Last week, I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa.
I could write about how great of a cultural experience it was, how much fun I had, the beauty of the mountainside, or the joy of camaraderie between strangers that had never met before and might never meet again. But I won’t.
I won’t, because what struck me most about my experience on Kilimanjaro was not the expected storyline of adventure, camaraderie, and scenic grandeur. What struck me was the stoic coldness with which the mountain rose above the African plains, and how I internalized that coldness as I marched slowly towards its summit.
I’m writing about clouds and dust.
It all began when I left my familiar soil – oaks and redwoods, Pacific skies, coffee shops and bike lanes – and I encapsulated myself in a giant metal tube with tiny windows and crying babies. A day or…
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