Mount Cameroon

Mount Cameroon, an occasionally active volcano,  is the highest mountain in West FArica at around 4100m.  It is also, depending on which entry from my guidebook you read, the second or sixth highest on the whole continent.  Personally I don't care which - all I know is it hurt my legs.  Big time.

We climbed up via the so-called 'Guiness Route', a steep, direct trail that climbs through forest, passing a basic hut before clearing the treeline about half an hour's climb later.  This first stage was hot, hot, hot, hot, hot and, even at this point I found myself struggling to keep up with the guides and porters.  We spent the first night at hut 2, at around 2800m, where all the first timers on the mountain were obliged to perform a dance to appease the god of the mountain.  This mainly involved jumping up and down and slapping yourself all over with branches - fortunately, it worked as he didn't erupt at all while we were on his patch.  Following the dance, all the white men were given new Cameroonian names, and I don't think I'm the only one who promptly forgot mine.

We weren't the only inhabitants of Hut 2.  Lying back in my sleeping bag, already exhausted after only the first (relatively short) day, I felt something scuttle across the top of my head, and flashed my torch down to see a fat brown mouse running away at the side of the luxurious plank and straw bed I was lying on.  He was a bit fatter by the morning - not having closed my pack properly, I lost 2 Air Nigeria cakes and 3 bars of chocoltae that I had been saving for a celebration on the summit. 

The second morning, we breakfasted early and were on the move shortly after 7.30.  Once again I struggled to keep pace with guides and porters and, when Matheus had disappeared over a ridge and out of sight yet again, I fell in behind a Spanish / French couple who were on a self drive trip from Spain to Cape Town.  They were moving at a more comfortable pace that I could probably have maintained for 3 days, but alas, it wasn't to be.  As we reached hut 4, Matheus looked accusingly at me. 

"I wait you," he announced. 

"Quite right. I pay you," I thought, but diplomacy won the day and I was briskly parted from my new found, Steady Eddie climbing partners.  By now, the first of my leg-foot ailments was beginning to trouble me - "up" blisters on the backs of my heels, caused no doubt by the steep incline, were becoming painful.  They were later to be joined by "down" blisters on the front of my toes, so that, by the end of the climb, I could only find respite of any sort by walking on the flat, an opportunity that is all too rare on the side of a mountain.

We reached the summit shortly after 11 am and, having posed for a series of triumphant pictures beside the illegible summit sign, began our descent by another, less steep route.  Tjhis, I thought, would be the easy bit.  It wasn't.  For the rest of the day, I picked my way across old lava flows, scree and sand while keeping a firm eye on my guide receding into the distance.  By now I was a bit concerned, as the trail on this part of the route was anything but clearly marked, and clouds were sweeping across the side of the mountain with increasing regularity.  I resolved to pick up my pace, and my thighs began to ache as I struggled yet again to keep up.

By the time we got into the camp at Mann Springs that evening, I was hobbling.  One of my up blisters had started bleeding and I was walking in a ministry of silly walks fashion.  Although we had made quite good time - the French Spanish couple arrived more than an hour after us, despite being on the summit only a few minutes later - I only wanted food, then bed.  We had a shelter of sorts - no hut, fewer mice, and a thunderstorm to serenade us through the night.

On the final morning, we startedearly.  This actually made quite good sense; although we had camped by the treeline, the first hour or two of walking took us across open ground, past views of Small Mount Cameroon and the sea, and we cleared this before the sun was too hot.  Once back under the trees, my down blisters and thighs started to dictate to me.  My lesg were now quite shaky, and I was apprehensive about even the most simple things - steeping over a log, and wondering whether my leg would give way when I landed.  "keep going keep going' urged Matheus, who was now following me and, for the first time, not moving ahead after 30 seconds.

Evetntually we walked into the village of Bokwanga, to the sound of Sunday choirs coming from the churches.  As I dropped my pack by the side of the road, I didn't bother to ask if this was the end.  There was tarmac, and taxis.  Whatever, the plan, there was no way I was walking any more.