Kili Withdrawal

"Yes, we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know-
the place where the sidewalk ends."
-Shel Silverstein

 I woke up at 6:30 am this morning half expecting the morning rituals of the mountain. Alas, no one tapped on my tent this morning and said, (in a Swahili accent) "Hello, did you sleep well?"; no one brought me a basin of warm water for "wash-wash"; no one unzipped my door to find out if I wanted tea or coffee that morning. Instead, I woke up in a comfy hotel bed, wishing I could hear the low foreign murmur of the porters' chatter, and feel the cool air as I slipped out of my sleeping bag and out of the tent, with a clear view of the mountain as far as the eye can see. Right now, I wish I could wander into the mess tent for a breakfast of that same liquidy porridge in the company of the people with whom I climbed this mountain: Janice, Alex, D, Liz, and yes, even Tim. I wish I could walk one last time into camp to the wide open smile of my porter, who didn't speak English, but expressed as much warmth without words as he could have with them. I wish, I wish, I wish...

This is what Kili withdrawal feels like.