On the road again

I'm taking my little minstrel show elsewhere. I've been invited to join Vox, a Beta-based sort of network brought to you by the folks who did LiveJournal, but is actually a lot cooler than LJ, at least I think.

It's easier to post here, a lot more user-friendly and frankly, I like the change of pace. When I was in my 20s, I moved a lot. I think this is an extension of that.

Come along and enjoy the improved, leaner, lower in fat and carbohydrates, City Chicken.

Lake, big lake

After two years of missing the annual migration weekend to Torch Lake, I finally made it this year when Matt set some accommodating dates. Kerry and I took Friday off to get up there Thursday, so we’d have two full days of nothing to do but lounge, loaf and screw around. And that’s exactly what everybody did up there. We did miss quite a few of our regular peeps (it’s not easy to get everybody up north for a weekend) and that was the only regret.
The house on Torch Lake is beautiful and comfortable. The lake itself is ridiculously big, the largest inland lake in the state. You could definitely stay in this house there year-round, it’s that big and practically designed. Kerry’s aunt and cousins put an immense effort into this place, from the gardening to the boats and toys, and everything in between, you don’t have a place this phenomenal by sitting around on your ass eating cheese doodles all weekend. Pull up and you’re greeted with Aunt Liz’s green thumbery, as well as a nod to something else green.

The rest of the place was nothing but ooooh’s, aaaaah’s and wow’s.

This was our bedroom for the weekend.

You know, it’s not often you get to enjoy some deluxe accommodations (free of charge) in a weekend with absolutely nothing to do. If you’re lucky, you get one of those in a summer. The rest is tent camping with the bugs and the people on the site next to you very nearly on top of you, unpredictable weather and sometimes compromised sleeping. That, and you don’t always have these kickass, old-school fans by your bed either.

The grounds surrounding the cabin were choice.

The pontoon frequently offered lovely tours of this massive lake, with Marty expertly at the controls.

The water was absolutely perfect. And in the 90-degree heat, it was also very inviting, something of which we often took full advantage.

The lake itself is pretty huge, with a perimeter of housing that is positively stunning. There are a lot of million-dollar properties on Torch Lake, with many of them alleged to be owned by the likes of Bob Seger, Michael Moore and Eminem, not that that is important, but perhaps mildly noteworthy. While these are not their properties, they are still some impressive lakefront houses nonetheless.

We managed a trip Saturday to nearby Charlevoix to see Bear, about a 20-minute drive from where we were staying. Always so good to see him, great actually. I have a huge spot in my heart for that guy, so catching up with him for a few hours is pure gold. Looking forward to catching him again with Glom in a couple of weeks. Kerry and I stayed in Charlevoix for a short while until we met up with him at the harbor/bandshell on Main Street there

before having lunch with HB (thanks again) and walking with him out by the pier/walk thing

We scored some fudge from Burdick’s to bring back to the crew.

If we weren’t out on the boat, or vegging around the fire, it seemed like everyone was just sort of kicking it on the back patio area, mainly eating and drinking, but mostly drinking.

There was a lot of it, all day and half the night. When we weren’t throwing down some homemade guac with some Stoli and San Pellegrino

we were tearing up some pretty damn fine food over the weekend, including Loafy’s mac and cheese

or some rack of lamb courtesy of Matt

Not to mention the fajita fixings Rusty brought all the way from the El Mercado in Detroit’s Mexicantown, dropping those bad boys at about 1:30 in the morning. No photos of that, though. Reaction time kind of worn by that point.
This is what people do when you go up north. That, and work on your place so it’s a comfy little oasis. Other than that, it’s a lot quality time.

And what’s a weekend getaway without a little fun with the pooches?

We actually brought Rian’s dog, Scout, back home with us for a week. She’s very cute, as you can see here with her spending some quality time with her favorite toy.

The bar as the first night commenced. This was definitely the high traffic area.

More than anything, aside from housing the ‘fridge and all of the booze, it was also home to the industrial-capacity ice machine Matt bought for the place. He said they were getting sick of going to the nearest store for 10 bags of ice at a time. Here, Rusty demonstrates its usefulness.

And please, let me just take a minute to pause here on the Chicken and tell everyone that that dude, Forrest (aka Rusty) was one very cool and genuine fella. Never before met the guy, spent the better part of a weekend with him and didn’t regret a second of it. Straight-up, right-on kind of guy. This kept consistent with the weekend’s company for sure. It was a total mix of people, some of them related by blood, the rest through friendships in one capacity or another, and everyone really easy to get along with and there for the same reason — to chill, decompress and unwind. And what a mix it was. You had three salesman (owners of their own business), an entrepreneur/independent consultant type, a secretary, a guy who manages about two or three different companies, a couple of fundraisers (one of them a Texas Republican; the other a liberal freak), a journalist, two teachers, a pilot, a tavern owner and a spinal surgeon. Fourteen people. Not one fucking ego.

Please update your contact info

Cookie Monster isn't really a monster. He's a player. Thusly and heretofore, he shall be known as Cookie Player.

Thanks,
John

The devil's in my car

I hate bees. I hate them because I am scared of them. I don’t know why, but this has always been the case, as long as I can remember. I killed a wasp in my car the other day. The wasp is the like the Marines of bees. They are the fucking badasses. I found it odd that a bee got in my car, I usually keep the windows up, or, when they are down, I am typically in motion, making it tough for bees or any small winged insect to get into my ride. With my car parked in the driveway yesterday, I discovered how that bee got in my car. Lookee here, at the lower righthand corner of my passenger-side mirror.

Asshole bees made a small hive in MY CAR!! Bastards! I really hate bees, but I hate it more when people say “But we NEED bees for the honey.” You know what? Fuck honey. And fuck bee sympathizers.

Sorry, I'm just feeling it

You would think that in a summer like this, as devout a Tigers fan as people who know me know, that I would’ve prattled on since Opening Day about the professional baseball team playing their home games in Detroit and what a wonderful season it is having. I find it personally remarkable that it took this long, but then again it seems like I have a delayed reaction to hubbub these days. Make no mistake, I would probably put up a good fight for naming a baby “Olde English D” I’m so into my Detroit baseball [hey, fuck off, they can call him D for short alright?], so think less than once about where this baseball team occupies my heart.

I waited until this year’s All-Star Break, where just last year the physical bells and whistles went off in Detroit with the midseason classic and its hype ran rampant in a city poised to host a Super Bowl seven months later. For the first half of the 2006 season, I waited for the slide to begin, for the 9-game losing streak, for the team to go a good 3-16 against the Twins, Red Sox, Yankees, Indians, A’s, White Sox and Mariners. But it didn’t happen, so I exhaled a little. Don’t get me wrong, it is with pure joy that since the second week of the season I can open my sports section (which I’ve done pretty much every day since I was 13), look at the American League standings and see my beloved Tigers in first place. That could have lasted a week, maybe three, and I would have gladly smiled, enjoyed the view and then let the rest of the season play out, as tepid base running, flaccid hitting and a general aversion to completing routine plays and showcasing rudimentary defensive basics took over, and the Tigers drooped to 24 games out of the first place.

But the break came and went, and Detroit is still in first place. And it looks like they have this “we’re taking on all comers” kind of approach in a whiskey soaked, dirt-ass roadhouse parking lot fistfight mentality. And even as of today, July 25, 2006, they continue to beat the others down. They are 67-32, which in itself is an unexpected situation. The fact that Detroit is playing important games as we head into August is the perfect salve for this city of stricken fans who haven’t seen meaningful baseball since 1987. Detroit has the best road record at 34-15. They took a critical series against the White Sox, the defending World Series chumps with which they’ve jockeyed near the top of the division all season. They have 10 more games with Chicago. The last three were sellouts. Speaking of which, Detroit has sold out Comerica Park eight of the last 10 home games. That’s never happened since the park was built in 2000. And yes, they lead the majors with their ERA, they are in the middle of the pack for hitting, they are playing incredibly brilliant smart ball, they bunt, sacrifice and muscle their way around the basepaths, they break up double plays with a ferocious fluidity that’s as precision as it comes, and they remain a humble, focused group of players, saying and doing all of the right things. But when winning is contagious, strange little things start to happen. Like last night when Detroit scored five runs in the first inning en route to a 9-7 win against Cleveland, of course, in Cleveland. That burst was third straight game in which they scored 5 in the first, the first team to do so since 1891. That kind of shit.

Fans and pundits are now looking to the July 31 trade deadline. Who will the Tigers sign? Owner Mike Illitch said in the off-season that if this team was anywhere near contention by midseason, then he would “spend” to give his manager whatever he needed. Well, Mike, your team is in first place, 7 1/2 games ahead of Chicago. I would say that qualifies as contending. But the names being bandied about are all wrong. As wrong as a thong. Alex Rodriguez? That guy isn’t going anywhere and I’d shit if I saw him wearing a Detroit uni. Bobby Abreu? Philly management would be idiots to let that guy go. Yeah, I know, he jacked 40-something home runs out of Comerica last year during the HR derby, but people forget it was a hot night and those balls were being lobbed into him. Alfonso Soriano’s name seems to be the most prominently mentioned as Detroit’s big savior signee. Oh, he wants out of Washington alright, which was evidenced in his little bitch pout fest at the beginning of the season, when the man who makes millions every year to run around in the sun was upset about being put in the outfield. He actually threatened to sit out games until Frank Robinson sat his ass the fuck down and said “son, this pissing match is a losing one on your end. Get your ass in that outfield, nowski.” Is that the kind of character you would want in your clubhouse or in your dugout? I say hells no. They needed a left-handed batter for the better part of the season. Well, he’s back. Dmitri Young, fresh out of rehab (but still facing misdemeanor domestic assault charges for an incident in Birmingham) and a minor league assignment, with the scabs healing on the back of his right hand where he has a HUGE Alcoholics Anonymous logo tattooed, is now back with the club and if he hits anywhere near his potential, we could have a bonus the rest of the season.

And what a season it has been, but it would not be this way if not for our stealth pitching. In the off-season the club signed veteran lefty Kenny Rogers and former Tiger Todd Jones for relief purposes. Everybody winced and bitched. I did, too. And while I still think Rogers is sort of a redneck hothead, he is 11-3 with and ERA under 4. And Jones, while he’s blown some critical games, is still fourth-best in the American League saves category with 26. But like the rest of the roster and the season played out so far, little nuances add to the luster of this phenomenal season. Joel Zumaya? He threw a 103-mph fastball the other day at Oakland’s Nick Swisher, who, when asked about it after the game, said “When he’s throwing like that, you’re basically going on sound at that point.” At 100 mph, it takes 3/10 of a second to get to home plate, which means you have about 7/16 of a second to decide when you’re going to swing. Good luck with that. Rookie Justin Verlander is 12-4 with a 2.77 ERA and could be Detroit’s first Rookie of The Year since Sweet Lou Whittaker in 1978 and Mark “The Bird” Fidrych in 1976. Verlander becomes an instant legend in this town. Jeremy Bonderman, who stepped aside in the ace role to make room for Old Man Rogers, is steady (despite his formula for giving up three or four runs within the first four innings and then fanning nine, leaving in the 7th for the win) at 11-4. Three of Detroit’s five starters could end the 2006 season with anywhere from 16 to 18 wins. Middle relief pitcher Jamie Walker, long a disappointment in my eyes, is crushing this year, with a 1.20 ERA in 30 innings. Mike Maroth’s elbow fried earlier this season and the club called up Zach Minor. He’s 6-2.

The bats are crazy. Pudge is hitting .315, Ordonez .304, and Guillen .302. With runners in scoring position Placido Polanco is batting .400. Marcus Thames (filling in nicely for Young) and Brandon Inge (whose career was called “over” by Jim Rome the day Detroit signed Pudge) is not only co-leading the team with 19 home runs, but he’s playing the sickest defense at third base this city has seen since Tommy Brookens. But, on a critical note, I could do without all of the strikeouts. Granderson (109), Shelton (95), Inge (84) could stand to focus at the plate and stop swinging at fucking garbage pitches. Those kind of K’s make you trade bait, boys.

It’s exciting, dare I say, refreshing to see the parking lots around the stadium filled to capacity and charging double their normal rate. The concession lines are packed and the crowd is really getting into it, even if most of them are fair-weathered fans. I’m getting ticket requests now from friends like I’m a fucking Ticketmaster kiosk or something. Funny how nobody was asking me for shit when Detroit was losing 119 games just two seasons ago. And you know what? I was at more games that season than I’ve been to this season. Because, you know, I care and all. I make the effort, even when it’s not popular, cool or remotely sexy to do so. I don’t know, I just think that’s what REAL people do. Yes, the babe factor has shot through the roof at Comerica, which is a good thing, trust me. But the gals with the good skin and nice tits, and the boys in their chi-chi shirts covering up their tanned and toned torsos will be back at the cosmetic surgery centers, ultralounges and golf courses the fucking nanosecond Detroit baseball is not trendy or popular, which is also fine. Winning is contagious and it spreads to the fans, but when you have a sellout stadium on a Saturday night in July, in a city starved for anything remotely positive on the baseball landscape, the feeling is what your laughably marginal newspaper sports columnist would call “palpable.” That’s right Rob Parker, you fucking hack, I’m taking a shot at you. It is a feeling without a fitting description, the vibe being thrown around Comerica Park on game nights.

And it’s not just there, either. It’s in the homes with a kid watching a winning Tigers team for the first time in his life. Ever. It’s on the beat-up clock radios in a Hazel Park home’s garage with some dude wrenching on his rig with a couple of buddies and some cold ones. It’s in the hearts of the old-timers, who remember 1934, the dads and grandfathers who were my age with 1968 went down. It’s very clearly in the fella in the car next to me, banging his fist on the steering wheel because Craig Monroe just hit a two-out, run-scoring double. It will be in the city, loud and motherfucking clear when Detroit hosts its first playoff game since the ’87 season, the year I graduated high school, seemingly and also fittingly, a lifetime ago. And it will be in me and Corbett, sitting in our season ticket seats for the first pitch. It could all go away tomorrow. The slide could start, it could be the biggest choke job since the Yankees two seasons ago, it could be as predictable as Steve Howe, all methed up to the sky, driving his truck into a pole. It could all dry up by the last game of the season and I’d still be content because I had a chance to say it all right here.

Market value

After our monumental night Saturday, we headed out Sunday to the Ann Arbor-Saline antique market. This place was fantastic. The junk factor was nil, as this was more antique market than flea market. Many vendors had incredible furniture, books and other items. Of course, you can always find some bomb shit to look at when you visit a place like this, including some cool games from your childhood (even if they are obscenely overpriced)

Religious icons

Some replacement dice

A dictionary from 1912

And, of course, a box of knobs

Happy together

Talk about your landmark weekends. Not only did we get to spend what we kept referring to as a “poor man’s weekend getaway” at Kerry’s brother’s and sister-in-law’s house out by Ann Arbor, I also seized it as a prime opportunity to pop the question. That’s right, we got engaged. I’m going to be a married man. It’s both wonderful and surreal at the same time. The storage capacity of this blog couldn’t contain enough words to properly convey my excitement and bliss in the days after this moment. Trust us when I say that we are not only very happy, but very cognizant that we’ve earned this happiness, that we have no problem owning this joy.

Friday night we got out of town and chilled a little, it was like driving up north to stay at someone’s cabin for a few days. We stopped at the market, bought a weekend’s worth of light grub, some beverages, and checked in to our temporary housing. We got up Saturday and I had a whole day before this thing was going down. Firstly, she had no idea it was coming. She was expecting a proposal closer to the end of this year, around New Year’s, as per several earlier discussions. If I wanted to inject any semblance of spontaneity into this thing, I thought I should propose in July. I found the ring, a 1920s antique, sort of art deco emerald filigree engagement ring. It took me months of scouring antique stores to find it, but I did, randomly, on a visit to Ann Arbor to help empty Larry’s studio. Now that day was fucked up, there was a lot of crazy emotion there and I thought I was detached enough from the situation to duck out of the way of some serious impact, but I still caught some shrapnel from that. But I found this ring out of the blue, in a shop on Main Street in Ann Arbor. I’d like to think that maybe Larry had a little something to do with that.

I paid off the jewels on Friday and could pick it up the next day, so when we woke up Saturday, I enacted a few plans to shake free from Kerry so I could go pick it up, a task easier spoken than actually accomplished. I told her I had to take some pictures for some freelance stuff and I’d be back in an hour. “I’ll come with you,” she said. Fuck. So, I shifted gears and said I could do it later and that we should go ahead with our plan to go to Ann Arbor, putz about in some shops, get some lunch, and kind of freestyle the afternoon. I had no idea how I was going to get that ring, but I thought if I got close the store, I could show a disinterest in whatever other store we were in and say, “hey, I’ll meet you back here in 10” sort of thing. Even that didn’t work. We got two doors away from the ring when we found a bookstore of sort of New Age-y type shit, religious studies, etc. A sign on the door advertised the services of a clairvoyant that day offering drop-in readings, a 15-minute minimum. Fucking bingo! She points to it and asks if I’d be interesting in trying it, you know, for shits. Sure! Sign us up. You go first! Which is what she did and I high-tailed it out of the store, down two doors, scored the ring and came back. Interesting though, when I got to the antique store, the door was locked. The woman let me in very cautiously because she knew who I was and I had spoken with her the day prior. They were doing their inventory and had all of their diamond rings out of the cases — rows of them — and on top of the counters, probably $1 million worth of rocks there. I thought, for a second, now would be a great time to have a gun.

With ring in pocket, I returned to the bookstore with about 10 minutes to kill. After perusing titles about holistic parenting, raw food detoxification and how to maintain your temper, it was my turn with Madame X. Kerry couldn’t believe I was being open-minded about this. I guess I was as much of a fraud as she was. I listened to this broad’s hooey for 15 minutes, paid up and got the fuck out. Kerry said the woman said she cleaned her crown shakra. Sounds to me like she’d been drinking some crown shakra.

That ring box burned a hole in my shorts pocket all day long. When Kerry wasn’t looking I would shift it to a different pocket so when I sat next to her she couldn’t touch my leg and blow the big secret. The day passed and we hit Pepperz, which, despite its intentional illiterate name, was actually quite tasty and cool in there.

I had the walleye, Kerry the pasta primavera. Both were quite good.

It was warm in there, probably because it was about 93 outside, so we headed to Babs’ Underground Lounge, where we knew they’d be blasting the a/c, as well as some icy martinis. As is typical with Ann Arbor I had to endure some serious assault on my better judgment. There was some “stick” music festival there, these kind of funky-looking gee-tars. I think this guy says it all, really.

I just wanted to keep yelling from the crowd, “I like your pants!” He’s also finger-popping the neck of his axe there.
We then pass this lovely alley

And some fucking LAME art student/stencil Star Wars bullshit. Here is someone’s “tag.” Gross.

We got to Babs and enjoyed the lovely confines. We were there once last summer and the bartender, Rob, remembered us and where we were from, which I thought was very cool. Really nice guy, great bar.

We left Babs and headed to Dominick’s, one of our favorite Ann Arbor mainstays.

We enjoyed some sangria by the fountain

before heading across the street to the law quad. That was where I was going to propose. We love the law quad. In the very embryonic stages of our relationship, we shared a significantly romantic moment there. Plus, her dad stayed there in the ‘60s when he studied for the bar, so it does have some familiar aspect to it. It’s shrouded by these century-old buildings and lush grass. It’s lovely.

We walked and found a bench

where I would later take a knee after much out-of-character hemming, hawing and general awkwardness. She said yes. I am a happy, happy man these days. Afterward, we got on our phones to call family and friends. I went back to the bench to snap a picture. It was dark and my flash was going off when I hear this crazy woman across the lawn fucking screaming at me about how I’ve been following her around my whole life, taking her picture, ruining her. She was obviously very disturbed and kept yelling “That’s right you sonofabitch! Keep taking my picture! You’ve ruined me! You and the CIA!” And then she paused “And I have autism!!” she fucking screamed. Great.

We called some peeps and then returned to Babs for some champagne before heading home. Probably the most significant day of my life, I would have to say. We’re now planning a series of headaches and stress and bullshit for the next year. Oh, and there’s a wedding too. Sometime in October 2007. City Chicken readers get the VIP Room.

Nothing but flowers

We struggle to keep anything but impatiens alive in our yard that gets hardly any sun, but we love our day lilies.

Mountaineers

Casey and Mary made it to the top of Kilimanjaro. This is the latest in a series of guest blogging by them from Africa, where they're visiting for six weeks.


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People who try to climb Mt. Everest are absolutely insane...

July 1, we climb into a HUGE Land Cruiser to drive to the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro to do this thing we thought would be fun and cool: climb to the highest point in Africa. We meet our crew: a lead guide, an assistant guide, a cook, a waiter, and 6 porters who will carry all needed stuff. All we carry is a small day-pack and our hiking poles. The team set off ahead of us, as we and our guides begin our leisurely, 4 day uphill walk.
First sight

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The path up Mt. Kilimanjaro begins in a rainforest climate. Streams, flowers, huge trees with moss, and monkeys, one of which crossed our path in search of food. .

Wow, this is cool! The first day is basically a three hour uphill walk, not too strenuous. We get to our first camp, which consists of a bunch of small A-frame huts that sleep four, along with a bigger dining hut. It is cloudy, and a light mist is settling upon everything. All in all we feel good, and we are excited about what is to come.

Day two has us set for a six-hour uphill hike, with around 3,300 feet of elevation gain. We begin in the rainforest, with the clouds and fog giving a mysterious sense to everything. We pass these trees that have moss (called "old man's beard") .

hanging off the branches. Shrouded in the fog they have an ethereal pall to them. Slowly as we climb the fog thins, the sky becomes bluer, and the sun becomes more intense. Next thing we know, we are in full daylight, and as we look behind us we are walking above the clouds.

Looking ahead, we get our first view of the peak of Kilimanjaro. Along the path we are passed by our porters Ronald and Bruno. A word about the people who work this mountain: they are friendly, dedicated, and strong as bulls. Each porter carries around 40 lbs. of weight, be it our gear (we certainly couldn't carry it), food, water, propane, whatever. They either carry it across their shoulders, or balanced on their heads, and they smile and laugh while they are doing it, while we suck air just trying to walk on. It is truly amazing. And by the way, they earn around $5 a day for the privilege of humping all of our gear up the mountain, and they laugh and smile the whole time. Their demeanor left a lasting impression on us.

We stop along the way for lunch. It is amazing what they manage to serve to us, considering the circumstances and the fact that everything must be carried by someone. Always a plate of fresh fruit, hot tea or coffee, and on this day a pasta salad with cheese. After lunch we continue upward, until we come to our base for the next two nights, Horombo hut, at around 12,500 ft. Now the air is noticably thin. We will spend two days here in order to acclimate to the thin air. Horombo is like an international way-station. There are people here who are both going up and coming down. Listening, I heard Dutch, German, Spanish, and of course Swahili, along with many intonations of English: Irish, Aussie, Canadian, British, and Tennesseeish. People talk of the thrill of making it to the top, or the disappointment of not being able to, or the excitement of trying. Its a very interesting place.

Our third day of hiking takes us toward the base of the summit. We leave Horombo, which is in what they call a moorland climate, destination Kibo hut. Another six hour uphill climb, with another 1000 meters of elevation gain (taking us to around 16,500 ft) The trail is steeper than you realize, and it becomes a struggle to merely go forward. Now our guides begin to preach "pole! pole!" - slowly, slowly. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. As we climb we cross from the moorland climate to what is called alpine desert. It is barren, bleak, foreboding. The air is cool but the sun is intense. If the sun goes behind a cloud the temperature seems to drop 20 degrees instantly. You have to make sure to cover your whole body with sunscreen, don't forget the backs of your ears or the tops of your hands. It seems as if we are walking across the moon. The final two hours toward Kibo are tough - we can see the hut, and it seems so close, but it's slow going, and if you try to go faster you are soon out of breath. Finally we make it, around 3:00 pm. We eat quickly, and are in bed by 5:30 - at 11:00 pm they will wake us to begin our trek toward the summit.

When we awake, it is totally dark, and around 30 degrees outside, which only promises to get colder. We prepare: layers of clothing, socks, gloves, hats, waterproof/windproof jacket and pants. As we set out, the sky is filled with more stars than I have ever seen before, and though cold, not uncomfortable. We begin walking and it isn't actually too bad - body heat is generated keeping us warm, and the pace is comfortable. Soon however, the path steepens, a lot. We will gain around 3600 ft in elevation, but that will be over a very small horizontal distance - in fact, the trail is close to 45 degrees in slope. Up we go, pole! pole! Air gets harder to find, the air gets colder. Hands and feet are frozen now. The pace is around one step every two seconds. If you keep in cadence its not bad, but if anything throws you off, like you slip on a rock, you are instantly out of breath and light headed. The path is loose gravel and stone. We keep going, and it becomes a test of will and endurance. At least three or four times I asked myself "what the hell am I doing up here?" and considered turning around. Its difficult to create the mental state people feel, other than to say that it is grueling and demoralizing, and extremely difficult.

As we continue to climb, the air gets colder and thinner. I have no idea how long we have been going, but I keep scanning the horizon to see any hint of the sunrise. I look down at the trail of headlamps winding up the hill below us, and immediately have to brace myself on my poles to fight off vertigo, which again puts me out of breath. Onward and upward, as mental and physical fatigue begin to taunt me. How much longer? I look to the horizon again. Is that a glimmer of sunlight? The path changes to weaving between and climbing up much larger rocks. The large steps up really take the wind out of you, and you have to rest after each step. Yes, that is sunlight, we must be getting close. Our guide expertly leads us around and over these rocks, when all of a sudden he lets out a howl, in swahili. I have no idea what he has said, some incantation to the mountain god, some song of thanks and praise. I barely manage to say, "does this mean we are done going up?" We step over the final, large rocks and down on to the ridge of the crater. We have summitted. I am overjoyed to the point that I want to cry.

We rest for a bit and then carry on, mostly flat, to the actual high point. We see the sun rise, and as it lights the mountain we are surrounded by glaciers. The sunrise is amazing.

and I catch a photo of our guide Charles resting next to one of the glaciers

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We get to Uhuru Peak, the high point, take our photos and rejoice.

When we get back to the point where we stepped up onto the crater rim, we look down at what we traversed in the night, and though daylight now, we can barely see where we started from - the hut is a mere speck, way way down the steep slope that we must now descend. I mutter, "get me off this god-damned mountain" and revel in the thought that the only direction left is DOWN.

And to think, Mt. Everest is 10,000 ft. higher than where we went. Yes, those people are insane