Conquering Mount Kilimanjaro was the goal for an intrepid team of fourteen linked in some way by prostate cancer and brought together by my Dad, the leader of the expedition.  The diversity of the group was one of its principal strengths - six consultant urologists would always ensure the conversation and jokes would revolve around the urogenital tract; the three former patients, minus their prostate glands, would have their patience tried by the opinions of six fussing doctors whenever any symptoms appeared; and the youthful exuberance of the four students withstood the often embarrassing probing and grilling administered with relish by the adults.  With the youngest member of the group 18, the oldest 68, the team boasted an impressive range of years - and, perhaps most importantly, a wealth of medical expertise.

Yet the build-up did not bode well. Two of the original 16 were forced to withdraw, one with a heart attack, another with a broken leg.  Secondly, the damning figures were announced: only 50% of climbers make it to the top.  Our last meal in Rivertrees, a nearby hotel in Arusha, was suffused with tension as we sat around the big, round table, glancing at each other with quiet, nervous smiles.  The banter of that morning seemed inappropriate as night fell.

Through the tropical zone

The next morning, disaster strikes.  I have diarrhoea, or the Zanzibar revenge, which over the course of the first day's trekking does its best to hamper my appetite, drain me of all bodily fluids and utterly exhaust me.  However, I soldier on without whingeing - the price for this heinous crime in this macho group (with thirteen of the most rugged men alive) being testicular excision - and, in a reversal of fortune, lunch seems to bung up the dreaded shits, and I begin to enjoy the trekking through the tropical zone, clambering over strange projectile roots, dodging hanging creepers and avoiding slippery moss.  The Machame campsite turns out to be a big success.  We arrived to tents already set up, and a fantastically huge, yellow Geodesic Dome, or mess tent, nicknamed the Mother Ship in which group meals are eaten throughout the climb.

Volcanic dust and bare rock

Trekking continues the next day through a landscape of volcanic dust and bare rock, with wildlife becoming ever more sparse.  A short, steep ascent for the day ends quickly at Shira Camp and group morale is high; our legs, energy and stamina looking good, feeling strong.  Poor Jeremy Sheldon, whose foot is swollen with nine sea urchin spines embedded and infected, is inspected by six different consultants with six different diagnoses and with six different prescriptions - medical opinions from those desperately unqualified and uniquely ill-placed to deal with foot problems.  I sympathise with him not knowing which way to turn, as I had the same problem when I had diarrhoea!

Day Three brings up a literal high point for most of the group after a fantastic lunch of exotic salads and delicious fruits - all lugged up the mountain by our terrific support team of 44 porters.  Only Chris Anderson looks unwell, who, perhaps a little naively, is not taking Diamox to combat the Acute Mountain Sickness which can hit anyone, no matter how young, fit and athletic, and is the dangerous foe that we will be facing as we approach Lava Tower today - at 4630m, higher than almost anywhere in Europe.  By lunch Chris' visage has a deathly pallor and with severe appetite loss and a cracking headache, he descends to camp, accompanied by Richard Macaire, a cautious fellow, made nervous by the banter, the altitude and Chris' predicament, while the rest of us move onwards and upwards in our bid for Lava Tower before descending to sleep low with Chris and Richard.  Reaching Lava Tower is a great moment.  The spectacular scenery is all the more enjoyable for the sense of achievement; much mutual celebration and self congratulation takes place, and an overwhelmingly positive mood pervades the Barranco camp that night.  Chris, however, looks nervous about the effects of altitude, worried he will let the team down, and a little annoyed that everyone except him had such a great day - much as I felt on the first day.

A twelve hour climb

We brace ourselves to leave camp early on day four for a twelve-hour climb to the high camp, Barafu, a notorious hell-on-earth.  A long, steep walk uphill lasts all morning before a welcome lunch, and Chris, now on Diamox and steroids, appears on good form and experiences less altituderelated problems.  After lunch a biting cold wind sets in, and despite having tramped along for what seems like days, we are told there are still six hours to go. dead with fatigue, we see the final ridge.

Clambering over the top we see another on the horizon, and with a groan trudge on.  This deceptive, mirage-like process continues for about ten ridges, every one a false peak.  Much swearing and cursing accompanies the worn-out line of trekkers.  When we finally arrive, we are too tired to allow our achievement to sink in.  We realise we have six hours before the next and final twelve hour assault on the peak, starting at midnight.  Hunched up against the cutting cold in our tiny sleeping bags, we try to get to sleep.

The final assault

We all sleep badly, but I honestly do not sleep a wink.  Tossing, turning, with the sheer quantity of volcanic dust enforcing constant sips of water and with the diuretic Diamox inducing frequent getting up and urinating, all mean that any rest is impossible.  Annoyed, I wake up at midnight and the team congregates in the Dome.  I will never forget the nervous energy that crackles around inside that tent like electricity.  Some silently and mentally prepare themselves, some psyche up the team, some try to crack jokes, but the atmosphere that overwhelmingly pervades is one of extreme tension and apprehension.  During the muted breakfast, I personally feel nervous but excited, worried I will let the team down but paradoxically convinced that this is not an option.  I am also worried for my Dad, whom I have prevented from sleeping with my restlessness: he has lost his appetite, is not pre-hydrating and is not as vociferous and inspiring a leader as usual.  With these converse and mixed emotions I set off.

The odds this far have been stacked against us. Chris has been disastrously affected by altitude, Jeremy by the stubborn sea urchin spines.  I feel drained of all stamina and energy by the effects of the diarrhoea from the first two days.  I feel as if I have had no food because of appetite repression.  I am exhausted by the twelve-hour climb and the impossibility of sleep.  But there is one thing in my favour. I am determined. I have decided I am going to get to the top.

From here on it is a battle that your mind must win against the mountain and against your own body, which is screaming, every inch of it, that you must go down.  Whereas the first four days, it is a team game, now you have to concentrate on getting yourself up the mountain, and it is an intensely personal experience.

My experience is of forcing myself onwards and upwards.  I keep the pace relatively well for four hours, staying with the main group, and overtaking a highly competitive and efficient band of Germans, which is a great boost to morale.  The tiredness sets in about 5 o clock in the morning. I am finding it enormously difficult to keep my extraordinarily heavy eyes open, after the lack of sleep, and to keep placing one foot in front of the other, after the intensive walk of just a few hours ago.  I fall behind the main team, and the Germans overtake me.  I find myself alone, isolated and tired, unsure of the best route to pick my way up the shale.  It is dark and extremely cold.  Luckily I am rescued by Lawrence, the head guide, who appears out of the night to save me and the day.  My exhaustion limits me to a crawling pace, pervades every sinew of my body, and is exacerbated by low oxygen and the slippery volcanic scree and shale, which make each uphill step a struggle.  Lawrence hauls and prods me along, alone, and finally I reach Stella Point.  All that is left is the hour-long walk to Uhuru Peak.  Gritting my teeth, I am experiencing tiredness on a scale I never would have thought possible.

Suddenly, after an eternity of struggle against the mountain, I reach it.  I am there! I have beaten the mountain into submission.  It takes a long time to sink in, but when it does, it is the thrill of pumping adrenaline and the elation of unbelievable achievement.  With all the odds stacked against me, I have triumphed through sheer will power, determination and refusal to succumb to low oxygen, high altitude and extreme fatigue.  The crater and glacier stretch below me. I feel on top of Africa.  I have conquered Kilimanjaro!

Despite the final ascent being more of an individual struggle, what made the trip such a success - and indeed how we got to the top - was the absolutely phenomenal group effort and team spirit.  All fourteen of us achieved our goal: an exceptionally remarkable and unusual result, considering the 50% prediction.  Everyone, without exception, was determined not to let the team down and not to let themselves down.  We wanted it for each other and for all of us, and for the Prostate Research Campaign UK, as much as for ourselves.

Someone once told me that when you climb Kilimanjaro, the biggest thing you take away with you is the group of people you did it with.  This is true. I genuinely couldn't have wished for a better team to be with.  I doubt I will ever get a similar team, so diverse yet with a common aim, united by their goal, their determination and their leader.  The bonding and banter of the first four days, and afterwards, is something I will never forget, despite not knowing anyone beforehand.  Over the course of the ascent, sheer determination, against all the odds and against all adversity, and an irrepressible desire to push to the limit meant that individually and as a team we achieved enormously.  All the jokes aside, a well-focussed, well-driven and well-led team is what I will take away from this trip.  Everyone got up - 100% success - and that just doesn't get any better.

To add icing to the cake we raised £287,000 for the cause, and had the opportunity to present a giant cheque to The Duchess of Gloucester at the Annual Luncheon at the Savoy in October.  All in all a wonderful experience.  I wonder what my Dad is cooking up for us next year?  Rumours of a jungle trek in Borneo have surfaced, or could it be Mount Ararat in search of the Ark.

The Climbers

Mr Christopher Anderson
Mr Michael Bailey
Mr Alistair Dick
Mr John Dick
Mr Andrew Etherington
Professor John Fitzpatrick
Mr Jonathan Kirby
Professor Roger Kirby
Mr Richard Macaire
Mr Roger Plail
Mr Jeremy Sheldon
Miss Julia Wallace
Miss Sophie Wallace
Mr Rex Willoughby