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the summit, where you climb high and sleep low. At this point, we are at 3 700 metres above sea level, having started at 1 879 metres at Marangu Gate.

      At dinner that evening Gugu and I sit diagonally opposite each other at the long table. I’m playing cards with a small group, while he chats to another group. During dinner, our expedition leader Sibusiso Vilane spends some time imparting words of wisdom about the way to gradually climb a mountain safely. He is one of the world’s most renowned climbers, having successfully scaled the Seven Summits (the highest mountain peaks of each of the seven continents). He’s also the first black man to do so. So whenever Sibusiso opens his mouth, it’s imperative that we all listen attentively. He addresses us regarding the following day’s hike to Kibo Hut, which he humorously refers to as Headache Camp. He advises us to slow our walking pace considerably, or we run the risk of experiencing high-altitude symptoms such as headaches and vomiting. He mentions that we’ll continue to walk in two groups, with the slower one receiving a one-hour head start. After Sibusiso wraps up his brief, Milly – who is sitting next to Gugs – calls out to me and casually informs me that she and Gugs have decided to join the slower group the following day. This comes as something of a shock. My husband is one of the fittest people I know, having completed his fourth Absa Cape Epic multistage mountain-bike race just three months previously, among numerous other challenging running and cycling events. He is a motorsport champion, the Fastest Brother in Africa, so it makes no sense for him to walk with the slower crowd.

      I turn to look at Gugs, only to be greeted with a blank stare. I then look at Milly and ask, “Why on earth would you do that?” Her response is quick. She tells me he’s not feeling well and that she too has been slow today, so the two of them will simply join the slower group and “take it easy”. I am not convinced – it doesn’t make sense to me, so I remind them that Sibusiso has just warned all of us to slow it down tomorrow anyway. I then add that if he’s not feeling well, an extra hour of sleep will do him good. After all, I’m his wife and I’m not comfortable with this young lady making decisions for my husband. But Milly doesn’t seem to get it.

      “We’re sticking to our decision,” she retorts.

      Highly irritated that this change of plan has been made without me, I force a controlled response. “Do what you feel is best for you – I know I need that extra hour of sleep.”

      Gugs has kept mum the entire time. Inside I am heartbroken. We’ve been planning this trip for so long; I’d imagined we would be taking every step of the way together. I have not expected this. Not wanting to cause a scene in front of everyone, I get up and walk out of the dining hall, straight to the bathroom to cry it out privately. In truth, I’m more than hurt – I’m shattered. Gugs and I have come to this mountain together. Now he’s allowing himself to be separated from me, and the worst of it is that he’s having someone else speak on his behalf. After a good cry, I splash water on my face and make my way to our hut. Everyone is packing their bags and preparing to sleep. I don’t say a word. I catch Gugs staring at me, but he doesn’t say anything. I slip into my sleeping bag, turn my head to the wall and softly cry. I am really struggling with the notion of walking without him tomorrow. My phone beeps. It’s a message from Gugs.

      “Love, what’s wrong?”

      I respond with, “Right now I feel like I did when Denga and I separated at the 56th kilometre of the Comrades. My heart was shattered because we had been on the journey together and now I had to continue on my own. My heart hurt so badly, I could hardly breathe. Right now, you are doing the same to me. We came to this mountain together and now you’re changing the original plan and splitting from me.”

      He replies almost immediately. “Then join us.”

      I type my response quickly. “You and I know that sleep is medicine. If you’re not feeling well, perhaps extra sleep is what you need.” I wait for his response. There is nothing. A few moments later I jump out of bed and walk out to the bathroom. He follows me and waits outside, leaning against the wall.

      When I emerge he whispers, “What’s wrong?”

      “But I told you in my messages.”

      He pulls me close for a kiss and a hug, takes me by the hand and walks me back to our hut without a word. Nothing has been resolved. I slip back into my bag, he does the same and at some point I fall asleep with a heavy heart.

      The following morning I wake from a deep sleep to feel a gentle stroke on my cheek. As I struggle to open my swollen eyes, I see Gugs standing in front of me with a bowl of warm water for me to freshen up. He is fully dressed and tells me he’s off to breakfast and that it’s time for me to get ready. I soon realise that he has not changed his mind and is indeed leaving with the first group. My heart sinks. My eyes are still swollen from crying the night before but I try to freshen up and get dressed. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. While I’m busy with the last of my packing, he walks back into the hut, sits on a chair and watches me without a word. Once I have zipped up my bag, he stands up, picks it up and puts it outside the door and signals for one of the porters to collect it. He steps back into the room, gives me a hug, looks me straight in the eyes and says, “I’ll see you on the road.”

      I refuse to look at him. I respond with, “I don’t think so. I’ll see you at Kibo.”

      He turns and walks off. Once again, tears start streaming down my face. I am so irritated with myself. I quickly wipe them away; I need to face the rest of the team at breakfast. I slip on my sunglasses and head out the door. As I make my way to the dining hall, I see Gugs disappearing in the distance on the path towards Kibo. It feels as though one half of me is walking away. Heartbroken and shattered, I talk to no one during breakfast. I desperately need a pick-me-up because I don’t want the team to know what I’m going through. I have been one of the most vocal team members during the trip so far, upbeat, positive, chatting to all my teammates. And now on this morning my soul is down and I have no energy to even say hello to anyone. I decide I need to listen to music – I know it’s the one thing that always lifts my mood. I start looking for my headphones but soon realise I have locked them in my duffel bag, which has been carted off by the porters. My last resort is to ask a fellow climber if they are willing to lend me a pair. I muster up the energy and voice to shout out loud at the dining room, asking whether anyone can lend me a set. Kirk Bouffard, one of the Americans climbing with us, offers me his. I am so grateful – I need to get out of this bad head space. I promise him I’ll have them back to him in an hour or so. I listen to one of my favourite playlists, a mix of pop and contemporary jazz, but the music fails to lift my spirit at all. This dark feeling won’t go away. I feel really terrible that I’m unable to hold a conversation with any of my teammates.

      During the hike, I pull Fulufhelo aside and tell her that I’m not okay. All she says is, “Gugs?” and I say, “Yeah.” She nods as if she knows. These are the only words I utter until lunchtime. As we are approaching the lunch spot, I see Gugs’s group about to depart in the distance. My heart lifts a little. I spot him standing on a rock, looking at our group as we approach. I walk straight to him, give him a hug and a kiss and say, “I need to go find a rock and pee.” I place my backpack at his feet, run to find a rock, finish peeing, and as I head back to him, I realise he’s no longer there. In the near distance I see that he’s already started hiking to catch up to his group. I want to scream, run after him, urge him to wait, but the pressure in my chest, from lack of oxygen, means I don’t even have a voice to scream. My heart sinks lower.

      I walk back to the group and silently sit down for lunch. Once again, I keep to myself, headphones on, not saying a word until I spot Jovial throwing up profusely. I’ve been sitting next to our team doctor, so I turn to her and bring it to her attention that Jovial is in trouble. Without getting up to see if he’s okay, she simply responds that she told both Jovial and Gugu that if they don’t pull up their socks, she’s going to put them on drips when we get to Kibo. That leaves me flabbergasted. Pull up their socks? What a strange response, especially from a doctor.

      The rest of the hike to Kibo is fairly uneventful. Even though the music isn’t lifting my spirit as I hoped it would, I continue to listen as a way to avoid having to talk to anyone. I just feel no motivation

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