When The Journey Outweighs The Record
Our plan was simple: a few days in Arusha, Tanzania, watching wildlife, then a climb to acclimatize, and finally, a speed run to the summit and back. Our team included my wife, Bridget, our friends Kevin Cooney and Jenny Lamott, and Ed and Betty Pope.
But two days before our climb, everything changed. Bridget came down with malaria. In those moments, I wasn't thinking about records. I was thinking about whether she'd be okay. Thanks to quick medical care, she began to recover and, surprisingly, felt stronger the higher we climbed. By the time we reached the upper slopes, my goal had shifted. I no longer cared about my run; I wanted to see her stand on the summit.
We reached Uhuru Peak, 19,340 feet above sea level, just as the sun spilled over the African plains. Bridget's smile was different that day. It was hard-earned, radiant, defiant in the face of illness. Watching her, I realized I'd already achieved something greater than any record.
Two days later, Kevin and I were supposed to start the run. My motivation was gone, until we met Yonas Louwa.
Yonas is a slight man, five feet tall, maybe ninety pounds, and, according to local lore, 120 years old. He was part of the first team to climb Kilimanjaro in 1889, hacking through rainforest for eight days before even seeing snow. When our guide told him about our speed attempt, he laughed. For Yonas, it wasn't about the time, or even the summit, it was about the people you meet and the stories you gather along the way.
That conversation reframed everything. The run was no longer a quest for a record; it was another chapter in a shared story.
The next morning, Kevin and I set out. Through rainforests dripping with mist, across high-alpine marshes, and up into the barren moonscape near the top, I found myself noticing the smallest details—dew hanging from grass blades, the rhythm of my breathing, the play of light across distant ridges. I was running, but I was also fully present.
We did break the world record: 42 miles and over 13,000, from the park gate to the summit and back, in 12 hours and 45 minutes. The previous mark was over 18 hours. But that night, eating spaghetti that Bridget and Jenny had prepared, surrounded by friends, it was clear the real win had nothing to do with the clock.
In business, as in life, we're conditioned to chase metrics like revenue, market share, 'firsts,' and 'fastests.' But those fade. The experiences you live through, the people you share them with, and the perspective they give you, those are the true returns on investment.
Kilimanjaro reminded me: accomplishments are fleeting, but experiences, especially those with other people, are compounding. And sometimes, the most important summit isn't the one you planned to climb.
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A custom-built Land Cruiser with a 'star bed' built over the cabin allows couples to spend the night out in the open, listening to the grunts of nearby lions as the Milky Way dazzles overhead. And a hide set partly beneath ground level allows its occupants to peer out at zebras and giraffes standing oblivious just metres away. The accommodation I'm heading to, however, has been open for barely a month, and the wildlife in the area is not yet accustomed to the new residents. With the sun setting and the bullfrogs croaking, my perennially cheerful guide Liberty Eiseb and I bump along a track towards Trails Camp. Liberty stops the vehicle to point out boot prints left in the sand beneath us by Onguma's anti-poaching unit, who patrol in pairs at night. Beside them are the tracks of a leopard. 'This is probably the leopard that comes into camp when we are sleeping,' he says. 'I hear it every night at 4am.' I can hardly blame it for calling in — Trails Camp is a mini Eden tucked within an acacia woodland, from where guests typically head out on walking safaris. Lantern-lit pathways lead to four safari tents, each with a wooden hot tub at the front and an outdoor shower at the back. When darkness enfolds the bush, the Southern Cross and Scorpio shine bright in the firmament of stars above. 'Here you get silence and you get adventure,' says Liberty with some glee before we both turn in for the night. After an undisturbed sleep, I find him sitting by the fire in the muted pre-dawn light, a blackened tin kettle sat within the embers. 'You see the bushman's TV is already on,' he says, gesturing to the flames. 'It always tells a good story.' He heard the saw-like calls of the leopard as it padded through at 4am and 5.30am. 'The animals need to get used to the camp, but they will,' he continues. 'The big leopard will soon be sitting in the trees around us.' 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'We've spent hours and hours with these rhinos,' Tristan whispers as we draw closer. 'We know their behaviour is relaxed. They're not like black rhinos — black rhinos are a handful.' We're 60 feet away when the two males finally become aware of our presence. Tristan motions me to crouch down and be quiet. 'They know we're here, now we give them time to decide what to do,' he says softly as they stand facing us. 'You can see they're curious.' After a few minutes trying to figure us out, one cautiously pads in our direction, head down, ears rotating. He's so close I can hear him breathing when Tristan slowly rises — the rhino instantly canters away. Over the next 30 minutes, the pair repeatedly amble towards us, only moving away when Tristan gently shifts his position. 'They're comfortable with us but we don't want them too close,' he murmurs, watching as they graze. 'They're wild animals and we want them to stay wild.' It soon feels completely natural to sit quietly in the sand, passing the day with animals each weighing up to 2.5 tonnes and sporting impressively long and pointy horns. 'It's nice when they let you into their space and they're not threatened by you,' Tristan says when the rhinos eventually decide to move on. 'You can share this incredible time with them.' It's a parting gift from the rains of Namibia — a vehicle stuck in the mud, a moment of pure magic. As we wander, slightly giddy, towards the guide who's come to pick us up, I'm reminded of something Bons had said to me as we sheltered from a storm in Palmwag: 'The rain is very good for everything — for nature, for animals, for us.' Published in the September 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only). Solve the daily Crossword
