My First Time on a Spinning Wheel That Wasn't Spinning
April 10, 2025
Let me set one thing straight: mountains look much smaller in photos. They look peaceful, majestic, inviting even. What they don't look like is the physical manifestation of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" that I discovered Mount Fako to be on Saturday, March 13, 2023.
It began innocently enough. At 9:30 AM, with the optimism of someone who has clearly never climbed a serious mountain before, I set off from the foot of Mount Cameroon (aka Mount Fako) with my group. The weather was perfect, my backpack was sensibly packed, and my spirit was soaring with confidence.
"I did short runs once per week," I thought to myself. "How hard could this be?"
Narrator: It could be very hard.
Mount Fako looking deceptively peaceful from a distance
11:03 AM
We reached Hut One. Less than two hours from Upper Farms to our first checkpoint, not bad! I was actually among the first in our group to arrive. Like Moses, I led my people. (Yes, I just compared myself to a biblical figure. That's what mountains do to your ego before they crush it.)
1:00 PM
The trail to the intermediary hut was manageable. I arrived still riding high on my unexpected athletic prowess. People were surprised by my strength and endurance. I was surprised by my strength and endurance. The mountain, I suspect, was just biding its time.
Mid-Afternoon
Then came the stretch to Hut Two. This is where Mount Fako revealed its true character. The path grew steeper. The air thinned. My legs, previously reliable appendages that had carried me through life without complaint, began to register formal protests with each step. By mid-afternoon, I was no longer leading anyone. I was barely following.
That's when I met him, my mountain angel. A man from my village named Muyama who appeared beside me like some sort of altitude-resistant superhero. He offered energy drinks when mine were depleted. He gave me biscuits when my stomach growled. When we encountered a particularly challenging section, he literally held my hand to help me through.
"Rest if you're tired," he'd say, as if giving me permission my pride wouldn't allow me to give myself.
4:28 PM
When I finally stumbled into Hut Two, it wasn't triumph I felt but survival. Muyama and I were separated into different rooms for the night, but not before he lent me his power bank, despite his own phone being dead. The selflessness of strangers on mountains is something travel blogs don't prepare you for.
The mountain lodge was beautiful, and my roommates were delightful. Edith with her infectious dimples (who still owes me a glove, by the way), Ransome, our guide Mr. Gavin, and the mysterious silent man who, despite his reluctance to engage in conversation, kindly lent me his balm for my battered feet.
The mountain hut where I contemplated all my life choices
After a fitful night's sleep interrupted by the sound of wind and my own anxiety about what was to come, we set out for the summit at exactly 3:00 AM on Sunday morning. Yes, pre-dawn hiking is apparently a thing that mountain people do voluntarily.
My pre-summit meal? Cold, frozen quakoko (a local delicacy) consumed at 2:00 AM. Each bite required approximately 100 chews and 3,000,064,474 swallows (rough estimate) before making its reluctant journey down my throat.
The darkness was disorienting, the cold biting. This time, my guardian angel was a kind man named Sumi who stayed with me all the way to Hut Three. When I nearly gave up, and I came close, so close,, it was Sumi who somehow transferred his determination into my depleted body.
At Hut Three, I was convinced I had reached my limit. I was empty. Done. Finished. But then Mr. Idris started playing mambo music on a portable speaker, its rhythm somehow syncing with my heartbeat, giving me a second wind I didn't know existed.
Mr. Martin contributed sugar for my water, transforming plain hydration into life-giving nectar. Amy, my superwoman friend who had already conquered the summit ahead of me, met me on her way down and shared her water with me when mine was gone.
And somehow, against all physical laws and personal limitations, I made it to the summit.
The view from the summit that made it all worthwhile (or so they tell me)
The view? Honestly, I can barely remember it through the haze of exhaustion. But the feeling is what I'll never forget. Standing there, knowing I'd pushed through every "I can't" my brain had thrown at me, that's a high no photograph can capture.
The descent began around 3:00 PM with Dante, Allison, and Deudonne, my descent dream team. Dante led with his torch, lighting the path ahead. Allison followed behind me, offering encouragement with every step. "Strong girl, you can do it," she'd say, when even I didn't believe it anymore.
And Deudonne, sweet, strong Deudonne, who attempted to carry both my bag and his until he realized I weighed (in his words) "600 kgs." There was a point where I told them to leave me behind, dramatically declaring I'd find my own way down or die trying. They simply responded, "We die here," and waited for me to continue.
We finally reached Buea around 11:00 PM, then spent another hour trying to find a taxi, which meant I didn't get home until midnight, a solid 14.5-hour journey from summit to shower.
Was it worth it? Ask me in a year when the trauma has faded and only the triumph remains. For now, I can say this: Mount Fako taught me more about myself in 39 hours than I'd learned in the previous 39 years.
It showed me that my limits are largely fictional, that strangers can become lifelines, and that sometimes the greatest views come after the hardest climbs.
But if anyone asks me to do it again, my answer is simple:
Not even if you carried me the whole way.
And that concludes Traveling Maureen's Epic Adventure Series... until the next time my questionable judgment leads me somewhere blog-worthy!
