idi Amin.
My memoir, “Climbing the Ruwenzories, circa 1969” is an immediate first-hand
account, taken from letters written to my family in 1969, of four
ill-matched ex-pats who joined forces to make this formidable climb.
This ___ word memoir features the amazing headman and porters who were there
for us at every precarious step, the unusual gigantic flora and fauna, and
the amazing glaciers. It illuminates the change in perceptions of the four
characters and particularly myself, the author. Photos are included to
document our journey.
I believe this article will be of interest to mountain climbers and hikers;
people in the Safari business; climatologists who study shrinking glaciers;
those interested in stories about people who endure extreme physical
hardship to reach a goal; women who now feel free to tackle activities
traditionally done by men; people interested in African history and
geography; Ugandans who are proud of their country’s heritage.
Thank you in advance for considering “Climbing the Ruwenzories, circa 1969”
for publication in __________magazine.
Sincerely,
Jacqueline Williams
jackieleepoet at cox.net <mailto:jackieleepoet at cox.net>
CLIMBING THE RUWENZORIES
Circa August, 1969, Uganda, East Africa
By Jacqueline Williams Words: 7,874 Photos: 19
Back home, sitting in bed savoring the many le tters that arrived during my
absence, I looked hopelessly at the cast on my right foot and wondered how
long it would take for those two appendages that once were legs to lose
their balloon shape and regain their normal flexibility and contours.
I would not trade one little bit of this pain for the adventure I just had.
The only way to tell about it is to start from the beginning with the
personalities involved, and relate the events as they occurred.
For a start, there was Phil, slight of build, extremely agile, full of
nervous energy, with quick movements, and a mustache. He was so British, he
fit my preconceived picture of a colonialist. Thirty-six years old, an
excellent tennis player, Phil had climbed the Ruwenzories before.
Paddy, a 39-year-old British schoolmarm, put me on guard by a perceived
aloofness, her hard-to-read expression, and her extreme practicality. We had
little in common, except somehow we were climbing the Ruwenzories together.
Tim, a 28-year-old ex-patriot, had been in Nigeria two years and in Tororo
another two as a secondary-school biology teacher. Nightly, in the club bar,
he put away eight pints of Tusker beer and often ended up on the floor, or
being driven home, or breaking glasses against the wall. Tim had climbed Mt.
Kilimanjaro, Mt. Elgon, and Mt. Kadam up in Moroto.
I was the fourth, and while I cannot objectively describe my outward
aspects, it’s enough to say that if you looked a long time you could not
find a more oddly-matched foursome to tackle such a formidable climb.
We spent the first eerie night in a small hut trying to judge which of the
ex-patriate community would do what we were doing. What was our motivation?
For Paddy, could it be a total reversal of her life of obligation to an
aging mother, or a desire for a life of adventure and privacy of thought?
For Tim, was it his need to see and do all there was to do before he
destroyed himself? For Phil, was it his insatiable need to keep on the move
and stay fit?
I think I needed to once more reach a peak and feel my father’s approval,
even though he was no longer alive. I also needed to do something all my
own, having nothing to do with being a “good mother,” a “good wife” or the
mundane role of housewife.
The Ruwenzori Mountains consist of seven peaks ranging from 14,000 to more
than 16,000 feet, locally believed to hold the source of the Nile. They are
shrouded in mystery partly because of the constant heavy mists that cover
them.
A mountain top breaking through the mist
Everything grows giant size — the heather, the groundsel, the lobelia, and
senecia. There are trees dripping with moss and also a bamboo forest. There
is bog and more bog, and bog surrounded by swamp, and the swamp by the Bigo
bog.
There are two seasons for climbing: December, January and possibly February.
Then there are June and July, and, if you are lucky, a week or two in
August. We counted on luck.
At one point we’d be crossing over a swinging footbridge high above a river
— just like in a Tarzan movie.
It took quite a lot of planning for four of us to assemble our gear to be
carried by eight porters. The biggest job was making everything waterproof,
particularly our bedrolls. Equipment included two sleeping bags each, two
round paraffin cookers, a hurricane lamp and various pots and pans. In
addition to many sweets for quick energy, we had tinned meats, dried soups,
cheese, nuts, salami, apples, raw carrots, porridge and tea. We had personal
items such as snakebite kit, first aid kit, cameras, and flashlights,
waterproof bags for every little thing, three pairs of boots each, and
whistles. Two porters were needed just to carry their blankets and food,
which consisted of dried fish, posho (flour for porridge), nuts, tinned
beef, tea, and sugar. We, ourselves, carried nothing but cameras and
canteens so as to leave our hands free for climbing.
I was the last person picked up. When my gear was loaded, Phil’s station
wagon was riding low with almost no visibility out the back window. We left
binoculars at home because none of us were willing to carry more than the
minimum in our own packs.
Phil’s driving philosophy turned out to be like my husband’s: you’re wasting
time unless you drive with skill at the car’s top speed. So we went to Fort
Portal at no less than 60 to 80 miles per hour, 60 on the dangerous red-clay
murran roads. Had I ridden with Phil before this trip, it could have
abruptly cut short my mountain-climbing aspirations. However, once you’re on
your way, there is nothing to do except hold tight and hide your eyes while
passing on hills and curves, maneuvering past goats and cyclists. I was
terrified. Surprisingly, Tim finally spoke up. It was pointless. Nothing
changed.
I only knew these people superficially. I thought that Tim drank too much
and couldn’t possibly be in good physical condition. Phil was overconfident.
I felt that Paddy was going to surprise me. She was a tourist from England,
who wasn’t even used to the Tororo altitude, but she was unshakeable and
seemed excited by the speed. She started methodically keeping the records
for our trip. Since she showed signs of a woman used to managing things, I
determined to keep my strong opinions to myself. Fortunately, we never
crossed swords. I never discovered what made her tick, but certainly she had
the qualities I’ve always admired in a woman.
I was confident that I would uphold the image of the American who could
surmount any obstacle, and put to rest the British idea that we Americans
don’t know what the hell we are doing, nor how to do it properly. After all,
I had put in a grueling training program.
Tororo Rock, a volcanic plug
My son, Jeff, eight years old, and I climbed Tororo Rock no matter what the
weather. The Rock is a volcanic plug that rises sharply about 1,000 feet
from the nearby town of Tororo. It was so steep that four ladders had been
installed to enable one to reach the top. We were on our way by 7:30 a.m. My
record times were 30 minutes up and 28 minutes down. That put me within the
recommended time of approximately one hour for the round trip. The third day
of training I thought I might die. My thigh muscles throbbed, and my knees
quivered likeJello. On the days I didn’t climb the Rock I played 18 holes of
golf. Twice a week I added badminton and swimming. My goal by the end of two
weeks was to complete in one day: climb the Rock, play 18 holes of golf,
swim, bicycle around the compound twice, climb the Rock again, and then play
badminton all evening.
The last time we made the training climb, I seemed to find myself in another
dimension, feeling I could do anything. I believed I had the physical
stamina for the big climb. Having arrived at the age of 40, with handicaps
of weight and arthritis, compared to the other three, I had to believe I
would not be a drag on them and would be successful. Also, I’d had to juggle
my birth control pills so I would not have a menstrual cycle during the
climb. The scent of blood was believed to attract the leopards known to be
in the area.
We arrived in Fort Portal Friday evening and made straight for Kitchwamba, a
trade and technical school where Phil’s good friends taught and lived. They
put us up and fed us. It was about eight miles from Fort Portal on the road
to the Semliki Game Park and the Semliki Forest where the pygmies live. We
finished our shopping for the porters at Bhimji’s store, and took a quick
afternoon to go out to the game park. We saw the greatest concentration of
Ugandan kob (antelope) that exist anywhere, in addition to warthogs,
hartebeests, and a darker, smaller Congo elephant with her young one.
Sunday morning we were up early for final packing of kit bags in plastic
sheeting. The one thing foremost in our minds was to keep a dry bedroll to
avoid danger of exposure, for we were told to expect a wet, muddy, misty
existence for the coming days.
We drove to what was fondly known as “Road’s End,” where about 70 porters
milled about, hoping to be chosen. However, the headman wasn’t there, and
Phil wanted him to make the final choice, so off he went, leaving us with
our gear, surrounded by Bukonjo tribesmen who examined us in the greatest
detail. I found myself wondering how these people could possibly be the
invincible, strong, speedy porters who could bear a 50-pound load fastened
across their foreheads solely by an inch-wide banana fiber, and carry it up
a dangerous trail. They were all short, many were too young, many were too
old, and all had spindly little legs but with bulging calf muscles.
When Phil finally returned it was already 11:30, and for one hour we
observed the fine art of making up a mountain-climbing group. The headman
was Zedekiah, soon shortened to Zed by all of us. His first move was to put
bundles into piles, testing and re-testing the feel and weight of them.
He decided he wanted nine porters instead of eight, and insisted that Phil
go buy another blanket, shirt, and ration of food. Phil wouldn’t do this,
knowing we only had poundage for eight porters. They finally decided on a
ninth porter and we would pay his wages but he would share the food of the
others and had no blanket of his own. Then we distributed potato sacks for
them to put their bundles in. The men were picked by Zed after he knew the
loads. He took all ages, and those with good recommendations written in
their Ugandan work books.
Road’s End, Zed testing loads
The party wasn’t quite ready to go at 12:30, and I was getting nervous. I
remembered the young couple I met a week earlier, who said it took them
seven hours to get to the first hut instead of the normal four, because they
carried their own loads, and because daylight ended so early in the forest.
So Paddy and I went ahead, allowing the others to catch up when they were
ready. We followed a stream through the matoke patches, by the Bukonjo
villages, and finally into thick brush where there were several choices of
paths to take. Fortunately the men caught up to us there and Phil took the
lead, having been over the trail once before.
Shamba of a Bukonjo villager
The first obstacle we hit was the Safari ants. They were like a carpet
underfoot at some places. I didn’t even realize it until I stooped to tie a
shoelace, and saw a necklace of ants that had bitten the lace so hard that
when I tried to take them off and tie it, their heads became detached from
their bodies.
“Such is the strength of the ants’ jaws that, in East Africa, they are used
as natural, emergency sutures. Various East African indigenous tribal
peoples (e.g. Maasai moran), when suffering from a gash in the bush, will
use the soldiers to stitch the wound by getting the ants to bite on both
sides of the gash, then breaking off the body.” — Wikipedia
All I can say is, “Thank God they never got higher than our boots.” We moved
fast through this area. Soon we came upon great steaming piles of elephant
droppings and a crushed and flattened area of bush in the bamboo forest. We
heard crashes nearby. We moved up to trotting speed knowing elephants were
close by, but we assumed they were moving away from our commotion. We had to
use both arms to protect our faces from stinging nettles and bushes laden
with pollen. Because we were still at the tail end of the climbing season,
there was a definite path, and we did not have to break trail.
Soon, Tim hit his climbing rhythm, which he was not to break throughout the
entire trip. From then on, we girls didn’t see him except at mealtimes and
overnights. His rhythm never broke, and he never stopped to rest. When there
was a large step up, that step took the count of two normal ones. Phil
wasn’t much behind him. They waited briefly at the first big river crossing
to see if Paddy and I could balance across the narrow log.
Looking down the river which we crossed many times.
When we made it, they apparently decided we would be all right from then on,
so off they went. Until then, I think Paddy and I had thought the climb
would be easily achievable but we were hurting and terribly out of breath,
hitting places that seemed like 90 degree angles up with no apparent end in
sight. Then there were horrible slippery muddy places that went down at the
same angle, and gave me the feeling of utter futility. I knew that somehow
we had to make it up at least 2,500 feet of altitude that first afternoon.
We had climbed for three hours when a reaction hit that I have never
experienced before. There were times when my breath would not come. I had to
fight and heave and sound like the final death rattles of an asthmatic, just
to get some air. Paddy doubled over, sick and dizzy. My body felt on fire
with tingling sensations and bouts of shivering. We both started resting
more often. Three times when I rested, I simply curled up on the ground. I
looked at the nearest rock shelter, and thought I couldn’t possibly make it,
so I would just stay where I was. The thought of a wild animal was much
easier to face than the next step. By this time, all of the porters had gone
by us with their 50-pound loads, at a dogtrot, with cheery smiles. Many
hunters had passed us in either direction wearing rock-hyrax-skin hats,
carrying spears and sacks, and taking the sharp rocks, mud, and ants, all in
their bare feet.
Zed caught up with us after about two hours of climbing. The headman is
responsible for the safety of the entire party, and therefore he always
stays behind the last climber. You can probably guess that before this day
was over, Zed was my constant companion.
Zed - our headman, guide, and more
By this time, Paddy was always one step ahead of me— my choice so I did not
need to feel guilty about stopping to rest. We had both almost run out of
steam when we topped out on a long high ridge, heard the rush of the stream
far below us, and suddenly saw one of the porters without his load climbing
up with a bucket of water. We knew then that the hut was only about half an
hour away. Paddy was off like a shot following him. It started pouring rain.
I tried to rev up my engine, but truly could not go any faster without
danger of falling off the cliff into the river. By then my feet belonged to
someone else and kept doing strange uncoordinated things.
I had one moment of glory, when we broke through the gloom and rain to
Nyabitaba hut. Three buoyant faces poked through the doorway and someone
said, “Not bad, 4and 3/4 hours.” I snapped my fingers and did Dorothy’s
dance step to “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” — then I fell on my backside,
which was the first of many falls in the mud.
It turned out that Tim and Phil made it in four hours, and Paddy in 4 and ½.
They had made tea and soup, served with Ryvita crackers and peanut butter,
more than any of us wanted. While we ate, Phil spoke very optimistically.
Since we had all done so well, we’d skip the first alternate hut. Tomorrow,
we would stay overnight in the second alternate middle hut, called the Bigo
hut.
Nyabitaba, the one we were in this night, means “Mother of tobacco” but we
never found out why it was so named. Perhaps after your first night in the
mountains it is so satisfying to smoke, or perhaps they used to grow tobacco
in the forest around the hut. Phil would not tell us much about the next
day’s climb except to say not to worry, we were half acclimated already, and
would have no trouble. No trouble? Paddy’s big toenails had partially lifted
off, and were turning blue.
There was no fireplace in the hut, which was divided into two rooms. There
was a bunk bed in one-half of it, which the boys nobly said we could have —
wood slabs on a heavy iron frame. Paddy took the top bunk and every time she
turned over the frame squealed. My air mattress had sprung a slow leak. None
of the others even had air mattresses. Paddy, Phil and I spent a long
sleepless night, while Tim, using only one of his sleeping bags, slept
soundly. He agreed to get up early and make porridge next morning. That he
did, but the first time around he used paraffin instead of water. They were
in the same kind of containers. Then I got up and started to wash — using
paraffin, a fuel they use here instead of white gas. Between us we put a
dent in our carefully planned allotment of fuel, and all the cuts and
scratches on my hands were set afire by the darn stuff.
It took an hour to repack and load up the porters. The worst ordeal, and one
that we had every morning, was to pull on our wet, cold, muddy pants, socks,
and boots. It’s foolish to break out anything clean because 15 minutes after
you start, you are ankle-deep in slime and bog mud.
Phil hot-footed on ahead, saying he wanted to be across the bridge before we
got there so he could take movies. Hah! Little did we know! Just from the
hut to the river was a hair-raising descent. We had long staffs Zed cut for
us, to help prop us in dangerous places, to lean on when we had to rest, and
to help us balance in the slippery mud. In the steepest places we threw them
down ahead of us so as to have both hands for holding on.
It wasn’t long before we looked down at the river and saw Phil waving from
the other side, but I’ll be darned if we could see anything that looked like
a bridge. Finally we were upon it. It was an unbelievable contraption
strung above the rapids in two sections. One section was a ladder propped on
some rocks at one end, and nailed to two poles at the other. From these two
poles cables were strung across to the other side with two thin saplings
hung from those. Slats were nailed to the underside of the saplings, and
about every fourth one had come loose and was hanging down by one nail. That
was it! I tried the ladder but with nothing to hold onto I couldn’t get to
the center poles without losing my balance. Next I tried a foot on the right
side of a rung and it dropped six inches and the other side raised six
inches. Paddy and I decided we could ford at least the first section of the
river. We got wet to the waist, and I almost lost her over the rocks, but
she had her staff, and I was holding her tightly. Then we shinnied up the
two poles. One at a time, we started inching over the slats, testing each
one before putting our full weight on it. We held on for dear life to the
thin cables as soon as we could reach them.
Phil was on the other side cheering us on, but not filming. His batteries
were dead. We didn’t know why because he got new ones and tested them in
Kampala. So that heavy movie camera was carried up and down the Ruwenzories
to no avail.
The dreaded bridge with slats hanging loose
Again Tim, Phil and the porters left us. Paddy and I kept the same speed for
the next long stretch, with Zed to back us up. This was the devilishly
difficult part of the climb. The boulders all leaned against each other,
tangled with roots, and deceptively covered with moss. There were yawning
holes and crevasses that you couldn’t see until your foot started to break
through the roots or moss. It was up and over a million tree trunks, with
foot-deep bog mud criss-crossed by roots to trip you. Eerie-looking moss
hung from the trees. It just went on and on and on.
Paddy climbing over fallen trees
We were to lunch together at Nyamuleju. It got to be 1:30 and Paddy and I
were afraid that we were going too slowly. The day was speeding by. Finally
we got to the hut. Phil and Tim had been waiting for an hour and a half,
thinking one of us had broken a leg. I could eat nothing except an apple,
and I drank lots and lots of water.
Swamp? Bog? Endless? Yes.
Phil warned us after lunch of the river to be forded, followed by the
infamous Bigo Bog. He said there was about a mile of bog where only tussocks
rose out of the mud and you must leap from one to the next. You daren’t fall
in or you would sink to knee or thigh level. “So, girls, be careful!” After
the Bigo Bog came the Bigo hut where we would spend the night. Of course,
that part of the trek came near day’s end when all of our physical resources
would be almost exhausted. Still, we felt that nothing could shake us now,
so off we went. In half an hour I was convinced we were in bog, but Zed kept
shaking his head. We were sinking ankle deep with every fifth step and it
took all of our strength to pull our feet out.
We arrived at the wide river with its many rapids. Zed stopped and we both
thought he was out of his mind. He motioned across, and we shook our heads.
But off he started with his long climbing axe testing each foothold, and
holding out a hand to Paddy. She went with him. They leaned forward into the
water against their footholds to resist the current. I failed to get a
picture of Paddy being held in place by Zed after losing her footing. I was
busy tying my gear around my neck and wrapping plastic bags around my
camera. When Zed got her across he came back for me, and I had the advantage
of knowing the danger spots, so we made it all right.
The rapids we crossed
Suddenly we looked across this huge expanse of funny-looking mounds from
three to six feet high. The Bog! Zed pointed to a valley far off in the
distance. With that, Paddy took off on her own, leaping for all the world
like Nijinsky, from tussock to tussock. Every now and again I couldn’t see
her, and I’d think “Oops,” but I was having my own problems. I’d take maybe
five in a row and then the next one would be out of reach, and all that
momentum kept me swaying while I looked for a new direction. Sometimes I
would hit several high ones in a row, then a really low one which made it
difficult to leap up again. Finally I misjudged and went in down to my knee.
Pulling that one leg out of the mud used up all my elasticity. From then on
Zed went in front of me testing each one, and making a way through
occasional dry spots.
Twice more I fell, once on my backside which fortunately is broad enough to
keep me from sinking too deeply. Would you believe my stoic companion, Zed,
looked like he was secretly enjoying the proceedings?
This was the stage of the trip when Paddy started getting fit, and I started
to realize that my knees were going to give me serious trouble. We must have
jumped a few hundred tussocks to make it to Bigo Hut, but make it we did.
The hut was so small we had to move the table to put down sleeping bags. The
stove smoked so badly we couldn’t use it.
The river ran close to the hut so Paddy and I went down, stripped to bra and
panties, and scraped the mud off in the icy water. We were blue and aching
and actually had to use our fingernails to peel off the mud. Later one of
the porters took our boots down to the stream and washed the mud off and out
of them. Mine were borrowed boots which had rubber toes and heels, and laced
tightly half-way up the calf. These are the only climbing boot to use; the
suction of the mud pulls off any other kind.
We had soup again, tinned steak and kidney pie, fruit, and chocolate.
My bedroll had gotten wet in the river, even after all my precautions. I was
uncomfortable and a bit frightened that night. I shivered for about three
hours, and I guess I finally warmed up the wet fabric enough to sleep. We
had stuffed moss under our bags to give some insulation and to make it
softer. I was the last one in so I had the job of moving the debbie of
concrete in front of the door of the hut to keep the leopards out. We agreed
that if anyone had to go at night they would wake someone to be the lookout,
because, truly, the leopards were serious around there. The rock hyraxes
started whirring and screaming at dark, and soon after the leopards were
hunting them, or sniffing around for food that might have been left outside.
The final day of climbing we got into beautiful country. We followed a
stream through a meadow that was less boggy than most, climbed through the
giant groundsels and lobelia, looked down on spectacular views to see just
how far we had come. We arrived at Bijuku Hut, close to beautiful Bijuku
Lake lying beneath and between Mt. Stanley, Mt. Speke, and Mt. Baker. We
finally glimpsed those famous peaks. They were still partly hiding from
view, because of the mists that continually drift over them.
Mountain top with glacier
Though there was a hut for the porters on top, only Zed and one other chose
to stay on that last leg with us. The others left us when we came to a
Sulphur hot springs where occasional bubbles of gas were seen as spirits
warning them to go no higher. Several climbers had died of high altitude
pneumonia above that point. The believers spent their time in a large rock
cave until we were ready to descend.
We made it by 2:00 and when Paddy and I arrived, the sun was shining warmly.
The boys had spread the bedrolls to dry, made tea, and were about to leave
for a short hike while Paddy and I organized the hut for our next
two-and-a-half days.
Phil, Jackie, Zed, and a porter on top drying bedrolls.
This hut was luxurious compared to the others. Eighteen could have slept
there. It was lined by two levels of shelves, foam padded for our sleeping
bags. There were shelves for all of the foodstuffs, pegs for hanging
clothes, a stove that actually worked, with a drying rack above it. We had a
big brown rat that scurried around exploring. Before we left, I could
hand-feed him. I never thought I could like a rat, but he was beautifully
soft, walnut brown, friendly and with the sweetest expression. Tim felt like
I did, I guess, because when Paddy lifted a shovel to bang him we both
stopped her.
Paddy had a bad first night, convinced that the rat was running across her
sleeping bag. She must have moved three times. Phil was on the top level and
by morning was convinced that stove and lantern fumes were asphyxiating him,
so he moved. We suffered some headaches and nausea, but nothing like the
altitude sickness we had been led to expect. Tim, of course, didn’t get
sick, and even when it was snowing he used only one of his sleeping bags.
About this time I was thinking I trained wrong. I should have drunk eight
beers a night instead of climbing the Rock.
I vowed that night to try to keep my knee problem to myself, and offer to
cook and tend the fire during the next two days. Come morning I could barely
stand but the thought of them climbing to Speke Glacier without me was
intolerable, so I didn’t say anything and went. This was our real climb. We
weren’t equipped for true mountain or glacier climbing, but in places during
this day we were doing both.
Zed would drive his ice axe hard against a rock to give me a foot- or
handhold where there was none. There were places where I was sure if we got
up, we could never get down again. Finally after four rugged hours we were
standing between Speke Glacier and Grant Glacier at a point where we should
have been able to look far out into the Congo. It was world’s end because we
were in the heaviest mist and there was nothingness on all sides of us.
Phil and Paddy, real mountain climbing
Tim, Jackie, Paddy, Phil on the top - “World’s End”
We could not take one step farther. We waited perhaps 20 minutes for it to
clear and then started back. Suddenly Speke Glacier cleared, and I got a
picture of it.
Speke Glacier
Turning around, I could see two other mountain tops with their glaciers, but
I was not sure which ones they were.
Mountain top clearing through the mist
I don’t know what to say about this climb. It made everything worthwhile.
Each aching step was sheer exhilaration. What you go up, you somehow can
manage to come down. Zed was marvelous — never a misstep. Paddy without her
toenails was taking miraculous chances and making it, just like a mountain
goat. Phil and Tim helped us until we were out of the most dangerous parts
before they forged ahead. Somehow we became a group that day where we had
only been individuals before. Ten days of grueling physical trials have a
way of meshing the individuals into a team and causing differences to fall
away.
That night was hell on wheels for me. I gobbled aspirin, put pressure
bandages around my knees, and realized I’d never get down if I didn’t take
care. The next day Paddy, Phil and Tim climbed to Scott Elliott Pass, which
is the break between Mt. Stanley and Mt. Baker. That’s the way you would
take if you were to come down the mountain using only the rock-shelter route
instead of the huts. However, because you hit snow, you must go with no
porters as they are not trained in snow climbing. Tim would have liked to go
down that way if he could have talked a porter into it, but I guess he
decided to stick with us because of lack of knowledge about the other route.
We were really sad to leave Bijuku hut. I’d had a wonderful day by myself
tending the fire, fixing a feast, feeding the rat, and getting things ready
to pack. I started off on my own very early the morning we left. Soon I got
cold feet, and got lost in the bog, so I waited for Paddy. She had decided
that she was not going to lag behind the men. We planned to go down in two
days, whereas we had taken three to get up. Our first night was to be past
Bigo and into Nyamuleju, where we had eaten our lunch on the trip up. I
pushed myself like I had never pushed before to keep up with Paddy. As soon
as Zed came up behind me I gave up and just enjoyed the descent. I took all
of the pictures I didn’t have time for on the way up. We found an easier
place to cross the river. I somehow developed a second sense about the bog
and didn’t make any missteps. I was only a bit behind the group when we hit
Bigo.
I informed them not to worry — I was going to take my time down to our
overnight hut. I was having a lot of trouble with my knees and trying to
avoid bending them which really made for awkward climbing. Phil was unhappy
about the prospect of Nyamuleju hut for an overnight and would have tried to
make the next hut, but for my problem. Still he was happy that we were on
schedule. I was in a world of my own with Zed. I was his charge by now, and
he really didn’t seem to mind. I had one spectacular fall on my backside,
and was mud from my neck down to my heels when I creaked into Nyamuleju an
hour later than everyone. Phil got a good laugh. He took my picture when I’d
turned my back.
Dusk was upon us. I was freezing and needed a change into clean dry things.
All three of them were sitting and cooking on the other side of the stove. I
quietly started changing in the back of the hut. When I was changing my
underpants, balancing on one foot, I lost my balance momentarily, regained
it on the same foot just as a bone snapped like a pistol shot. I heard it,
felt it, and couldn’t believe it, all in an instant. For gosh sakes, I’d
climbed up to Speke Glacier. How could I break a foot doing nothing?
I managed to finish changing and sat on the edge of the bunk for ten
minutes. The others had apparently been making too much noise to hear it. I
couldn’t think of a way around telling them, so I just blurted it out. “I
seem to have broken my foot.” There was dead silence, then Tim said, “What
the hell are you talking about? You walked in here in one piece.” He came
over, looked at it, felt it, and said very kindly, “You do not have a broken
bone.” I decided to believe him, stood up and could not take a step. A quiet
gloom settled upon everyone. I’m sure they were wondering if it was a
put-on. I tried to figure out how to walk. I taped my whole foot tightly,
then put on a pressure bandage, two socks, and my good leather boots for use
only in the cabin. I tried to walk. I still couldn’t.
I got my staff to use as a crutch. With Paddy’s help I managed to make it
around the corner of the cabin. By the time I got back in we had all relaxed
a bit. Tim and Phil decided it was the funniest thing they had ever heard
of. I think we all hoped it would go away by morning. At least we would
sleep on it to see what we should do. I had to cut the tape during the night
because my foot started to swell and my toes were turning numb. I spent a
sleepless night deciding what I would do, and I awoke to do it.
I was having no one carry me over that suspension bridge, so I had no choice
but to get myself down. I would start early with Zed. They all had other
ideas, for me to stay there with Paddy while Phil went all the way down to
Road’s End and dispatch porters to carry me out. It would mean another
overnight with an entire day of waiting. I informed them I was going to walk
out, and Paddy gave me hell. She said I could jeopardize all of them if I
only made it halfway to the next hut. Then they wouldn’t be able to get me
back or to the next one. So I made a deal. If I could make it the first hour
on my own, they’d let me go.
In the meantime, Phil went straight down and Paddy started for the first
hut. Tim and Zed stayed one on either side of me. I’d taped my foot again
and fixed it the same as the night before. I somehow got it tight in the
boot, which I sewed on with fishline as tight as it would go. This was
support against displacement, and so the boot wouldn’t come off in the muck.
The first hour was a nightmare of pain. Two things got me through. One was
Lawrence of Arabia’s saying, “It isn’t the pain, it’s learning not to care
about the pain.” The other was the image of that suspension bridge with four
porters, a stretcher, and me helpless in someone else’s hands.
At the end of an hour I’d learned I had to take the right hand side of the
path, for if I slanted my foot the wrong way, I’d almost pass out. I had
more gimmicks worked out than you could believe, and I knew I’d make it
somehow. Tim and I got to be buddies on this stretch. He never left my side.
When I’d start to break down he told me about all the botanical wonders we
were passing, for he knew the names of all the plants.
Looking up while struggling down
I had a terrible time with nausea. Tim said I could rest when I was a fourth
of the way there. I could have a drink when I was beyond the next curve. He
was more fun than a barrel of monkeys (which were not in a barrel but in the
trees watching us.)
Twice, when taking the right hand side of the path, I went head-over-heels,
held just by vines twined around my right foot. Zed and Tim pulled me back
upright. I knew Tim dreaded the bridge, but I was looking forward to it.
Once past that, I would feel home free.
It was a long day, and I’ll never forget it, nor do I want to. I suppose it
was during those eight hours that I put to rest doubts any of them could
have had about my fitness and guts. I learned a lot about a young man I had
thought was a worthless alcoholic. I found him to be kind, intelligent, full
of humor and like the Rock of Gibraltar. When I made it across the bridge
and met the porters coming with the stretcher, I knew Phil had done a
superhuman job for me. Paddy was waiting in the hut with my bed made up, hot
tea and soup, and a pan of hot water to bathe me. I was overcome. I didn’t
let the porters carry me in and told them I would walk down the next day.
Wisely, Paddy and Tim just settled them in for the night and told them to
wait until morning.
When I tried to get up, I could not move. I had swelled up like a balloon.
My eyes were slits. My knees and ankles were so swollen I had to wear
shorts. I couldn’t get any shoe on my foot except one of Tim’s.
The porters got the sling ready. The only way to describe it is to imagine
the way they carry a tiger from a hunt — with his front and hind paws tied
to a pole. They tied a length of unbleached muslin to the pole at each end.
Then they lowered it and I was slung into it. I clutched the pole with my
hands and between my knees. Off we went. There was too much sway so they
stopped, ripped a potato sack in a wide strip, tied it around my hips to the
pole, and we were off again.
Jackie in the sling
To this day I don’t know how I had made the climb from the river to that hut
the day before. That day had taken me eight long hours, and we got there
just before dusk. There was one tall, worried young porter who would trot
for some distance, leave his load, and come back to take Tim’s place, take
my hand and literally pull me along. We had all the strength of the world in
that handclasp, and I had grown to trust him as much as I did Zed.
When they started carrying me through the truly bad parts, where it was a
single-file pathway, with those steep angles up and down, he and Zed would
get at the front and back of the pole. I could always tell who took over
when they changed hands, from the gait of the men. Zed would carry until I
could actually feel the quiver of his muscles coming through the pole. You
can’t imagine the strain it must have been on those men until you have tried
to climb that path alone, carrying nothing. The purpose of the pole is to
allow several men on either side to help heave it up over steep places using
only one hand so they can help hold on and climb with the other.
My first hours in the sling I was terrified. As often as possible they would
turn me so I wasn’t going down the steep incline head first but sometimes
they couldn’t. I started to realize that they were going to extraordinary
lengths to keep my backside off the rocks. Slowly I began to trust them all,
relax and enjoy looking at the beautiful sky through all kinds of intriguing
foliage. I had seen the Ruwenzories from the top down, and now I was seeing
them from the underside up.
A Tarzan trail
At every stop Paddy would swab my face with cool water, and give me my
canteen. I drank pints of water on the way down. I didn’t need to hold on.
She tied my knees together so I didn’t have to put pressure on them. Tim
carried my camera and took pictures of the proceedings.
Finally we reached the flats and the porters broke into their famous dog
trot as rain started pouring down. They dropped me only once when the porter
at my feet slipped in the mud, went down, and pulled the one at my head off
balance. Fortunately I wasn’t hurt. Instead of walking the narrow log, all
eight of them forded the river holding me up high.
When we got to the bottom, we all went into a little tin hut. The 16
porters, plus every extra tribesman who could fit, squatted down in a circle
around the edge as Zed untied me and lifted off the pole. Paddy whispered
urgently, “Jackie, sit up!” Finally I got into a sitting position, managed a
grin and said “Thank you” to all of them, then the tension relaxed and they
all started laughing and joking. They had gotten Memsaab down safely. My
next desperate whisper to Paddy was, “I’ve got to go.” She whispered, “You
can’t. Look outside.” The entire village of men, women and children were
abuzz and trying to peer into the hut. When you’ve been tied to a pole for
eight hours it really doesn’t matter who is around, so I told Paddy it was
about time they saw how a Muzungu lady did it. She would have to drag me out
with my staff. As we went through the door I said, “Shoo,” and waved my arm
off to the right. We veered left around the hut and, believe it or not, I
had my moment of privacy.
Phil arrived with the car, and Paddy and I waited while he and Tim paid
everyone. They were in there for an hour, and all of a sudden they were in
the car and Phil gunned the motor. One of the porters had become “kali,”
which is angry, because he thought he wasn’t treated fairly. Phil said he
paid them all what had been agreed on, plus a tip for Zed. He paid extra to
the young boy who helped me and the boy who washed our boots. Whether he
wrote in their work books I don’t know. I do know that I had turned all of
my money over to Phil, and was helpless to do anything. I might have tipped
more because it was me they saved. How much is one’s life worth? I’d have
distributed all of my money among them, but that would have made it hard for
the next climbing group.
We went straight to the club in Fort Portal to find the best hospital. We
were sent to the Catholic hospital, where they had an X-ray unit. It was
Sunday, the gates were locked, and there was no doctor or X-ray technician
available. I opted to go to Phil’s friends’ house to sleep, and return to
Tororo next day for help. The meal Paddy fixed that night was the best I
ever ate in my life. Sausages, eggs, French fries, broiled tomatoes and
toast. I knew I had lost ten pounds over those ten days, at least. They put
me to bed with a pain pill, and went to a movie at the club.
Monday morning, I was all doped up as we took off to Tororo. Dr. Kim told us
that the X-ray machine had stopped working and they shipped it to Kampala,
along with the technician. He wrote an order for Mbale hospital, and I went
through my fourth night with a broken foot. The doctor was concerned because
the swelling was so bad that perhaps more than my foot was injured. The next
day in Mbale he X-rayed both ankles and both knees as well as my foot.
However, only the outside long bone of my foot was broken and there was no
displacement. The severe swelling was caused by straining all of my joints
to compensate for the bad foot. Back in Tororo they finally put on a cast.
They gave me no medication, only said to keep my feet and legs elevated.
That brings me back to where I started. The next day my fame had spread
throughout Western Uganda as the girl who climbed to Speke Glacier, then
broke her foot changing her knickers!
Jacqueline Williams
Clarity is just questioning having eaten its fill.
Jenny Xie
From: Stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Linda Lambert
via Stylist
Sent: Monday, July 29, 2019 12:10 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: llambert at zoominternet.net
Subject: Re: [Stylist] Interview is now live -
Jackie, I got the attachments but my screen reader cannot read them.
They are secure documents and it won’t read them.
If you can send them just as a Word document that would work – so sorry.
Lynda
From: Stylist <stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org
<mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org> > On Behalf Of Jackie via Stylist
Sent: Monday, July 29, 2019 1:03 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org
<mailto:stylist at nfbnet.org> >
Cc: Jackie <jackieleepoet at cox.net <mailto:jackieleepoet at cox.net> >
Subject: Re: [Stylist] Interview is now live -
Lynda,
Congratulations. I changed to Microsoft Edge as my browser, and JAWS goes
dead in short intervals regularly. I could not get Shelley’s attachment
either.
What I head seemed like “Lynda” and true to your work ethics, and
motivations. Also, I could see there was a colorful picture there, but could
not see the details.
Do enjoy your holiday from the pressures.
Did you ever get my two attachments?
Jacqueline Williams
Clarity is just questioning having eaten its fill.
Jenny Xie
From: Stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Linda Lambert
via Stylist
Sent: Sunday, July 28, 2019 10:13 AM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org
<mailto:stylist at nfbnet.org> >
Cc: llambert at zoominternet.net <mailto:llambert at zoominternet.net>
Subject: Re: [Stylist] Interview is now live -
Can you believe that July is on it’s way out the door?
My months have been flowing by so quickly I barely get my balance, and a new
one pops up.
Recently, I was asked by Janice Spina, to do an interview with her for her
blog. I agreed, and this was the results from our conversation about
writing and life in general. She wanted to release the interview as soon
as my book was launched, and so she held off till last week – so she could
be first in line to make the announcement and do the interview.
You may find it here:
https://jemsbooks.blog/2019/07/24/interview-with-author-poet-lynda-mckinney-
lambert-and-her-new-book/
meanwhile, I am having problems with my one blog – I am locked out of
Walking by Inner Vision the past 2 days. I am hoping the woman who hosts my
blog on her server can get it fixed. This has happened before a few times
– and well, it does give me a break for a bit, but I’d really rather be
blogging!
It won’t be long until I get to begin working with Finishing Line Press as
they are publishing my first chapbook, first snow, which will come out in
the pre-sales in September and the official publication date will be in
January. So, for this moment, I can work in my flower beds and play with my
dogs and cats, and have some time-off from my schedule. I love it all!
After I signed with FLP, I had another good offer from a different publisher
who wanted it – but maybe, next time. I was very pleased that 2 publishers
wanted to have my first chapbook – so I am certain there will be more coming
in the future.
Thanks and enjoy your day, wherever you are.
Lynda
Lynda’s Authors Page- Amazon:https://www.amazon.com/author/lyndalambert
Lynda’s Official Authors Page: http://www.dldbooks.com/lyndalambert/
Lynda’s 2 Blogs:
Website <http://www.lyndalambert.com/> & Blog: Walking by Inner Vision –
personal blog
Scan-A-Blog <http://www.llambert363.blog/> – A quiet Place of Inspiration,
Art, Nature, Literature
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