Mt. Kinabalu, Malaysia

My legs burn as take my next step forward. The taught rope I hold tightly in my hands rubs against my palm, and I prepare to step again. In the pitch blackness of the morning, my foot slips, and I strengthen my grip upon the the rope. Regaining my footing, I curse under my breath, wondering for the millionth time this morning why on Earth I'm doing this.
Like a decayed witches tooth, it's middle enshrouded by a white belt of clouds, the majestic form of Mt. Kinabalu scrapes high against the skies of Malaysian Borneo. At 13,451 ft tall, this formidable peak is the highest point in southeast Asia.
The name Kinabalu comes from the native term Aki Nabalu, which roughly translates as the revered place of the dead. Tribal people in this area of Borneo once believed this place was inhabited by the spirits of their ancestors. Today many descendants of these locals serve as guides and porters, accompanying tourists to the mountain summit on a daily basis. A frequent stop on the tourist trail, nearly every guest house and travel shop in the nearby city of Kota Kinabalu sells package trips to climb this mountain.
It's also the home of the annual Mt. Kinabalu International Climbathon, advertised as "The World's Toughest Mountain Race." Once a year, participants sprint up and down the mountain trails at a maddening pace. Last year's winner Kilian Jornet Birgada of Spain completed the 21km race in an unbelievable 2 hours 39 minutes and 10 seconds!
This was my second day of my ascent. The previous day was comprised of a short, but steep 6.5km rise through the mountain forest. My guide, a short, softly spoken local woman named Nani was making her second trip up and down the mountain in three days. Huffing and puffing, I clumsily followed her steady, determined pace. She hardly seemed phased by the scorching temperature, or the steepness of the climb. Seven rest stops marked the way to the lodge at Laban Rata where I would spend the night before attempting the climb to reach the summit, but we only stopped at three.
The highlight of the first day's climb came late. Barely one kilometer from the lodge we entered into a canopy of banzai trees. Their gnarled branches extended upwards, meeting in an arch above the pathway, blocking out the sun. Though these trees are hundreds of years old, due to heavy winds and poor soil they grow to less than fifteen feet tall. Their charcoal colored branches looked dead, like the scorched remains of a campfire. It seemed a place of great mystery, and for the first time I began to understand why the villagers of Sabah had once believed this to be such a powerful place.
I reached the lodge around 2pm, and spent the afternoon reading, drinking coffee, and chatting with other climbers. After dinner I attempted to sleep, but as it was only 6pm it was still much too early. I lay awake in bed for hours before finally drifting off.
The second day began at 3am, in thin, cold, high altitude air. Starting with a long, steep, slippery flight of wooden steps, it only got more challenging from there. The darkness of the night was punctured only by tiny pinpricks of light- the distant headlamps of other climbers. Up the mountain they rose like fireflies, ever higher. A harsh reminder of how far I still had to go.
Around the time the ropes appeared I began to think about turning back. Bolted to the mountainside these thickly woven lifelines extend up the slopes in areas too steep for most to climb without aid. The darkness was difficult to negotiate and there were no harnesses or safety clips to attach to the ropes. I knew if I let go it was a long way down. A fall from here would surely result in serious injury if not death. But I had come this far and turning back barely two kilometers from the top would seem a waste. Fueled by a noxious mixture of ego and adrenaline I soldiered on.
This is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm thirty-two, but I feel like I'm fifty. I stop to catch my breath, collapsing on the slope. For the first time all morning I look up at the sky and notice the spectacular array of stars. My guide sits down next to me. In her baggy clothes and orange hooded jacket she bears more than a passing resemblance to a Jawa.
"Only 1.7 kilometers to go," she tells me.
I'm sure this is meant as encouragement, but considering our ascent this morning is slightly less than 3km in total, I hardly find this to be a relief.

Around dawn we reach a gently sloping rocky plateau. Cracked granite dunes stretch into the distance. Orange balls of lightning flicker within heavy storm clouds. The horned curve of South Peak looms ominous behind me, and a jumbled pile of boulders ahead marks the end of my ascent. It's like walking through a painting. Among the first rays of the morning sun I limp gingerly along on shining sheets of grey-blue glass.
On a clear morning it's said you can see as far as the Philippines from here. But this was not a clear morning, so we would have to make do with a view of the surrounding villages. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top. A mantra I heard repeated again and again that morning by exhausted climbers mustering the strength to continue. While you're up there though, it's hard not to agree.
Everyone is elated. A group of Chinese bankers on a morale event unfurl their corporate flag and snap a photo in front of it. A young Malaysian boy pulls out his mobile phone and places a wake up call to his girlfriend from their nation's rooftop. I guzzle the remainder of a bottle of Red Bull and try not to think of the 9km below me I will soon be walking down.

It's just after 12pm when I reach the bottom of the mountain. By this time I've been hiking for nearly nine hours, and my legs won't stop shaking. The last 6km nearly defeated me. My guide, eager to get home, seemed hesitant to take even the shortest of breaks as we made our decent. During the last three hours we only rested once for five minutes.
Exhausted, I fall onto a bench just outside the trail's entrance, awaiting the arrival of the taxi that will take me back to my guesthouse. A scoreboard with the previous years race results stands nearby, the impossibly short completion times mocking my small achievement. Passers-by chuckle at my sweaty, bleary-eyed state, and I smile weakly at them. Closing my eyes, I begin to drift asleep. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top, but it's even more true at the bottom- when it's over.



*** In the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that due to the small size of my day bag, I did not have a camera with me during my climb of Mt. Kinabalu. Therefore the first two images used in this post were taken, with permission, from the Wikipedia article on Mt. Kinabalu.