Mt. Cameroon, or Mt. Fako (the traditional name) is the tallest peak in Central Africa. Even cooler, it’s part of a mountain range that includes Bioko, the island part of the nation of Equatorial Guinea. And even more cool, I came dangerously close to the mountaintop.
The Mt. Cameroon Race of Hope is a nearly annual event, and has to rank as the most unique sporting event that loves its football and loves anyone who fait du sport regularly. The race, set in Buea, a German-esque town nestled under the foot of Mt. Cameroon, is simple. Start at the bottom, go the top, turn around, go back. In between is over 3,500 meters of jungle, giving way to a cap of loose volcanic rock. And it’s all uphill.
I went with two guys from the Embassy, Brad and Pedro. I knew I was in the master’s category (polite for old), but Brad did realize that the cutoff age, 35, put him there, too. Pedro, a pup just over 20, was along for the ride. The race organization was supposedly horrendous, but I actually think it was not bad for Cameroon. Sure, I didn’t get a race number, but why else would someone be running in a group of 600 up the side of a frickin’ mountain if they weren’t in the race? I wasn’t thrilled with the T-shirt - a cheap cotton print sure to work wonders on bare skin after it’s soaked with sweat and salt, but that’s about what I have to show for the effort.
As for memories, we gathered at the local stadium and started pretty much close to time. There was a little confusion at the front: officials started handing out black zip ties - first to all runners, then only to masters, then only to juniors. As a result, I had one, then gave it away. Brad got one, zipped it tight around his wrist, then ran to the first aid tent as his hand turned white. The medic, with the finest tools at hand, used nail clippers to save the limb.
And we were off. The first 8 km or so were all uphill, but on pavement. I adopted a slow, steady pace, giving me time to soak in the scene. Bueanupians were up earlier, and gathering in family and gangs to cheer on the runners -- the best time to do so since we wouldn’t look so fresh again for 24 hours. Up, up, up, trying to keep a constant pace as Mt. Fako loomed larger and closer. We turned into a village, onto a dirt road, and the race was on.
Briefly, the race runs up the mountain. There are four checkpoints on the course: Hut 1, Hut 2, Hut 2.5, Hut 3, and the Summit - at 4,000 m. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in shape to truly run. I tried to hold on, pacing myself against the weakest runners in the juniors category, but they soon left me behind. And, since the junior’s race went only to Hut 1, they ran back past me as I continued my climb. Just above Hut 1, the forest gave way to a stark desert, with sharp volcanic rock underfoot. I was amazed that so many runners were so ill-prepared: mis-fitting shoes, plastic sandals over wool socks. Still they all passed me. Still I trudged on.
That's enough for now. Will I make it to the top of Mt. Cameroon? Will I make it back alive? Next time, next time, we'll see.
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