Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro with the Masters of the Forest

In August 2022, Daniel Scherer-Emunds moved to Tanzania to work with an organization for children with intellectual disabilities. A Chicago native with a passion for community building, Daniel quickly befriended a group of local tour guides who led hiking and safari expeditions throughout the country. The company, Lendimi African Safaris, shared Daniel’s enthusiasm for cultural exchange and environmental stewardship, promising to one day lead him on a journey to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro — Africa’s highest peak and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world. When a group of friends from the United States, including Travelzoo producer Jeff Kirshman, decided to join Daniel up the mountain, the decision to choose Lendimi to guide them was unanimous. But as the rest of the party soon learned, their trek would be anything but predictable. This is Daniel's story ...

*****

“Wow, we’re really doing this.”

As our group continued its march up the Machame Route, our eyes fixed on the silhouette of Mount Kilimanjaro’s snow-capped summit thousands of feet above, the gravity of the challenge we had undertaken began to sink in.

We were still coming to terms with the fact that we were in East Africa, let alone climbing one of the most iconic peaks on the planet. The appearance of Ocotea usambarensis and Impatiens kilimanjari — flora unique to the mountain's upper reaches — only heightened the otherworldly nature of our surroundings.

That was also around the time I started to feel it. My legs began to wobble, fatigue creeping into my muscles, and the Earth seemed as if it was tilting to the left. A dull pressure between my eyes soon followed.

Having lived in the Kilimanjaro region for the past 14 months, I’d heard plenty of stories from my Tanzanian friends about mountain quests gone wrong. Altitude sickness, they explained, has a way of sidetracking even the most seasoned hikers, ending their dreams of reaching the top prematurely. 

Still, I never accounted for how quickly the effects would set in. Kilimanjaro’s popularity derives in part from its relative accessibility compared to the rest of the Seven Summits. Scaling the mountain requires no specialized climbing skills or equipment. It is, quite literally, a long walk to the top — just steady determination to put one foot in front of the other. 

At least that’s what the internet had led us to believe.

“There is nothing technical about Kilimanjaro,” my friend Nelson Nanyaro assured us prior to our trip, “but it does require respect,” — a point he would emphasize throughout our journey. A founding member of Lendimi African Safaris and the lead guide on our expedition, Nelson, 38, had a knack for projecting calm even while acknowledging the mountain's hazards.

Nelson handed me some medicine and encouraged me to drink more water as we reached Shira 2 Camp for our second overnight point, 12,600 feet above sea level. A short acclimatization walk was next, adhering to the principle of “climb high, sleep low" to help our bodies adjust to the thinning air. We set down our packs to find our bearings and appreciate the scenery without the extra weight, the vast expanse of highland wilderness spreading out into the distance.

The climb to the summit was meaningful to each of us, with a range of motivations driving our pursuit. For some, hiking Mount Kilimanjaro represented a bucket-list accomplishment — a chance to test their limits while immersing themselves in the grandeur of the natural world. For others, it was a pilgrimage of sorts — an opportunity to reclaim a sense of freedom that had become absent from daily life.

The six of us grew up together, united by youth sports, sleepovers, school projects and a lifetime of inside jokes. Now on the other side of 30, with careers, marriages and one of us with twins on the way, Kilimanjaro represented a chance to rediscover the spirit of adventure that had always defined our friendship.

Looking inward, the experience took on a deeper significance as I retraced the steps of my Tanzanian journey. After spending more than a year looking up at Kilimanjaro’s majestic profile from the comfort of my residence in Moshi, finally being on the mountain felt like not only a personal achievement but a symbolic embrace of the life I had built here away from home. 

As for Lendimi, while the team hiking with us had collectively climbed Kilimanjaro more times than they could count, this would be a different type of first: a chance to wave a new company flag at the summit. 

After years of working for larger tour operators, Nelson and his crew had gone out on their own, compelled by a desire for greater autonomy and the opportunity to create better working conditions for their employees. They were the bosses now, and it was a role they seemed to relish: to be the ones showing clients like us their home, without any foreign interference.

“We are trying to make this an experience about Tanzanians as people, and not just an experience where you fly in and fly out without interacting with the people who make up the community,” said Amana Mbise, a childhood friend of Nelson’s and another founding partner of Lendimi.

“We want to show people that we are more than just the animals,” he continued. “We want to show that we have culture beyond what people normally think of our home. We want to dispel these myths of a romanticized Africa.”

*****

The camp was unrecognizable when we returned. 

In less than 30 minutes, the team of porters who comprised the Lendimi operation had transformed the barren patch of land we’d left into a comfortable and welcoming home. Sleeping tents were erected, camp chairs assembled and a mess tent constructed, complete with a table, place settings and even a tablecloth.

We marveled at the efficiency of the Lendimi crew, unable to imagine how all of these items had made their way up the mountain on the porters’ backs. These men, all from the Meru tribe of the nearby Arusha region, carried upward of 33 pounds each in supplies, some darting past us on the trail as we struggled to gain altitude with our much lighter loads. Their constant chatter as they raced by only served to accentuate the gulf in our physical abilities.

Leading up to our trip, we had told Nelson we wanted a “budget, but safe,” tour package. The six of us fancied ourselves experienced and self-sufficient hikers, and we hoped to reduce costs by carrying most of our gear.

But the mountain humbles you quickly. Our three guides, two chefs, a server and 12 porters might have seemed excessive at first, but they were all crucial components to a successful climb. As I sipped tea and ate a hot meal prepared by Pacha, our lead chef, who specialized in high-altitude cuisine, I was reminded of how fortunate we were to have Lendimi leading the way. 

“Pole, pole," Nelson reminded us at dinner as we measured our progress that evening — a Swahili mantra that became the drumbeat for our ascent.

“Slowly, slowly,” we repeated.

The mountain demands patience, Nelson said. Only by pacing ourselves and listening to our bodies could we hope to make it to the top. 

*****

Growing up in Arusha, Nelson and Amana learned from an early age how tourism could extract value from their home while overlooking the needs of local communities. Like many young Tanzanians, Nelson entered the tourism industry as a porter to earn money for school, carrying heavy loads for large operators who prioritized profit over the welfare of their employees.

“The profits don’t even go to the locals,” Nelson said from his home in Arusha, explaining that the industry is dominated by foreign-owned companies. These operations, he explained, often exploit local workers who lack the means to advocate for better treatment, all while funneling the bulk of their earnings back to their home countries.

Roughly 15 percent of safari companies in Africa operate under Black leadership, while the labor force throughout the continent is over 90 percent Black, according to the 2023 documentary “Hidden in Plain Sight.” This disparity results in a pattern of economic inequity so severe the UN estimates that for every $100 (USD) a tourist spends on a vacation to Tanzania, only $5 remains in the country.

Nelson had ideas about what more money spent within the country could buy: better meals for porters, newer gear and tents, and, of course, higher pay for the workers, who tend to earn enough to survive but not to improve their circumstances.

“Even if the clients give very good tips, the money doesn’t reach the porters,” Nelson said. “The distribution to the end person isn’t there.”

It doesn’t take a trip 19,341 feet up into the clouds to start questioning the fairness of such an arrangement. These local workers know they’re being exploited. But with tourism accounting for the country’s third-largest source of employment, at more than 850,000 jobs, according to UN Tourism, few feel empowered to push back. 

“Mountain guides, safari drivers, porters — everyone who works in tourism wants to have their own company,” Nelson said. Completing the steps necessary to follow through on that desire, though, comes with its own set of challenges.

“I can think of so many companies where the locals are there just to fulfill a government requirement, because you cannot start a company on your own if you're not from Tanzania,” Nelson said, allowing a rare moment of disappointment in his voice. “You must have a partner from the country, a local person. But it isn’t a true partnership. All of the profits remain to the owner who is a person from outside the country.”

Listening to Nelson speak, I couldn’t help but think of the well-intentioned tourists who flock to Tanzania every year with hopes of supporting local communities, only to unknowingly perpetuate a system that redirects resources away from its residents.

It was a point Lendimi had made clear from the start: The money we spent on this trip wouldn't just pay for the logistical details that made the journey possible. It would also help create generational wealth for the Tanzanians entrusted with our care.

“We are working toward something bigger than ourselves,” said Emanuel Nnko, another Lendimi director. “Our neighbors, our families, our children: We are supporting all of them. We are trying to be good role models to everyone and show that it is possible to succeed.”

*****

Long before its aspirations as a tour company, the project that would eventually become Lendimi started as a conservation effort focused on reforestation and sustainable agricultural practices. 

Safaris and mountain treks were never at the core, Amana said, but rather adornments that could drive revenue to fund their greater vision. “The thing is, we never planned to start a business,” he said, laughing. “The idea of the company was conservation: Environmental conservation as well as cultural conservation. We really weren’t prepared for the scale of business it would become.”

This commitment to conservation can be traced back to Amana and his brother, Emmanuel “PJ” Mbise’s, father, who imparted a strong environmental ethic to his children. Cutting down trees, in one regard, was a necessity. It meant having enough timber to pay school fees, buy food, and fuel fires to cook meals and keep their homes warm. But it also came at a heavy price to the land: a distillation of the same tension that has unfolded across Tanzania’s broader conservation landscape. 

At a smaller scale, PJ said, the solution was simple. “My father made sure that if I cut down one tree, then I must plant many trees to replace it,” said PJ, another Lendimi director. “If you plant more trees, you can cut as many as you want. Just keep planting, keep planting and you will find in time that there is still plenty of shade.”

It was a lesson he took to heart. Before long, PJ was spending his free time sprinkling seeds throughout the villages of Meru, restoring the landscape so others could benefit from the same resources that cultivated his own upbringing. Eventually, he earned a master’s degree in environmental management and partnered with local miners to reduce the environmental impacts of their operations and protect the rights of workers and the community. 

Amana, meanwhile, left for the United States to pursue a degree in social work. The connections he made while living in Alaska, where he now teaches at the University of Alaska Anchorage, would lead to some of Lendimi’s earliest clients. 

“‘Plant a tree, leave a life behind.’ That's the motto,” Amana said. “Trees helped our father go to school, and the same was true for us.” 

In largely self-sufficient village life, the sustainable use of natural resources becomes crucial to survival. Education is not free in Tanzania, and outsized school fees can be a barrier to enrollment. It is not uncommon for families to pay for basic needs through odd jobs just to put food on the table.

“For the Meru people, the first connection is to the land,” Amana said. “You do everything to conserve it and to protect it, because it takes care of all of us.” 

PJ recalled a moment as a teenager when he returned from school to find his father waiting with 300 quinine seedlings ready for planting. “Because I was young, at first I didn’t want to do it because it consumed most of my time,” he said with a knowing smile. “I wanted to hang out with my friends.”

But PJ did as he was told. He took the seeds, planted them where his father instructed and waited for them to take root. A couple of decades later, that small grove of trees has grown into a lush forest, providing shade, shelter and sustenance for the Seela villagers — a physical manifestation of the family’s commitment to the land. 

“Today, if you look at them, they are big trees,” PJ said. “Sometimes I go to the farm and just look at them and think about where they started and how they’ve grown.”

*****

The trail got busier as we approached Barranco Camp on the third night of our ascent. 

There are seven routes that lead to Uhuru Peak, the summit of Kilimanjaro, all of which feed into one of three base camps. This convergence leads to a bottleneck the farther you go. Weaving through the thickening crowds, our expedition didn’t feel quite as special anymore. The relative solitude we’d enjoyed up to this point had come to a close.

Tourist arrivals in Tanzania increased to a record-breaking 1.8 million visitors in 2023, according to the Bank of Tanzania, reporting record growth in forex earnings to the tune of $3.4 billion. The Tanzania National Business Council, meanwhile, forecasts that the share of tourism in the country’s GDP will reach 19.5 percent in 2025 — a surge that could invite increased foreign investment and further entrench the dominance of foreign-owned operations.

While the injection of capital has benefits, there are concerns about costs that could arise if this growth isn’t managed carefully. President Samia Suluhu Hassan and her administration have welcomed the international spotlight more than her predecessors, speaking openly about a “tourism reboot” and the desire for more five-star hotels. 

The directors of Lendimi, though, expressed trepidation that these trends could strain the delicate ecosystems that make visiting Tanzania so appealing.

“The government is targeting 5 million tourists per year, but we are now receiving about 1.5 million and the pressure is already so high,” PJ said. “You go to the parks like Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater during the high season, and it is very crowded. We stress the animals.” 

"At Lendimi, we are responsible for protecting the resources from which we are benefiting," Amana added. "As we operate, we want to ensure that the environment is healthy so that it can continue to produce its services."

*****

Back on the mountain, surrounded by herds of foreigners like ourselves, this influx of hikers invited comparisons among the different tour operators. 

How many porters did they have? Were they having more fun than us? What were they eating?

Tanzanians pride themselves on their legendary hospitality, embodying the Swahili phrase wageni ni baraka (“guests are a blessing”). That heartfelt care was evident all around us on the mountain. But we wouldn’t have traded our time with Lendimi.

It wasn’t that our porters were faster or our camps more luxurious. If anything, we questioned whether we should have splurged on the mobile camping toilet some of the other operators had provided. 

What set Lendimi apart, we concluded, was the sense of camaraderie that permeated the entire experience — the feeling that no matter how transactional this relationship was in practice, we were free to connect on a human level. Our guides taught us Swahili phrases and told us about their families. They gave us personalized nicknames and played cards with us late into the night, long after their official duties were done for the day. 

Most importantly, they had control over how they wanted to run the expedition. 

“Some companies, they restrict us from having close relationships with the guests,” one of our porters, Robson Revocatus, said. “But Lendimi created a conducive environment where we were free to interact with you. There was a sense of love and unity and cooperation that I felt with Lendimi that was different from the other companies.”

Continuing up the mountain, our two additional guides, Michael and Israel, let another group pass us as we slowed down to observe Dendrosenecio kilimanjari, a prehistoric plant species found only on Kilimanjaro. Standing up to 30 feet tall, these Seussian plants resembled a combination of a pineapple and a cactus. The farther we continued, the more abundant and massive they became.

The majesty of the mountain was on full display. The trail continued downward, leading us toward the looming Barranco Wall, a steep ridge halfway up the south slope that would test our physical and mental fortitude the following day. We stopped frequently for photos and allowed ourselves to be mesmerized by the strangeness of our surroundings. 

A renewed sense of energy signaled that the acclimatization process was taking hold. We could feel our bodies growing stronger. Our slow, methodical pace was paying dividends.

Watching the sun dip behind the horizon, my friends and I took a moment to appreciate how far we’d come. The name “Lendimi” loosely translates to “Master of the Forest” in Maasai — Amana and PJ’s father’s name and a nod to the environmental stewardship that lies at the core of the family business. Hiking with Nelson and his team, I couldn’t think of a name more fitting. As long as they were with us, I knew we were in good hands.

The remaining journey to base camp would prove manageable, even enjoyable — a reminder that this was an experience meant to be savored, not rushed. 

The only step left was reaching the summit.

*****

“I don’t know, man. None of your stuff is performance. It’s all thrifted, so who knows.”

My tentmate, Sean, eyed my secondhand gear skeptically as I organized my bag for the summit push. Nothing like a vote of confidence from a friend the night before the biggest hike of your life.

I shook off his doubt and focused on the excitement of the opportunity ahead. In a few hours, we'd be leaving the blustery comfort of Barafu Base Camp under the cover of night, aiming for the highest point in Africa. 

After an early dinner and a power nap — or at least as close to one as our nerves would allow — Nelson and Michael gathered us for a final briefing. Tea and midnight bites were waiting for us as we huddled together in our wind-battered mess tent. The culmination of five full days of trekking would all come down to this next stretch.

“Most groups say, ‘One team, One dream,’” Michael said, his deep baritone cutting through the silence. Arms crossed with his legs planted in a wide stance, Michael’s commanding presence took on the quality of a general rousing his troops, or perhaps a coach the night before a big game. 

“But for us, it’s different,” Michael continued. He let his words hang for a moment, building anticipation. “Tonight, we say, ‘One team, One fight!’”

“One team!”

“One fight!”

“One team!”

“One fight!”

The chanting grew louder and more intense as the six of us scanned one other's faces, our expressions marked by a mix of nerves and determination. At the same time, a sense of calm washed over me. Our knowing glances served as a reminder that we were in this together.

Michael finished his pep talk and told us to meet him outside when we were ready. It was 11:50 p.m. — 10 minutes until showtime. I reached for my headlamp as everyone made their final preparations in silence. We didn’t need to say another word. 

*****

They say the reason most groups leave for the summit at night is so you can’t see how far you have to go.

Setting out into the darkness, the only light came from the stream of headlamps ahead of us. The cold night air bit at our skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and humidity down in Moshi. Our trekking poles clicked with each step as we navigated the uneven, rocky terrain.

In the mess tent, Nelson had emphasized the importance of wearing enough layers to keep warm but not so many that we'd overheat. Sweat was our enemy tonight, he warned, lest we risk the onset of hypothermia. It was also vital that we stay hydrated. Water, he reminded us, delivers oxygen to the body and helps prevent altitude sickness — a point that felt profound despite its painful simplicity.

The final climb to Uhuru Peak is the most grueling and high-risk portion of the entire trek. While the distance covered is manageable (3.1 miles), it is entirely vertical: an elevation gain of more than 4,000 feet. The path winds its way up a series of steep ridges and switchbacks over roughly six hours, zigzagging up to the crater rim 19,341 feet above the earth’s surface.

For a long while, we ascended in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts as the city lights of Moshi shined faintly from below. I smiled as I remembered it was Friday night, picturing my friends vibing to Amapiano music on the dance floor, cups full of Konyagi and Tangawizi in their hands. Looking up, the shadow of Kilimanjaro’s gargantuan peak loomed ominously above. 

Another reason most groups start at midnight is because the weather tends to be more stable and predictable. Lendimi timed our departure with intention and insisted on maintaining our cadence so we would arrive at sunrise, sometimes cutting the trail to overtake a larger group going slowly. “We don’t want to get stuck here,” Michael said, trusting us to match his pace.

Michael and Israel took turns leading the way, while Nelson brought up the rear, offering words of encouragement and checking on us periodically. One mile in, a porter unveiled a thermos of ginger tea and packages of cookies for a quick refueling break. Nelson promised we were making progress, even if we couldn't see the results. Off to the side, Israel stood silently carrying an emergency oxygen tank, though he’d assured us he never had to use it.

The higher we climbed, the harder it became to breathe. Repetitive steps blended into a hazy, rhythmic march — an endless ascent, one foot in front of the other, our bodies driven by sheer willpower as we pushed on through the darkness toward our goal. Though we had told ourselves the totality of the trip was what truly mattered, the singular focus of reaching the summit consumed our every thought. No one wanted to be the one who didn’t make it to the top.

The first rays of sunshine began to break over the horizon as we reached Stella Point — a milestone signaling that the summit was within our grasp. We were now 18,885 feet above sea level, with just 500 feet of gradual climbing toward the crater rim ahead of us. Michael looked at me and grinned. “We’re all going to make it,” he said in an excited whisper.

Hours earlier, as we set out into the darkness, the summit had seemed as elusive as it was foreboding. Now, as the first hints of dawn illuminated the world around us, the crater rim felt closer than ever before.

A hazy euphoria rushed over me as the sun crashed through the clouds and we continued our push to the top. The fear and fatigue that had consumed me just minutes earlier melted away, replaced by a magnetic force pulling us closer to our goal. 

The closer we got, the more the world around us seemed to transform from the harsh, unforgiving moonscape into something otherworldly and sacred. A giant but shrinking glacial wall stood broadly to the left, valiantly holding its ground against the threat of climate change. A massive volcanic crater revealed itself on the right, a portal to dimensions unknown. Everything about the landscape hinted at the reigning mysteries of the natural world. Surely, this couldn’t be the same planet I filed expense reports on.

Finally, the iconic wood-planked sign entered our view beneath a frosted metal flag of Tanzania. We had made it to The Roof of Africa.  

MOUNT KILIMANJARO

CONGRATULATIONS

YOU ARE NOW AT

UHURU PEAK, TANZANIA 5895M/19341FT AMSL

AFRICA’S HIGHEST POINT

WORLD’S HIGHEST FREE-STANDING MOUNTAIN

ONE OF THE WORLD’S LARGEST VOLCANOES

WORLD HERITAGE AND WONDER OF AFRICA

Time stood still. My exhaustion melted away. I looked around at my friends, their eyes wide and glistening, and brought them in for a joyous embrace.

I did my best to savor every moment, knowing that this once-in-a-lifetime experience would be forever etched into my memory. Putting the idea into words still feels inadequate. At first, you’re overwhelmed by the image of the mountain at sunrise — the way the light spills over the crater rim and dances across the glaciers — and the relief that the climb to the top is over. But then you’re also hit by the knowledge of where you are — standing atop Mount Kilimanjaro; the highest point in Africa; the tallest free-standing mountain in the world — and you’re struck by two feelings: (1) appreciation that such natural beauty exists in this world and (2) gratitude that you’re fortunate enough to experience it for yourself. 

I looked over at Nelson and wondered if he ever tired of seeing this view. This was the mountain he had grown to know so intimately over the years. The one that had shaped his life’s work. The one he hoped to share with others so they could discover its power for themselves.

Nelson nodded at me as I walked toward him, his face breaking into a smile.

“Time to take a photo,” he said.

Israel reached into his pack and pulled out the Lendimi flag as we gathered around to capture the moment. The camera clicked, locking the memory in place. Lendimi African Safaris had reached the summit, and we had, too — triumphant in our shared accomplishment. 

“Once we receive our guests, we want them to feel like they're a part of the locals. Like they are really part of the community,” Nelson later told me. “Tanzania might not be their country, but they should feel like they are home. To feel comfortable — that is what matters most.”

Standing at the summit, I understood what he meant. Lendimi had taken us in as if we were their own, guiding us with expertise and care through the most challenging experience of our lives. 

In the distance, thousands of feet below, a thicket of trees stood tall and resilient, eagerly awaiting our return.

To learn more about Lendimi African Safaris, visit their website. Connect with them on Facebook and Instagram, or contact them directly to start planning your own safari or mountain trekking adventure.