Casey's Unfiltered Kilimanjaro Climb Day-by-Day Journal

I didn’t climb Kilimanjaro to collect a photo with a wooden sign. I did it because a seed was planted years ago. After all, I love a good (slightly terrifying) challenge, and because life had become loud and I wanted something that required all of me – mind, body, and stubbornness.

This is the real version: what I trained, packed, and felt; how altitude messed with us; why summit night is beautiful and brutal; and who actually gets you up there (spoiler: it’s not just you).

If you’re thinking about Kili, consider this a day-by-day journal you can trust—no sugar-coating, no hero edits, just the mountain as it is.

The seed of the idea

When my father climbed Kilimanjaro at the age of 46, something in me lit up. The way he spoke about it made the mountain feel like more than just a climb. It landed as something I always wanted to do — a quiet note on the list of things I would one day tackle.

Before I had children, I was drawn to experiences with a thrill: bungee jumping, skydiving, roller coasters, even swimming at Devil’s Pool at Victoria Falls. Kilimanjaro slotted neatly into that world of slightly scary, exhilarating things.

Life changes

After having children, that instinct dulled. I became more cautious, more anchored. But Kilimanjaro never left the list. It remained one of those challenges I hadn’t ticked off — one of the few that stayed, even when others faded.

Shared reasons, everyone in our group brought their own reasons:

• Mike: “I wanted to find out what my body can do when I’m pushed — and to share that with people I trust.”
• Dan: “For me, it was about discipline and efficiency — treating the mountain as a project with purpose.”
• Nicole & Zita: “We wanted to experience something extraordinary — to bond in hardship, discover strength, and be part of something bigger than our everyday.”

What others say: hearing other climbers’ reflections helped frame my own:

• “Kilimanjaro revealed a level of courageousness and tenacity I might never have known if not for that experience.” ~ Peak Planet
• “Climbing Kilimanjaro was an opportunity for me to ‘put my money where my mouth is’ and prove to myself that if you have purpose, you can do more than you think.” ~ Ubongo
• “Fear is a good thing … if it scares you, it might be a good thing to try.” ~ Just Kilimanjaro

1.Training the body

I began focused training in June. Weekends were dedicated to mountain hikes with as much elevation as possible. Our big prep climb was two summits of Platteklip Gorge in a single day — roughly 1,400 metres of elevation gain over just 5 km (before even counting the downhill). It was the closest simulation of summit day I could find.

I also worked with professionals: a physio for my knee, and a biokineticist at the gym who gave me a programme of leg‑strengthening exercises. That structure, plus accountability, gave me confidence.

2.Mindset & research

Preparation wasn’t only physical. I listened to endless podcasts from trekkers, watched YouTube videos, read blogs, and followed Kilimanjaro and high‑altitude accounts on Instagram. This rabbit hole of stories and tips became a big part of my preparation, and it was genuinely fun.

3.Resetting daily habits

• From 20 July, I cut out alcohol, cigarettes, and vapes.
• I added breathing exercises, balance drills while brushing my teeth, foot exercises, and stepper sessions to my mornings.
• I built little rituals (journaling, playlist making, photo‑organising for Sophie’s baby book) that grounded me.

Arriving in camp

Every day ended the same way: walk into camp, wash the dust off, and change straight into the clothes I’d wear the next day. It sounds simple, but it kept me clean, warm, and always one step ahead.

Camps were a mix of tough and magical — tents rimed with frost one morning, the Barranco Wall looming over us the next. The team’s set‑up felt astonishing: beds ready in our tents, a mess tent with popcorn, tea, and steaming soup, even a shower system at lower camps (though “luxury” on the mountain is a very different definition).

Small rituals that mattered

• Fluffing my sleeping bag every evening and ventilating the tent to keep frost off the walls.
• Sleeping in the middle of the tent so I didn’t touch the cold, wet sides.
• Stashing electronics and water bottles in my sleeping bag to stop them freezing.
• Chocolate before bed — the sugar really does keep you warmer.
• Becoming a pee‑bottle convert by night two; it saved energy and warmth.

Food & comfort

Soup became the highlight of every day – simple, salty, and warming. Other meals ranged from pancakes and popcorn to rice, beans, chicken, and the occasional experimental choice (fish fingers were… divisive). Meals weren’t fine dining; they were warmth, energy, and care.

Shared experience:

Altitude is the one factor you can’t fully control, and it feels different for everyone. We all chose to take altitude medication, which meant a common side effect: tingling in our hands, feet, and sometimes even our faces. It felt odd at first, then became something we laughed about together.

Beyond that, symptoms varied. Some of us felt headachy or bloated; others barely noticed the altitude at all. Zita struggled with nausea in the early days but bounced back and was surprisingly strong on summit night. For me, most days were manageable, with just a few tough moments.

The challenging times: by day 5, I felt flat and heavy, tried distracting myself with audiobooks, and kept moving one step at a time… Summit night and day were the absolute hardest by far: physically, mentally, and emotionally. Every step was a battle, and also a teacher.

What helped:

• Walking slowly — pole pole is magic for the body and the mind.
• Hydrating before I was thirsty — headaches never got a foothold when I stayed ahead.
• Eating even without appetite — food is fuel and changes everything.
• Good routines — efficient stops, a pee‑bottle at night, and getting into dry clothes early.
• Leaning on the group — a laugh from Mike, encouragement from Dan, and the quiet steadiness of our guides.

Perspective: Altitude isn’t about being the fittest or strongest. It’s about listening, communicating honestly with your guides, and letting the mountain set the pace. For most of us, symptoms were light or short‑lived, and they faded quickly once we rested or descended a little.

Midnight start

We woke at 11 pm, layered up, and stepped out into the pitch dark at midnight. The air was crisp and still — no wind, no snow. I wore merino thermals, a fleece, a light puffer, my summit jacket, waterproof pants, and thick gloves. For once, I wasn’t too cold.

Snack packs were handed out – a black banana, half a muffin, and a chocolate bar. At that altitude, food felt like a chore, but the goal was simple: step by step, hour by hour, up into the darkness.

The mental game

The climb was slow and relentless. I counted breaths in the hundreds before looking up. I drifted into micro‑sleeps and, at one point, saw faces and animals in the rocks. For me, it was the hardest physical and mental thing I’ve ever done; nausea, exhaustion, and a foggy head. And yet the mountain kept giving me reasons not to stop: Mattheo humming beside me; the quiet assurance that we would go together.

The last stretch

Our final day was a sharp contrast to summit night. The path wound through lush rainforest, damp with moss and alive with bird calls. After days of rock and dust, the green felt like a gift. We moved quickly, buoyed by the lower altitude, and before long the gate was in sight.

The sudden return to comfort

Back in Moshi, the first shower felt surreal. Clean clothes, a soft bed, proper pillows – luxuries that felt outrageous after a week of tents and wipes.

That afternoon, Dan, Mike, and I sat by the pool for hours with a local beer, sharing stories, laughing, reliving the best moments, and thanking each other for the energy we each brought to the climb.

Coming home… Back in Cape Town, it was wonderful to see my girls. But alongside the joy, I felt the familiar ache of post‑adventure sadness. I missed the mountain — the rhythm of walking all day, the stark landscapes, the quiet focus of being off grid.

I replayed moments: wishing I’d been more present at the summit, taken more photos, smiled more in the ones I had. Those regrets softened into gratitude — for the preparation, the strength I discovered, and the gift of an experience so far outside my ordinary life.

 

Climbing Kilimanjaro was the hardest and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. Looking back, a handful of lessons stand out for anyone preparing for their own summit.

1.Prepare more than just your legs. Training was essential. I worked with a physio on my knee and a bio at the gym for strength. We did endless hikes in Cape Town, building elevation with routes like Platteklip Gorge, sometimes climbing it twice in a day. That 1,400 m day gave me a taste of the summit push.

Beyond the physical, I immersed myself in others’ stories — podcasts, YouTube, blogs, high‑altitude accounts — to normalise the unknown.

2.Choose your people. The right teammates bring energy, humour, and positivity on hard days. The best companions share your pace and “faff level,” and can turn discomfort into laughter.

3.Altitude is unpredictable. We all took medication, which brought tingling hands, feet, and faces. Some felt sick early, others only at the summit, and some barely at all. The non‑negotiables: drink, eat, go slow, and communicate honestly with your guides.

4.The summit is only halfway → Save strength for that final stretch.
After Uhuru Peak, you still have to descend and then hike further to camp.

5.Pack with purpose.

• Separate summit‑only bag (clean base layers, sealed until the big night).
• Compression cubes to keep the kit organised.
• A sleeping‑bag kit with night essentials (torch, meds, eye mask, earplugs).
• Women’s pee bag for trail stops.
• Plan your summit outfit — choose warmth and colours you’ll love in photos.

The guides: Mattheo, Calvin, and Kevin
At the heart of our climb was Mattheo, our head guide. Calm, wise, endlessly experienced — he carried us up the mountain with intuition and quiet authority. When he spoke, we listened.
With him were Calvin — nicknamed “Japanese” for his small build and quick smile — and Kelvin, steadier and quieter but always present. Together, they set the pace, checked our oxygen, and somehow knew how we were feeling before we said a word.

The summit porter ~ on summit night, Lammik carried my bag — and with it, a piece of my burden. He walked beside me when the climb was at its hardest, steady and strong. Without him, I’m not sure I would have made it.

The chef~ then there was Chef King David — in full chef’s whites, his own portrait printed on the back of his uniform. Larger than life, leading songs at camp and serving soups that felt like miracles after a day’s climb.

The waiter, Alex, was our gentle waiter, too shy to meet our eyes when complimented, yet endlessly kind. He would carry a table and chairs up the mountain and set them up in the middle of nowhere so we could have tea and biscuits while staring at glaciers.

The others, like Geoffrey, kept the showers flowing at the lower camps. Someone else built and cleaned our toilets. Others carried tents, mattresses, duffels, and all the unseen weight of our comfort. Their names may fade, but their work is unforgettable.

Not all operators treat their teams fairly. Some under-feed, under-pay, or overload porters. If you’re planning a climb, ask:

• Are porters provided with three meals a day?
• Is there a clear weight limit per porter?
• Do crew members have proper clothing, shoes, and safe sleeping arrangements?
• How are tips structured and distributed — fairly and transparently?
• What support exists if someone in the team gets sick?