PWAC Victoria: Jeff Bateman, Writing Sample

The Reading Room

A Walk in the Clouds

by Jeff Bateman © 2000

The Alzheimer Society searches for hard truths in the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro during its annual fund-raising climbs. Published in Westworld magazine, Apr. 2001.

The wake-up call came at 11 p.m. Tanzanian time. Not that the Ascent for Alzheimer's team needed rousing. At 4,750 metres above the Serengeti plain, sleep is fitful at best, the simple act of inhaling a serious chore. Huddled in their thermal sleeping bags against the -15°C cold, the ten B.C. climbers had spent a restless few hours pondering the next critical stage of the journey. Behind them lay five days of slow hiking up the gentle slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro. It had been dusty, arduous work picking their way across a stark landscape that in no way resembled the picturebook savannah found in National Geographic. But the ascent so far had been relatively easy. The carbo-loaded grub--pasta, soup, "mystery meat" stews, power bars galore--was tasty and filling. And the support crew of 30 local porters had done all the heavy work in terms of carting gear and setting up camp. Now came the real test: A steep, 10-hour push for the 5,895-metre summit, undertaken in the dead of a moonless night so the climbers would be above the clouds for a breathtaking sunrise atop the highest peak in Africa.

As she struggled into five layers of Gore-Tex, fleece and down-filled gear, Joanne Sutton's thoughts were with her mother back home in an Ontario nursing home. Oryisa Sutton had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's dementia at 59. After battling the degenerative brain disease for a decade, the homemaker and mother of five was the merest shadow of her bright and lively self. Rather than dwelling on the sadness, resignation, guilt and anger that typically grips the families of Alzheimer's victims, her 39-year-old daughter had signed up in her honour for this, the third annual fundraising climb for the Alzheimer Society of B.C.

Physically, Sutton felt up to the challenge; six months of hard training had given her calves of steel. Instead it was the fear of the unknown that was spooking her. Mountains are associated as much with demons as gods, and evil spirits manifest in the symptoms of altitude sickness. Sure, the CKNW Vancouver radio broadcaster was used to heights after six years as a helicopter traffic reporter. Soaring over the city, however, never entailed the pounding temples and mild nausea she'd begun to feel a few days earlier. Like everyone else bracing themselves for the trek ahead, she knew that somewhere in the darkness lay the "wall"--that point where physical, mental and emotional exhaustion kick in hard. "I kept thinking, 'I'm a city girl, I want a warm bed, I'm not proud, somebody get me out of here!'," she recalls. "If not for my mom's situation and the fact we were all in this together, I wouldn't have had the strength to carry on."

Through the millennia, priests, shamen and mystics have routinely vanished up into the clouds, often returning with a radically changed perspective on life. At the height of European colonial power, pioneering mountaineers were driven by the romance of uncharted terrain and the honour of planting a country's flag atop a notable summit. The extreme sportsmen and women who now inch up giant ice formations and black tusks of granite--often in 100 km per hour winds and blinding snow storms--are a more complicated nut to crack. Jon Krakauer, author of Into Thin Air, the climbing equivalent of A Perfect Storm, notes that mountains have "always been a magnet for kooks, publicity seekers, hopeless romantics and others with a shaky hold on reality."

Kilimanjaro draws a different breed of loon. Of the world's famed "seven summits," it is the only one that doesn't require ropes, crampons and spiked boots. "Kili," as it's known, draws its share of armchair adventurers eager to "bang a peak" once in their lives. The touristy Marangu Route is a rutted track utilized by more than 10,000 climbers a year; it features outhouses, overnight shelters and even a few concession stands. Little wonder the trail is known by purists as "the Coca-Cola route." Tellingly, only one in 10 make it to the summit. Climbing too high, too fast, many fall prey to acute mountain sickness (AMS). Symptoms range from the mild (headaches, nausea, vomiting) to the much more severe (pneumonia, fatal cases of pulmonary or cerebral edemas).

"You just don't know how you'll handle altitude until you're on the mountain," says Ian Ross, executive director of Alzheimer B.C. "God forbid, but you could be that one in a million whose brain just pops." Ross was 51 when he climbed Kili as part of the first-year "risk assessment" trek in 1998. His claim to fame: "I was the first in the group to toss my cookies. That made me a hero because it gave everyone else permission to follow suit."

The idea of a fund-and-awareness-raising climb had first been proposed by J.P. Shason, who runs Gastown Printing in Vancouver. He was looking to relive some of his boyhood climbing adventures, he says, while doing so in a meaningful context. Shason lobbied his friend David Fraser, a prominent Vancouver lawyer and then-president of Alzheimer B.C. The cash-strapped society gets no taxpayer support and relies on private donations to fund its education and research programs along with a province-wide network of Alzheimer support groups.

Entertaining that inaugural team with unprintable rock'n'roll road stories was Bruce Allen, manager of Bryan Adams and Anne Murray. "That same drive that gets you ahead in life will get you to the top when you've bone-tired and ready to call it quits," says Allen, a self-described "triple A-type" personality. For his part, Fraser was on the verge of turning 60 and wanted "to show the world I could still cut it," he laughs. "Everyone has their own motivation, but for me it was a romantic, wonderful thing to do--a great challenge, but we had great people. Our guides were tremendous."

The template for the trip was mapped out by the late Jim Haberl, the renowned B.C. mountaineer, and his wife Sue Oakey. (Haberl and Dan Culver were the first Canadians to summit K2, which at 8,616 metres is the world's second-highest mountain; Culver died on the K2 descent, Haberl was the victim of a 1999 avalanche in Alaska). Steering clear of the Coca-Cola route, the pair opted for an isolated northern circuit up the dormant volcano. And by adding an extra day to the schedule for acclimatization purposes, they managed to escort the entire team to the top and back again. "After that," says Ross, "we knew we could throw the challenge out to all takers."

Following Haberl's death, Oakey has carried on as chief guide in memory of both her husband and her grandfather, an Alzheimer's victim. The 1999 team included Liberal Party of B.C. leader Gordon Campbell, his wife, Nancy, and their two sons, Nicholas and Geoffrey. Last August, two 10-person teams made the trip--one the lower mainland group that included Sutton, the other a "Team B.C." contingent that brought together the likes of Campbell River physician Larry Chen, Marcus von Albrecht of the B.C. Chefs Association and Merritt, B.C., forester Lennard Joe, son of the chief of the Shacken first nations band.

With more than a half-million dollars in the bank from these climbs, Alzheimer B.C. is looking for new challenges. While another crew is bound for Kilimanjaro in August, Oakey is also plotting a maiden voyage for two teams to Nepal to scale a peak adjacent to Mt. Everest. The requirements for prospective team members: the ability to both cover costs (about $6,000) and raise a minimum of $5,000 in donations; and a more than average level of fitness (Tanzanian park officials suggest you should be able to jog for a half-hour without undue strain).

Ian Ross didn't realize it until he was up in thin air himself, but the treks have strong analogies with the disease. "The definition of courage is grace under pressure, and that's the same if you're dealing with altitude sickness or the fog of dementia," he explains. "In both cases, there is an incredible journey involved. And like Jim and Sue told us from the start, it's the journey not the destination that's so powerful."

An hour into the summit ascent, Sutton knew she was in trouble. "I became very disoriented, confused and unsure of myself. Logic didn't apply. I had to put my full trust and respect into the other crew members. They told me what to do, when to drink water, when to sit down, when to go to the bathroom--everything. And that's when it really hit home: This is what Alzheimer's is all about."

Propped up and helped onwards by one of the African guides, Sutton kept trudging over the loose, ballbearing-like scree. At this point everyone was dealing with their own physical reactions to the height. The Swahili mantra of "poli, poli" (meaning "slowly") echoed through dazed minds that were having trouble putting one foot in front of the next. Gradually night faded into daybreak, and the lunar landscape was washed in pink, red and orange light. "The view was out of this world--you can see the curvature of the earth," says Sutton. "But frankly we were all having too much trouble breathing to pay much attention."

Inching along the rim of the crater through a series of switchbacks, the team finally made it to the 5,895-metre Uhuru Peak. "This is the ultimate moment," explains Oakey, "and it's always very emotional. A lot of people just start crying uncontrollably. Others sit there quietly and let it all sink in. There's some exultation, but not as much as you'd think. Especially for those directly touched by Alzheimer's, it goes way beyond conquering a mountain. There's a sense of having achieved something that's bigger than any personal accomplishment."

Sutton pulled on a T-shirt bearing a photo of her mum and dad, and posed for group photos with her exhausted teammates, whom she now describes as friends for life. After a half-hour at the summit, the much quicker descent was under way. Two days later, Sutton was joined by her fiancée for the second leg of the trip, a genuine holiday this time highlighted by a wildlife safari.

Returning to the west coast in early September, Sutton received news that her mother had taken a turn for the worse. And within a month there was a funeral to arrange. "It would have been so great to have told mum about Kili, but she didn't have a clue at the end--the summer of '99 was the last time she called me by name." She takes solace in the thought that the woman she remembers would have applauded her achievement. "She'd have known I was capable of it, but she'd have thought it was hilarious that I'd spend seven days on a mountain with no amenities, freezing cold in a tent. But above all, she'd have been proud. It's something she'd have done herself."

Jeff Bateman
| Author Profile | More Writing Samples |

Last updated: August 10, 2003 http://www.islandnet.com/pwacvic/batemn05.html