Words and Photos: Mary McIntyre 2017-12-11 21:08:32
If I’d heard the term “African glacier” a year before, I’d have assumed it was a joke. Then Brody Leven, a friend and ski mountaineer, invited me on a trip to Uganda’s Rwenzori Mountains—a ski trip, to the range’s Margherita Glacier.
Uganda is a country of 41.5 million, located in the east-central part of the continent, and the Rwenzori massif protrudes from the vast equatorial jungles in Uganda’s southwest corner. It is home to Margherita Peak, at 16,763 feet the country’s highest mountain and the third tallest in Africa. Add in 18 other peaks over 15,000 feet, and the range forms a natural border between Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). Along with Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya, the Rwenzori also hold some of the continent’s only glaciers.
Margherita Peak is remote, but climbed enough to support two guiding services, including the one we have enlisted, Rwenzori Trekking Services. The rest of the range remains largely unexplored. The Ugandan side has seen closures as recently as 2001, as the Allied Democratic Forces, a separatist rebel group, long operated out of the remote mountain valleys. The DRC side remains closed indefinitely; A Hutu extremist group, a remnant from the Rwandan genocide, still wanders the range’s eastern jungles.
Past conflicts aside, our chances on the Margherita are quickly fading—or, more accurately, melting. In 1906, the range contained 43 named glaciers, covering more than 2.9 square miles. By 2006, the remaining four glaciers covered less than 0.4 square miles. As far as skiing potential, the only firsthand beta we could find came from a ski mountaineer more than a decade before. She described four turns worth of skiable snow, on a different glacier.
It didn’t inspire much hope. As our group—Brody, Kasha Rigby, Robin Hill and myself—packed a few days earlier, we tempered our expectations to simply exploring the fabled Rwenzori Mountains.
Now, three days into our journey, we have added a vandal attack to our list of uncertainties. I finish brushing my teeth and return to the cabin and my makeshift mattress of macheted bushes. Starlight pours through the large hole burned in the roof, and I count constellations before drifting off to sleep.
Two days before, we were making the eight-hour drive from Uganda’s capital of Kampala to the farming and mining town of Kilembe. The capital’s chaotic mess of humanity—the city has a population of more than 2 million—soon gave way to rolling tea fields, then patchwork farms and villages. The road ends at Kilembe, where we were greeted by our guides, Enock and Edison, as well as John Hunwick, owner of Rwenzori Trekking Services.
Hunwick is a spirited Australian expat in his late 60s, who first traveled to Uganda after serving in the Air Force. As he led us to the company’s hostel for the night, he told us how he was taken by the mysterious terrain of Rwenzori Mountains National Park, and became determined to build a hut system accessing Margherita Peak. His plans were approved by the Ugandan government in 2009, and Hunwick hired 400 locals to cut trails and build bridges, ladders and structures, all by hand. The work was finished in 2010, and RTS opened for business.
The next morning, we followed Enock through town. Thatched huts, covered with drying coffee beans on giant tarps, lined our route. Butcher stands offered sheep and goat meat, while bunches of bananas hung outside simple storefronts. Chickens and cows wandered freely, and us four muzungus—Bantu for “foreigners”—drew confused looks. Skis aren’t a common sight here.
A woman carrying a large basket by a strap across her forehead asked us where we were going. “Margherita Peak,” I said. She nodded. That is where all the visiting foreigners go. “And you?”
“Home,” she answered, smiling and sticking out her tongue. Sweat glistened across the bridge of her nose, and I realized her basket was likely much heavier than my load of ski gear. She sped away, and soon disappeared up the steep trail.
Civilization continued as we climbed. Coffee plants, laden with purplish berries, curved overhead, and piglets and ducks wandered over from clay-brick homes. Children popped up everywhere, shouting singsongy “Hel-los!”
Then we reached the border of the park, and all that ended. A guard sat at the gate, nothing behind her but wilderness. She pushed a giant record book across the table for us to sign and state the purpose of our visit. My friends mimicked past entries, scrawling “trekking.”
I paused. “To hell with that,” I said. “I’m here to ski!”
Our A-framed skis forced us to duck and weave to avoid hanging vines. Monkeys screeched in the canopy as we bounced over suspension bridges, and Enock stopped to pluck a three-inch-long chameleon from a bush and drop it on Brody’s red-shirted shoulder. We marveled as the conical-eyed lizard turned a rosy hue. Enock explained that mountain elephants, duiker (pygmy deer) and leopards used to live here, but are now rare due to poaching.
There are still plenty of footlong, psychedelic-colored earthworms, which roiled on the trail as we climbed toward the Sine Hut, a small wood cabin and our evening’s accommodations.
Ten hours later, we followed Enock up a steep, stairstepped section of trail, ducking through thick corridors of bamboo. Up and up, past trees encircled by human-sized moss growths and sour blackberry bushes.
After one cliff, scaled via a fixed, 15-foot-tall metal ladder, Edison announced it was “rubber boot time.” On the map, the zone is marked “vertical bogs,” a terrain designation unique to the Rwenzoris. The range receives nearly 10 feet of rain annually, creating unavoidable sections of deep organic goop. Massive giant lobelia and groundsel, species of succulent plants, burst from the muck in twisted shapes, reaching to more than 10 feet tall. If Dr. Seuss’ imagination sprouted a forest, this would be it.
We soon reached a broad valley, lined with white-striped cliffs and clogged with more mud holes. A suspension bridge, made of wooden boards lined end to end, kept us above the mire as we crossed over to our next stop, RTS’s Mutinda Hut. We were ahead of schedule; it was only early afternoon, and Enock suggested we hike to Mutinda Lookout, reached by a trail more precipitous, root-web jungle gym than established route. Arriving at the lookout, we found ourselves floating in a sea of clouds until the sun burned off the haze. The 360-degree view stretched over lush mountain valleys, massive rock faces and deep black lakes. Other than the fog, we did not see a hint of white.
Light rain pattered on the fronds of giant groundsel, a soft contrast to the sound of our skis scraping on the rocks of the dry creek bed. Since we left Mutinda Hut after breakfast, the trail had been a mix of boulder-scrambling, stretches of boardwalk and grass tussock-hopping over the hungry mud. As we passed a lake, complete with floating moss islands, I noticed the familiar fins of glacial moraine rising from the otherwise-smooth valley floor. This was all once covered by ice, I realized.
By midafternoon, the final stunted trees faded and the vast African alpine stretched above. The peaty, montane moorland had a similar feel to the heights of the Wasatch, with moss, lichen and stubby heather plants sprouting between marshy bogs. After days in the confines of the jungle, the open air seemed especially refreshing.
During the hike, we had heard reports of a fire near Bugata Camp, RTS’s next established hut. After winding along a granite shelf overlooking the valley, we found the porters sitting dejectedly near the scorched remains of the five permanent canvas tents that had once made up the camp. The solar battery and silverware had been stolen, and a hole burned through the roof of the porters’ quarters. Clearly a case of arson, our porters feared the culprits might return. Or could be armed and waiting ahead.
The language barrier made it hard for us to gauge the likeliness of those possibilities, but Enock was certain the competing guiding company was to blame, as they’ve been angry about RTS’s success. But Congolese rebels also once frequented this area. Maybe they’d come back.
For RTS, it was a terrible blow. Weeks’ worth of labor, and thousands of dollars of supplies and wages had just been swallowed by flames. Four porters cautiously investigated an emergency hut on the next pass, but it had also been burned. Speculation ran amok. They wondered if the two huts between us and the summit had suffered the same fate.
Enock suggested we return to the Mutinda Hut to consider our options, but our group gingerly explained that if it was safe enough, we would happily rough it there. Enock conceded to our request. Besides, our satellite phone had died after getting off a distress text, leaving us without further information. “If we are going to suffer, we suffer here,” Enock said. “We will stay.” He shrugged off his pack and set to clearing ashes from the porter’s quarters. A few others cut bushes for makeshift mattresses.
Two armed rangers showed up before dark, wielding automatic weapons and looking official in crisp Ugandan Wildlife Authority uniforms. After talking to the guides, they took positions to watch the camp for the night—one of which was the guard I had seen while brushing my teeth, staring at the stars. In the hut, I squeezed alongside the three other muzungus and the 15 porters, settling in for a fitful night’s sleep.
Rain falls through the roof and beads up on my sleeping bag. Brody stands in the middle of the room, holding an umbrella and sipping tea. Kasha looks wide-eyed for having just woken up. “A mouse ran over my face last night!” she tells us. I can’t help but laugh.
Today, we’re waiting for news from Uganda’s army, the People’s Defense Force, and for more porters bringing in supplies. We spend the day wandering to nearby lakes and drinking too many cups of tea. By evening, Enock decides we’ll push onward tomorrow. He’s convinced we’re up for adventure, but also wants to see how base camp has fared.
After a hearty breakfast, we pack our ash-covered belongings. The guides decide we’ll skip a camp to make up for lost time, summiting tomorrow. Stinging wind whips through the house-sized boulders on the way to Bamwanjara Pass. Hopefully, it will translate to snow higher up.
As we reach the pass, a break in the clouds reveals two small glaciers, white diamonds on a distant ridgeline. We’d expected something strange, maybe icy masses cascading into thick African jungle below. But the glaciers resemble those in North America.
We pass more lakes and bogs before arriving at the next camp, relieved to find it undisturbed. The terrain morphs from botanical garden to stony, mist-cloaked slopes, bare aside from tiny lobelia rosettes and brightly colored lichen. We zigzag toward a low pass under stunning peaks, before scrambling up the final ascent to Margherita Camp, at 14,714 feet.
The hut sits on a rock terrace, looking up at two gray, heavily crevassed bits of glacier nestled in the valley above. The ice seems close, but not skiable. Luckily, these aren’t our glaciers. Those are still out of sight.
As the sun sinks below a toothy ridgeline, the Milky Way once again rises. With luck, tomorrow we’ll be above that rocky horizon. Tonight, we’re just glad to have a complete roof above our heads.
The stars are still visible when we start the next morning. It’s 3:30 a.m., and our headlamps illuminate Enock as he traces a route of fixed rope-lines up a steep ravine. Our skis bang around awkwardly in the dark as we follow, eventually gaining the ridge leading to Stanley Plateau, our first glacier. The dirt-smeared ice is steep enough for ropes and crampons, and we eagerly transition into to the ski boots we’ve been carrying for nearly a week.
We’ve chosen to climb during the rainy season in hopes of snow up high, but Edison explains how climate change has thrown off the usual weather cycles. “It’s dry in the wet season, and wet in the dry season,” he says. There’s no fresh snow on the Stanley, and it takes us only 15 minutes to cross. “It took 40 minutes when I started guiding nine years ago,” Edison says as we step off the ice. “It’s melting so fast.”
We approach the toe of the Margherita Glacier, Edison leading with ice axes and crampons, warning of a barely bridged crevasse. After two roped-up pitches, we emerge from the clouds to see several inches of fresh snow coating the glacier—and barely covering a network of crevasses.
Thirty minutes later we’re wandering through 20-foot-tall rime formations. We scramble another 500 feet to the summit of Margherita Peak, the highest point in Uganda. The Congolese border runs right under our feet.
Our guides are not skiers, and are visibly nervous as we click into our bindings for the short-but-interesting descent. Strange formations break up the smooth corn, and Kasha ducks into an ice cave with a ceiling of frozen swirls. Brody hoots as he catches air off a bulge of rime, followed by Robin, and toward the bottom we navigate patches of gravel-pocked black ice, hop-turning to the rhythm of scraping metal edges. Soon the clouds blow in, enveloping us in flat light and a damp, jungle-scented breeze. It does nothing to dampen our giddiness.
Edison eventually joins us at the bottom, relieved. He was legitimately scared we might die. “I would tell the reporters that you flew off the end of the glacier, into the rocks,” he says, matter of factly, as we pull off our boots and load our skis for the trip back to camp.
Enock points to a ladder dangling off a cliff above. “Three years ago, we climbed down that onto the ice,” he says. “Now it is 50 feet in the air, and the glacier is a quarter-mile away.”
This stairway to nowhere is a sobering relic of how things used to be, and where they are going. Glaciologists estimate the Rwenzori will lose its remaining four glaciers in the next 20 years. The rest of our hike down is somber, but there’s no time to rest when we arrive. We have an hour to pack and continue to the lower hut, from which we’ll be commencing the two-day return journey the next morning.
After even such a short time in the African alpine, leaving is bittersweet. There are so many other mountains, valleys and glaciers to explore, and the jungle seems even more dense as we drop through the vertical bogs. Thunder rumbles overhead, and we lose elevation quickly, slipping downhill over wet boulders. The cozy, cedar-walled cabin of Sine camp is a welcome reprieve. It’s our last night with the crew, and over dinner we chat with Enock and Edison about their mountains. It’s powerful hearing how many changes they’ve seen in just nine years, and their worldview is wide for two guys living in rural Uganda. “Pollution, deforestation and too many people are causing our glaciers to shrink,” Edison says. “I hope if anything can be done to stop or slow climate change, the world will join hands and do it.”
I’m awoken by rain pounding on the metal roof. Over the next few hours, the sound of rushing water becomes our world, and the next river we reach is unbridged and in full flood stage. Two porters have made it across, but Edison is forced to pull Enock back after the water becomes chest-deep. The two crash through thick underbrush in search of a suitable crossing, throwing a rope to the porters on the other side to secure to a tree. We follow as the heavily laden porters maneuver across, the water pulling at our legs and rubber boots.
We’re soggy and tired when we reach the park gate, and immediately strip off our clammy rain gear after signing the registration book. Enock and Edison have brought fresh clothes to greet their wives, and enter Rilembe with proud smiles. They’ve returned from another successful summit, and—despite their reservations—the skiers they brought are still alive.
Just as it was leaving the alpine, I now have mixed feelings walking through the town, high-fiving the same children we’d passed eight days before. The Rwenzori Mountains and their glaciers are the highest and most stable source feeding the Nile River, and the primary water catchment area for local communities like Kilembe. With the glaciers melting and the weather patterns changing, the future of the watershed is uncertain, including the availability of water for drinking and farming.
John Hunwick worries as well, for both the residents and the future of his business. RTS has rebuilt its camps and is running trips again, and between the trail-cutting, hut-building and guiding, continues to provide jobs for the remote, indigent community. But John wonders how that will change with the glaciers gone.
In addition, the Chinese company that runs the nearby copper mines is talking about building a tram to the summit of Margherita Peak, which they envision would draw thousands of Chinese tourists into what is now unbroken wilderness. It’s difficult to know the viability of such schemes, particularly in a country where bribes are common and environmental protection limited.
But until then, Kilembe remains the end of the road, at the edge of a vast wilderness. The rains still fall, the rivers still rage, and the Rwenzoris remain untamed. In their mist-shrouded rocky heights, those tiny, dirty pockets of ice still stand, an African anomaly that represents both the beauty of what we have and the cost of what we stand to lose.
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