Each Labor Day I remember the high point in my life, reaching the rim of Mount Kilimanjaro, a dormant snow-topped volcano rising more than 19,000 feet in Tanzania.

In late summer1963, four other Peace Corps Volunteers (Ethiopia I) and I vacationed in colonial East Africa. Our five-day trek (three up, two down) started badly. We missed our morning flight to the base and spent an exhausting, and fascinating, cross-country trip on buses and vans.  We arrived at the lodge sometime between 1 and 2 a.m. They’d given our rooms to others but invited us to stretch out on the bench seats in the bar.

The rest of our 12-member trek group left after breakfast. We were outfitted (boots, a hand-carved walking stick ending in an iron spike, and the warm clothing we’d need at higher altitudes) and lef after lunch. Lodge staff drove us to the trailhead, cutting our walk from roughly nine miles to four or five up an incline of maybe 4,500 feet. Because we lived at about 8,500 feet, the altitude was no problem for us yet. Jerry, Mark, and George strode out ahead on the clear dirt trail. Cora and I stayed together until she was convinced no lions were lurking and moved ahead rather than wait on me to gawk and take photos—and try to remember Ernest Hemingway’s “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.”

(Not having dug out my slides or my letter home, I’m relying on fuzzy memories for this account of the climb.)

At first the vegetation was mostly hay-like grass and little bushes. Soon I could see low clouds amid dense trees and bushes, my idea of a jungle, and thought, “A rainforest!” After a fairly short stroll through it, the rate of incline increased. I remember overlooking a pretty valley with no sign of villages or herds.

I reached our first cabin, at around 9,000 feet, a little before dark, which comes early near the equator. Just like in the old Tarzan movies, a line of bearers had come ahead of us with food, sleeping bags for our unmattressed bunks, and toilet paper for the outhouses. They cooked, and the 12 of us ate by the light of the campfire, chatted and sang a while, and hit the boards early.

We arose early, and I recall eating my first fried green tomatoes. The walk the second day was longer, about 12 miles, and tougher because the trail was rougher and the air became noticeably thinner. We could sometimes see bits of Kilimanjaro’s upper levels through the clouds that often covered all of the summit.

Much of the day. a 30-something Englishman walked with me. He was working in Kenya and was making his second try at completing the ascent. He had succumbed to altitude sickness the third day before.

The second cabin sat by an icy mountain stream. The evening air at 12,000 feet was quite chilly, but some Scandinavians on their way down were standing in the water taking sponge baths. My group settled for washing hands and faces. All I remember about that night was cold, several people snoring, and staying against the cabin wall in my upper bunk.

The third day was a much shorter trek, but the dry landscape was wilder, the trail rockier, and the air much thinner. The mountain rose sharply behind our small cabin at 15,000 feet and disappeared in clouds. We ate supper by a campfire, getting as close to the heat as we could, and crawled into our sleeping bags on the floor wearing every bit of clothing we had, including our boots.

The bearers, some now guides, woke us at about 1 a.m. and urged us to eat and drink something warm. We had about three miles and 4,000 feet to go. A few trekkers gave up right there.

The guides, each with a flashlight and a big thermos of warm lemonade, led a straggling line into the darkness and up an invisible path. Cora and I soon claimed the end of the line. It was too steep and too slippery to walk straight up. Our guide showed us how to walk in zigzags, but as we proceeded the scree (basically loose gravel) was so thick and loose that we slid back about one step for every three. Our walking sticks became necessities.

The next thing we saw of the others, they were coming down. Within the first two or three hours Mark, then George, then the Englishman, then Jerry gave in to altitude sickness. Cora and I kept going, stopping frequently to rest and drink a little lemonade. Cora and a guide moved a little way ahead of me. By the time the faint light of dawn was visible on the neighboring mountain peak, large rocks sometimes dictated our steep route, and I had to stop every few steps to appease my lungs.

My kind guide encouraged me, saying again and again, “Poli poli,” which meant “Slowly, slowly.” It’s one of the few Swahili words I remember.

With dawn, the clouds became less dense, and at last I had a faint view of our goal. The last of the trek looked steeper and rockier—with the top partially covered with snow! Seeing it gave me new energy. I caught up with Cora, sitting on a rock, about 8 o’clock. She looked up at me. “Will we ever make it?”

I pointed to the summit. “We can see it now. We’ll make it.” Years later, she told me she had been ready to give up, but I was so certain that she believed me.

A few minutes later we met a 50-something Austrian couple coming down from the summit. We paused to greet each other, and I asked whether they had gone around the edge of the crater to reach the highest point.

‘Oh, no,” one said. “We are not so young as you are.”

And you are the ones who reached the top well ahead of us, I thought.

By the time we reached the snow, a little under 19,000 feet, we had to stop to breathe every three or four steps. We reached the top at a little after 9 a.m. For a few minutes we just took in the crater and its jagged snow-covered edges. Clouds blocked much of the view below us.

Wading through the snow around the edge to go 400 or so feet higher didn’t tempt us.

We signed the book, and I realized it was Labor Day at home.

Cold and thin air cut short our staring and photo taking. We started back down the steep, slippery, ill-defined path, relying heavily on our walking sticks to stay on our feet. Despite the difficulty, the descent went much faster—less than two hours? The increased oxygen supply made me feel wonderful, and I didn’t need to stop to rest more than two or three times. The air also warmed as we descended, and the guides took our jackets.

At the cabin, we shed our heavy sweaters, had a light lunch and took off for the next cabin down. Exhilarated by the oxygen and the sense of accomplishment, I felt fantastic. I loped about half of the way back to the next cabin, passing the guys who had come down with altitude sickness.

I slept well that last night on Kilimanjaro despite the wood bunk, but I awoke stiff all over. The stiffness wore away as we covered the 12 miles to the first cabin in time to lunch there, sitting on the ground.

Then I had to stand up to walk the last nine miles—and 4,500 feet—down through the rainforest and to the lodge. My muscles had all tightened during lunch, and I could barely move. My fellow trekkers also suffered, but we had no choice.

My memory of the painful walk to the trailhead is gone, but shortly after I began limping along the highway, a car came by and offered me and a couple fellow sufferers a ride to the lodge. We took it.

We hadn’t been able to bathe for five days, so we all went immediately to our rooms to clean up. Getting into and out of the tub caused agony in every part of my body. We all still were suppressing groans the next day when we moved on to Arusha. For two or three days, even stepping down from a curb hurt.

Each Labor Day, I celebrate going up the mountain and remember triumphs often involve pain.

—Carolyn Mulford