Not quite on top of the world

Mount Kinabalu, Sabah
22 Sept

I've just had an experience. Not really a nice one, but a certainly a memorable one. I climbed the highest mountain in the Malaysian archipelago - Mount Kinabalu - at 4101 metres. That's about half as high as Everest, but is still high enough to make its own (bad) weather and produce the effects of altitude in those who reach the higher section.

Kinabalu is a big money spinner for the nation - it costs about £100 for a pass to climb it, a basic dorm bunk two thirds of the way up, a 'guide' to make sure you stick to the path, and a plethora of meals at the odd times of the day needed to make the traditional attempt to reach the summit at sunrise. And, as it's more of a severe hike than a climb (with ropes to guide you over the higher stages to the peak), there are plenty of people who feel the urge to stand atop a big peak and have their image taken looking tired but triumphant as the shadow of the mountain stretches across the South China Sea.

My own attempt was less glorious. We arrived a day early at our hotel just outside the national park (the mountain's flanks are a protected area with zillions of rare or unique species, including orchids, pitcher plants and flying lemurs). Soon after, the clouds enveloped us and a heavy rain started lashing around in the strengthening wind. As I was out looking for a good walking stick to cut from the roadside, I got my first taste of what Kinabalu had to offer.

I had no option the next day but to turn up for my climb as I was booked in and you can't change the booking or get a refund once it has been paid. At 8 or so in the morning, the rain had stopped but it was still cloudy and blustery. I was allocated a guide - a young and incommunicative Malaysian woman they said was called Mrs Connolly - before collecting my ID card and pack lunch and then climbing into the shuttle minibus to the foot of the mountain.



















The climb started the wrong way: downhill. But only for 200 metres or so before it realised the error in its ways and started rising into the swirling cloud. I quickly realised that my guide was a lot slower than me, and after a few attempts at waiting for her, I got bored and just walked at my own pace up the well-maintained path and into the increasingly wild weather. Climbers coming down offered little encouragement, pointing out somewhat pointlessly that the weather wasn't very good, and more usefully that the peak was closed as the high winds made it too dangerous. I wasn't going to give up yet, but it wasn't looking good.

The guide book had mentioned figures of three to six hours to climb to the overnight stop at the start of the Panar Laban rock face at 3350 metres, and I'd reckoned I'd be in the five hours or so category, being a bit overweight and not used to climbing mountains at altitude; that's why I had started so early in the day. Well, I arrived stupidly early in about three hours and 20, despite breathless episodes caused by the altitude. Mrs Connolly, it turned out, was somewhere far below me in the mist. I headed for my allocated and unheated hut, Gunting Lagadan.

During the day, all my base layers had become either soaked with sweat from my exertions or from the rain that had leaked into my small rucksack during the ascent. So I was left wearing a lightweight raincoat and a very light hooded fleece that I'd deliberately chosen for not being too hot (well I was heading to the tropics, after all). And as I was at 3200-odd metres, I quickly froze.

Stamping around and stuffing down my pack lunch and some odd yellow Chinese buns I'd brought with me, I tried to get warm; to no avail. I was shivering uncontrollably and my hands were tingling and pale yellow in colour because of poor circulation - not something I have ever previously suffered from.

I hoped Mrs Connolly would have some solution, but she just didn't show up. The minutes turned into hours, but there was still no sign of her and I was becoming increasingly desperate. I was too cold and had little hope of spending the night or making the summit in that state without getting more clothing or finding somewhere warmer to stay.

The young lads who were cleaning up the hut offered little hope; they spoke hardly any English, but did have enough to confirm my worry that the weather would be unlikely to improve overnight. Outside, the wind was still violently whipping cloud and rain around and I became very disheartened. Eventually, lacking any moral support, I decided to go back down and give up on the attempt to reach the peak.

As I passed through the small settlement of huts and back onto the path towards to my loving family and a change of clothing, I met Mrs Connolly - just arriving with some Japanese girls, some two hours after me! I muttered I'd had enough and was going down. Looking a bit confused, she nodded, and I went on down the hill feeling upset at myself for A) giving up and B) not having hired or borrowed a warmer jacket.

But then, 10 minutes down the hill, something magical happened. A break appeared in the cloud and I saw a patch of blue sky. I decided to go back up and see if I could survive the night.





















After 15 breathless minutes re-ascending, I was back at camp and met Mrs Connolly just starting to follow me down the hill. What had she been doing? Whatever, she seemed happy that I'd decided to stay. I told her that I'd been too cold earlier and she led me to a large guesthouse that I'd passed earlier on the way to my hut. Inside was a large and relatively warm café and reception where I should have announced myself on arrival but in the absence of a guide hadn't known about. It wasn't funny at the time...

For a 10 MR (£2) deposit I was given a key to my dorm and was told that the best thing was to stay warm in the café as long as possible, eat my prepaid dinner, and only go to the hut to sleep. My spirits lifted again and I knew I was staying.

After a warming pot of coffee, it was now about 1.30 pm and I started to realise how silly I'd been leaving first thing in the morning. The sensible thing, of course is to leave at midday and arrive in the late afternoon for supper and an early bed to make the 2.30 am (yes, two-thirty in the morning) breakfast before making for the summit. I, though, had four or five hours to while away in that café and I was still by no means warm - an electrical fault meant they had no heating, either.

Pretty soon I started to shiver again, though the occasional burst of sun through the window brought some relief and further hope that the summit would be open the following morning. Eventually, realising I'd never be able to dry out my damp T-shirts in time, I cracked and bought one of the overpriced 'I climbed Mt Kinabalu' T-shirts and a flimsy plastic 'emergency' raincoat to try and layer up some protection against the cold.

Somehow, through immense boredom and chilled misery, I made it to the suppertime buffet (avoiding the Frankfurter-like sausages which had reportedly made some other climbers violently sick) and then bed at about 6.30 pm where, to my surprise, I finally got warm and slept soundly.

At around 2 am, I was awoken by a French-sounding woman in another dorm excitedly telling everyone: 'The ranger says we can go, but we must be careful.' Not quite the words you want to hear when attempting a high mountain peak in the darkness, but hey, the climb was on.

The weather had cleared, but it was still pretty windy. I quickly dressed, relishing my dry pair of spare socks that had somehow escaped a soaking, walked back downhill to the restaurant and rushed down a cup of coffee and some toast with fried noodles and scrambled egg (I know, it was a bit odd). After waiting 10 minutes for Mrs Connolly to turn up, I left with her just behind me. Somehow, I expected her to match my slow pace up the hill towards the checkpoint and the roped path to the peak.

At the gate, the waiting official asked me: 'Where is your guide?' 'She's just coming,' I replied with some confidence. But she didn't appear. He trotted down the hill to see where she'd got to and found her struggling along I the darkness with no torch.

'Why doesn't she have a torch?' I asked, somewhat shocked (all the information you read about the climb stresses you must have a good head torch for the peak). He shrugged. So I lent her my small Maglite, which she did seem grateful for, and we set off accompanied by the official. At last here was a proper guide; he spoke English, was cheerful, could walk up the hill faster than a podgy tourist and generally seemed to know what he was doing. Sadly he stopped at the checkpoint cabin at the top of the first steep slope of Kinabalu's granite peak. At this point I also found out I was first up the mountain, so far.

I was determined not to leave Mrs Connolly after losing her in the dark. 'You go first,' I said, feeling a bit guilty. But as the cloud descended once more and the rain started lashing at our faces, I find myself hating her slowness. She was making me cold with long rests every few minutes. Pretty soon, I realised I had to go or I wouldn't make it. I now just wanted to make the peak and then get back down as soon as I could, sod the dawn. It wasn't going to be pretty anyway. At least being first up the rock gave me something to spur me on and as another climber's torch appeared not far behind, I left Mrs Connolly and disappeared into the mist.

Now, a complete amateur climbing with no guide in high winds, mist and rain on a 4000-metre peak might seem a bit foolhardy. But, one thing kept me safe: the rope trail that led to the top. Even so, I was pretty sure that I was being a bit mad forging on alone like that. But I couldn't stop. As the wind tore the 'emergency' rain coat from my back, I clawed my way higher and higher, and about an hour and a half after breakfast I came to a sign that read, I thought, 'Cow's Peak'. I new that the highest peak (there several) wasn't called that, but I couldn't recall its name. Any peak is good enough for me, I figured, and immediately turned back down the slope.

As I passed other climbers on the way up they'd ask: 'How did you do?' 'Oh, I only made it to Cow's peak, but I'm happy with that,' I'd respond and carry on. I met Mrs Connolly after 15 minutes or so, and she looked absurdly grateful when I gestured that I was going back down the hill.



















As dawn arrived, the granite contours of the mountain rose out of the mist and I became held up in a ghostly traffic jam of 'climbers' going back down the hill - many had only made it to the 8 km sign, and given up on the peak, some 500 metres higher.

After a quick coffee break at the guesthouse, Mrs Connolly and I started off down the hill. I was cold again and eager to get down to see Maja and the boys and get into some dry clothes. By now the weather had broken: the sun was piercing through the clouds and the rain had stopped, and I started to realise what a beautiful place I had been in for the last hellish 24 hours. The rocky head of Kinabalu was rising out of the forest with wisps of white cloud flowing like hair around its shoulders.















Walking in high spirits down the trail, Mrs Connolly surprised me with amazingly guide-like behaviour, actually understanding the words 'pitcher plant' and then leading me to some (which were spectacular). On the other hand, she then promised to show me some of the mountain's 1200 species of orchid, but forgot.















At the bottom of the mountain, after several hours knee-destroying descent, she asked me if I wanted a taxi, then disappeared without even saying goodbye.

A day later on our way to recover at the hot springs at Poring, Maja pointed out that the map has no bit of Kinabalu called Cow's Peak. The rope trail leads straight to Low's Peak, the very highest part of the mountain. I had made it to the top, first, and not even realised.