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I have an expensive and dangerous habit. Every free penny I have goes towards paying to support it, and I've even had to quit a few jobs when they got in its way. Usually when nobody's watching, and often when I'm alone I fall victim to my uncontrollable urges. I strap on a pair of black leather boots and head off to engage in my personal form of deplorable anti-social behaviour. I like to climb mountains. And last June I got the chance of a lifetime - to climb Africa's highest mountain, Kilimonjaro.

My dad, who is afflicted by the same disease, has been climbing the Alps on and off for thirty years but has always dreamed getting to the top of Kili. Last summer, on a whim, he took a month off work, booked a flight to Nairobi and invited me along. Our plan was vague. We would go straight from the airport by bus, or train or whatever was available, to the base of Kili, hire a guide and start climbing. After a 14-hour flight and a dull in-flight Michael Caine movie we arrived in Kenya, and discovered that mount Kilimonjaro is actually in Tanzania. I decided to invest in a map. After a bit of research, and a visit to a travel agent, we changed our plan. We would now go north and first climb Mt. Kenya, a smaller mountain but one high enough to acclimatise on.

Acclimatisation is necessary every time you climb above about 3000m. Kilimonjaro is just under 6000m high and if you try to climb to that height too quickly very nasty things start to happen to your body chemistry. Something called `High Altitude Cerebral Edema' (HACE) kills about ten climbers every year on Kili. It happens when your body tries to adjust to the sudden lack of oxygen on the mountain by thickening your blood. This causes your brain to swell and crush itself against the inside of your skull, and then you die. So because this didn't sound like an enjoyable end to our holiday, we decided to go on a little practice climb first. On Mt. Kenya we walked for about forty miles over four days and climbed to 5000m in altitude. It was hard going as we had to each carry packs with heavy equipment (tent, rope and lots of warm clothes) and conditions were not comfortable. The air is very dry that high up and I became badly dehydrated one night. I'm a complete hypochondriac and when I woke up in the night with a headache bad enough to sink the Titanic I Knew I had HACE. I could feel my brain swelling and should have won an Oscar for exaggerating the symptoms. I fell into a kind of half sleeping delirium. I was dreaming I was in a British gangster film staring Michael Caine and myself. I had tried to do a runner and he had caught me. I was beaten up and tied to a chair. He then levelled a revolver in my direction. Pulling the trigger he said, "You're fucked, me ol' mate." I woke with a jolt. I immediately threw up and felt worse. I sat outside the tent until I felt able to drink some water and I gradually recovered.

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We rested for a few days in Nairobi after; then we set off south into Tanzania and to the town of Moshi at the base of Kilimonjaro. A guide is necessary for Kili and most climbers sign up with expensive adventure travel companies who organise everything. We thought we would save a bit of money and hire a guide who had been recommended by a friend in Nairobi. The man's name was Issa and he seemed very competent when we met him. We sat at a bar with him and discussed the climb. There are several main routes up the mountain, he said. The easiest is called the Coca-Cola Route because of the number of fat American tourists who waddle their way up it's comfortable eight-day path and discard a mountain of empty cans, before turning back below the summit and buying a tee-shirt which says `I climbed Africa's Highest Mountain'. We considered ourselves able for something more difficult. We wanted something more noble and courageous. My dad asked about the Umbwe, or Whisky Route, which takes three to five days and winds up along the steep crest of a valley on the north side and is renowned as the most scenic route on the mountain. We had brought ropes and ice climbing equipment from Ireland in case they would be necessary. Issa said the route would be difficult and he had climbed it `at least ten times' but that no equipment was necessary. "Just scrambolling", he said. He advised us not to even bring a rope. We thought this was strange. Climbers always have at least an Ice-axe when there is even the possibility of ice and it is unheard of not to bring a rope on to a mountain. It would be like a driver not wearing a seatbelt in Formula One. He was the guide though and he must know what he is doing. Later on, when we were packing, we talked about it again and decided to bring a rope and our two ice-axes, just in case.

The first day, Issa collected us from our hotel in a four wheel drive and we set off to the Umbwe road-head, the start of our climb. This lay in the lower part of the tropical rain forest that surrounds the mountain. The roads here are seasonal rivers complete with waterfalls. It was often necessary to stop the jeep, wrap the towrope around a strong tree and drive up a 50-degree mud embankment. Some local people would often stop to watch us struggling with the car, shouting helpful suggestions in Swahili, and doubtlessly cracking jokes about the crazy white foreigners. It was three in the afternoon before we gave up and started to walk. It was a very tough hike. This trail is seldom used and was in poor condition. The forest had begun to reclaim its territory and in one place the path had been swept away in a landslide and we had to climb up a small mud cliff using the uncovered roots of trees as grips. I had to stop half way and take off one of my boots. A platoon of a species known as African Soldier Ants had infiltrated my sock and was carrying out manoeuvres between my toes. One had eaten his way under the skin and I had to cut him out. We arrived at some caves just before nightfall and set up camp.

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Next day we packed up our things and set off again. The forest began to thin out and at about 9 o'clock, after an hour or so walking, we caught our first glimpse of the peak. It was about fifteen kilometres away and over two kilometres higher up. We were standing in a hot and humid rain forest and the peak was covered in a glistening white ice cap. We were looking at the arctic from the tropics in a single glance and it was hard to believe we would be standing on the top in just two days. My dad took his camera from his rucksack and photoed it. After another two hours walking the forest ended, changed to grassland and eventually, in turn, the grassland ended and the terrain changed to a barren red-rocky desert. We reached a suitable campsite in the afternoon and stopped. We had the rest of the day to rest, look at the fantastic scenery and when we got bored of that, to wish we hadn't chosen to leave behind the radio and books to save on weight. We asked Issa how far to the next campsite, we felt strong and wondered if we could continue up some more today. He said it was impossible as it was at least a six to eight hour climb and it would be dark in 5 hours. We had to content ourselves with being restless. At about 4 in the afternoon we noticed some movement across the valley. A few porters arrived and began setting up tents. Then some more arrived carrying chairs, a folding table and some logs for a fire. We watched them work from half a mile away. It seemed a large expedition was arriving from the other side of the mountain. Issa wasn't good company. His english wasn't great and we couldn't speak more than a few words in Swahili, and anyway, he wasn't exactly the talkative type. We decided to go and greet the newcomers. We walked around the rim of the narrow valley and arrived in the new campsite. I waved to one of the porters, "Habari za jioni, nani kuwasili?" I asked in my best phrasebook-Swahili. I asked how many were in the expeidition and where they were from, hoping they were English speaking. It turned out they were South Africans and despite all the equipment and porters, there were only five of them. When they staggered into the prepared camp after a long day, we shook hands and sat down. There is always a camaraderie among mountaineers when they meet on a climb. It comes from the shared pain and struggle to get to the meeting point. Two strangers who would not normally say a word to each other can get on great in the mountains describing the relative size of blisters and telling stories of how certain death was narrowly escaped only that morning. We spent rest of the day chatting and joking with the five, drinking tea, swapping addresses and promising to show them around Ireland should they ever happen to drop by. We left with regret only when it was becoming too dark to find the route back to the tent.

We set off at dawn for Arrow Glacier Hut at the base of the final peak. From what Issa had said we expected to arrive in late afternoon but the route was much shorter. We arrived at eleven o'clock, an hour ahead of Issa who had begun to trail behind. Ahead of us lay a steep ice slope and to the right, a rock cliff called the Western Breach Wall. This was first climbed in 1973 by the extraordinary German climber Messiner. He climbed it straight after a far harder climb. In the early seventies those scientists who decide such things had decided that, because of the thin air at that altitude, it was absolutely impossible for a climber who was not using bottled oxygen to reach to summit of Mt. Everest and live. A year or so later Messiner not only summited that mountain without oxygen, but he did it in record time and he did it alone and unsupported. The weather was so cold his right arm froze solid but it hardly phased him. He got to the top and down again, only waiting long enough for his arm to thaw out and for the doctors to chop off a few rotten fingers and toes before he was on the plane to Africa to do what we were about to do now.

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As we looked up at the thousand meters of rock and ice which lay ahead we wondered about Issa's advice not to bring equipment. We sat down, bored again, and discussed our guide. He had told us he had climbed this route at least ten times and yet he didn't seem to know the distances from one campsite to another. He had said no ice climbing equipment was necessary but here we were, at 4900m, on a glacier which swept upward for a kilometer at an angle of 60o.

When Issa arrived we put our questions to him. How were we to continue? What route had he planned? Why did he tell us not to bring our equipment? He didn't answer. He just looked up at the ice face and surveyed it in a professional way. At last he spoke.

He pointed his finger at a thin ridge of gravel and scree which traced its way up the centre of the glacier. 'That is the way,' he said simply 'We start at midnight and bring torches. We climb this ridge and then traverse to the top. We reach the summit at dawn.'

Ok, we thought. I looked up at the line in his account. It seemed climbable. The rocks would give us good footholds and we could avoid walking on the ice. As on other mountains we would climb on the ice at night. During the day the sun melts the ice and causes avalanches and rock falls. For the rest of the day we sat around, talking whenever we could think of something to say, but mostly just sitting or pacing, trying to pass time. When the sun went down the temperature dropped sharply and we could no longer be outside unless we were moving. I took off my boots and got into my sleeping bag in the tent, leaving all my clothes on for warmth. It's almost impossible to sleep at that altitude. Your body and mind just won't relax due to the lack of oxygen. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you're constantly gasping for breath in the thin air.

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At midnight we got up and packed our things. We checked our water bottles, ice axes, put on our head-torches over wool hats, and set off into the night. The slope was gradual at first but became continuously steeper and our pace slowed. Two hours passed and we were about a quarter way up when Issa stopped. The ice was very steep now. Several times my foot would hit a loose stone, it would dislodge and I could see it toboggan down the ice at huge speed until it left the range of my torch. Issa was ahead, about five meters above. He had his hands flat on the ice and he was scanning to the right with the beam of his torch, searching. For the first time I noticed he wasn't wearing boots at all. He was wearing an old pair of runners.

It's important for you to realise how ridiculous and how absurdly dangerous this is. I have climbed on glaciers before in the Alps where there are so many climbers on some routes; you literally have to queue to get to the top. There are climbers of all levels of experience and from all parts of the world and All of them are wearing boots. The thick ridges and grip a climbing boot offers is so completely essential for safety that it is unthinkable that Issa, a trained guide would try to lead an attempt in runners. I now took more notice of him. He was very unsteady on his feet and he was continuously stumbling when his shoe didn't find a secure target. Every few steps he would stop again and I would see the pool of light created by his torch jet off to the right again, searching.

Then, suddenly, the light came crashing back towards me, missed my shoulder and shot off down the slope, gaining speed and tumbling until it vanished into the dark. There was silence and for one terrible moment I thought Issa had slipped and was gone. I tightened my grip on my ice axe. Issa's nervous voice broke the still cold air. He asked to borrow my dad's headtorch. It was quickly passed up to him. The light could be seen darting around, pointing at various objects on the right for half a second and then moving up or down, searching. My dad, who was directly beneath him and had been watching him more closely than me, now spoke. "Issa, Do you know the way?" This frightened me. I had realised our guide was a bit shaky but I had been more concerned with my own climbing and hadn't connected the dots. I thought about our situation. We now found ourselves clinging to an ice sheet at 5500m, in the middle of the night, without proper equipment and lost. This was not good, I thought. We couldn't go down because the ice was too steep and we had no crampons. If we stayed where we were we would soon freeze from the powerfully cold winds which at every moment threatened to scrape us off the ice and down the slope to our death. This was all pretty bad, I thought. While we stayed put on the ice we were loosing heart and loosing heat. Our joints stiffened and our muscles cramped. Our fingers and toes were becoming frostbitten and our minds were becoming numb from the cold, and the pain and the unreality of the situation. We couldn't stay, we couldn't go down and we didn't know the way up. The words "You're fucked, me ol' mate." were repeating over and over in my mind. I was starting to panic and knew that wouldn't help at all. Any debates about our future would have to be brief. We had the option of continuing to go up along the rocky ridge which, as we could see now, continued up to the base of a sheer cliff about 500m above. Pressing ourselves up against the rock face we could achieve some shelter from the winds. But what then? We could hold out no hope of rescue. Tanzania had no mountain rescue service even if we had some way to attract attention. Our closest potential help was the South African group and they were by now safely tucked up in their cosy tents halfway down the mountain more than ten miles away. I suggested that if we reached the cliff face we might be able to traverse around it's parameter and find a climbable route passed it and over the mountain to the other side. I was hoping that would then lead us onto the Coca Cola route. Coca Cola didn't seem so unnoble now, I'd had enough of whisky. Issa tried to reassure us that everything was fine and we would soon find the path. 'Only scrambolling' he repeated. His voice was quieter and unsure. We were unconvinced.

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There wasn't mush debate over this. No one had any other ideas so we just plodded on, step by slow step up the same rocky ridge. Issa said very little for over an hour until he silently stopped again. He had taken a considered decision. He said that he had been told by another guide that the route to the summit split away from this ridge, over the ice to the right. He guessed that he had missed the turning about two hours ago but now we must forge our way to the right. We didn't bother to ask him why, if he had travelled this route 'at least ten times' before, would he need to ask another guide the way. We let him continue his charade of competence. He asked to borrow my dad's ice axe. The ice was far too steep to walk across. He took the axe and used it to slowly carve little platforms from the ice, creating a walkable pathway to the right. I was very slow going but we eventually we reached the end of the ice. We were met then with a soaring wall of black rock, cracked and icy, the jagged teeth of the mountain extending beyond the range of my headtorch on into the night sky: the Western Breach Wall. "Now we climb...", said Issa meekly.

So we climbed. We didn't question the logic of the decision. We either kept moving or we stopped and froze. There were enough cracks and holds for us to grip and the climb quickly brought us out of the cold wind. Our equipment was hopelessly inadequate to the task. We had no rock climbing gear and we were exhausted and very cold. It was also dark and we had only two torches between three. A rock climber cannot climb blind and so our party filled the night with calls for a torch to be shone in this direction or at that crack. We eventually reached a sheltered ledge and my dad called a halt. We were all exhausted and he felt that we needed the light of day to continue the climb. We sat back on our rucksacks to keep off the freezing rocks and we waited. There isn't much that can be said to pass the time. You must simply sit wrapped up against the cold, wriggling your toes and rubbing your hands, with one eye on your watch and another to the horizon to look for the first glimmer of dawn. The time passes very slowly in situations like these.

The stars at 18,000 feet are an extraordinary sight. They don't twinkle like they do at sea level. They shine as a bright and almost steady pinprick in the sky. We had turned off our torches to save the batteries and my eyes had begun to adjust to the incredible darkness of that night. The mountain was an invisible blackness beneath us. Not a single detail could be seen of it except where it's starless form met the sky. The stars filled the sky in a way I've never since experienced. Not merely a few dozen white dots, but billions of specks of every colour. There was structure to their order. The sky was cut in two by a bright equator of brilliant density. Crossed by a speckled flame from far behind the mountain to the earth's surface far below. And as I looked ahead at the earth in the distance I could see stars there as well. On the ground many miles away lay the starry streetlights of the town of Moshi at the base of the mountain. Civilization was within sight but far out of reach. I wondered who down there would miss us if we stayed forever on this cold dark ledge in Africa. My eyes tracked the featureless black mountain to another starlight, and this one was truly from heaven. It darted and twinkled about on the glacier, getting closer. As my eyes grew used to the sight I distinguished two more of these wonderful angels. They were the head torches of another climbing party walking proudly up the same rocky ridge that we had come up. They turned right far below where we had and they were walking quickly towards our cliff. I roused the other two and shared the good news.

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By flashing one of the remaining head torches we managed to attract their attention. Dawn, opportunistically, broke soon after, and as the day brightened we were able to trace out a route across the rock to a position above theirs. They easily climbed up to meet us. They had a wealth of equipment with them, were calm and relaxed and climbed with great confidence. They had a guide, who knew the way. I felt extraordinary relief when the first of their party climbed up onto the ledge were we sat. We were saved. The stress of the night melted away with the greeting handshake and I broke into an involuntary fit of giggles.

Our saviour spoke, "Are you fellers havn' some problems?". The casual American accent was especially comforting, standing on that cliff's ledge at 18,000 feet altitude in the African wilderness.

I was laughing again. My mouth had spasmed into a permanently wide grin and I couldn't find the words to respond. My dad answered, unphased as usual and as calm as if we taken a wrong turn walking down the street, "Yes, we seem to have gone a little astray. Could you point us in the right direction, please."

The man sized us up. "You've 'gone a little astray'? Ya, I can see that. We're climbing the Breach Wall here, If you're looking to go along the Umbwe route you aught to be about a thousand feet below here. You could really get yourselves killed up here." From below another american voice shouted up. "Hay Doug, What's goin' on up there?" Our new friend Doug leaned out and stuck his head over the cliff. He roared back "We've got a bunch of lost tourists up here, Bill, I think we'd better help get back down to the Disney parade." As you can imagine, that made us feel about three inches tall, but we could hardly argue. He was right.

Those good people did us that enormous favour, and got us back on the right road. We said goodbye to them, thanking them profusely and we continued on our respective climbs. About two hours later we reached Uhuru peak, the summit of mount Kilimonjaro and the roof of Africa. The time was 8:45 AM; we had been climbing since midnight. It's hard to say that it was worth it. The view was indeed spectacular and we took reels of photos but there wasn't the release of joy that I normally get from reaching the top. I think the emotional summit of the climb was certainly, for me, the rescue three hours before. We then headed down the mountain along the Coca-Cola route and arrived at the base ten hours later. I can tell you that we were tired.

I didn't intend this as a story of a holiday disaster. For me, this was the best trip I was ever on. The exhilaration I experienced, in retrospect, of coming close to death and escaping was worth in every way the very real risk of actually dying. I believe people don't ever go to climb a mountain 'because it's there'. They climb mountains because by doing so they may visit the edge of mortality. I don't want to sound morbid. Coming close to death prepares you for life in a way that nothing else can. After climbing Kilimonjaro none of my everyday problems can scare me. I'm more confident and relaxed. I'm a better person 'because I was there'.

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