Mountain Sickness
We were all so excited as we planned what to eat, what to bring, how we would prevent the car radiators from freezing up and bursting, what we would wear and how we'd get there.
I don't think I had ever looked forward to anything as much in my entire life. I was looking forward to this trip for weeks.
We congregated at the Church of the Holy Cross, piled into some cars, and headed for the mountain. Up the Saddle Road until we came to a small side road that turned right, toward Mauna Kea. Right turn, and here we go.
It was a rather sickening trip up, to tell the truth. If I were prone to motion sickness, I would have lost my breakfast long before we reached the cabins, which served as our over-night accommodations and jumping-off point the next morning.
We ran around the campgrounds for an hour or so, shivering in the cold mountain air, charging through the patches of snow that lay on the ground. Although the air was pretty thin, and oxygen was pretty scarce, none of us seemed to have any problems breathing.
The rarefied air did make us all tired, however, and we turned in early after dinner and a few rounds of cards.
I awoke the next morning as nauseated as a pregnant woman. I had altitude sickness in the worst way, and knew that my dreams of mountain-climbing glory had come to an end. There was no way I was going to be able to make the final walk to the summit.
Ron Takata and Geraldine Shiraishi also crapped out, and the three of us spent the morning adjusting in the cabin, and walking around outside in the crisp air. It was invigorating, but depressing. We knew that the others were having the experience of their lives.
After a few hours, the others began returning, their cheeks rosy from the nippy air and mountain wind. They were chattering away about the frozen lake, and the 100-yard gravely climb to the top (one step up, a half-step slide backwards).
What a major disappointment. I never did get past the cabins.
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