I sleep ~decently~ and am up by 6:15 and chill in my room drinking water, eating bananas, and browsing twitter. What’s going on with Elon Musk? I really can’t make my mind up about this guy. He’s somewhere between a narcissistic troll, and the visionary society needs to push things forward. People I respect greatly have vastly different opinions on the man and his intentions and motives. What a fun little news cycle we have here.

At 6:30 there is a knock on the door. The moto is here and wants to leave now. Do people not have clocks? Not that I have any problem with leaving now, but why did we switch the time from 5 to 7 when we’re actually leaving at 6:30. But being neurotic about exact timing is my own problem. The moto is a little creaky and struggles up little hills, but Selinngbala is only seven mostly flat kilometers from Bossou, and we are there before 7. It’s a pretty large village, and people are very chill and not annoying. They see tourists like me fairly often. The moto driver introduces me to two guys with machetes, these are my guides. We shake hands. One of them, named Elsie, speaks a little bit of French, the other basically none at all. The three of them and a couple other guys chatter in Mano, which is the language/ethnic group in Bossou and this area. Then they nod and it’s time to go. There is no hand holding at all. I love it. Even last night with Francois, the only information he gave me was when I’d get picked up. Nothing about food or preparation of any kind. Just show up and be ready. I’d heard somewhere it is approximately a 4 hour hike each way, but not from Francis or anyone here.

The guides immediately set a brisk pace. We start by winding through fields of taro, bananas, pineapple, and coffee on the edge of town. They grow a lot of coffee here. Then we begin a steep, muddy climb through thick rainforest. Lonely Planet claims there is very little primary forest remaining. It can be hard to tell what forest has never been cut (primary), and what has been left alone for 50+ years. It’s functionally quite similar, and either way this is some of the most jungle-y rainforest I’ve seen in West Africa and includes some very large diameter trees. We pass a dozen or so forks where the trail splits in the middle of this anonymous and unknowable rainforest--a network of trails used by chimp researchers-- but the guides know exactly where to go and never hesitate. In fact, they don’t stop at all. There are no breaks. We just keep climbing up these steep trails. The climbing in and of itself is not a problem for me. The issue I have is that I am wearing my only shoes, which are bike shoes, and they have lost much of the limited tread they once had and are somewhat slippery on the leafy, wet trail. The cleats turn out to not be much of an issue, but the hard plastic sole that has been exposed as the tread has worn off is something I have to be aware of. Ultimately though the shoes are fine.

After about an hour and a half of swift hiking we get to a little field camp where my guides and other local chimpanzee researchers stay while they are tracking the primates. It’s in a little clearing in the forest and comprises one small A-frame stick hut, a cooking shelter, and a bench made out of bamboo. Elsie, who speaks some French, tells me that trackers stay here for 10 days at a time. I can’t quite understand what specific data they are collecting, but it involves fecal matter, and keeping track of chimps’ movements at an individual level.

We spend no more than five minutes at the camp and then are off again. It quickly becomes a challenging hike. The slope is in many cases about as steep as can be, frequently requiring hands. It is extremely beautiful. Another hour after the camp, we emerge, on an impossibly steep slope, onto the first bit of alpine grasslands that constitute most of the lands above a certain elevation on Mount Nimba. I don’t know precisely what factors cause this abrupt change from forest to meadow, but it is a dramatic transition from the forest, and breathtakingly beautiful.

We emerge into these open lands, and soon the rest of our trajectory comes into view. I can see, to the north, the ridge line that includes the high point known as Mount Nimba, or Mount Richard-Molard. We also have views down into the lowlands around Boussou, and south clear into Liberia. Specifically, we can see the town of Yekepa, Liberia. As we climb a spur ridge line towards the main spine of the mountains the skies change rapidly from normal rainy season morning clouds, to dark, threatening, heavy clouds. A wind picks up, the temperature drops, and we climb on, without relinquishing any pace. The storm is blowing in from the east, from Côte d’Ivoire. Dark, billowing clouds are pushed by strong winds over the 5500 ft high ridge, and tumble down the Guinean side of the mountain, towards us. But until we reach the crest of the ridge line, we are sheltered from the brunt of this weather.

The moment we reach this crest is distinct. There is an especially steep section of trail and we climb up a nearly vertical grassland. Upon reaching the top, the wind nearly blows me over. I’m not precisely sure what gale force means, but suddenly we are in what feels like a full-on storm with and being pelted by nearly horizontal rain. Being on this ridge line also means that, if I step to the east of the trail, I am in Côte d’Ivoire.

I find myself feeling a little bit annoyed. Why did we leave at 6:30 and not 5? If we’d started an hour or an hour and a half earlier, we’d have beaten this storm to the top. For all I know, this could last all day. There will be no view from the top in this weather. Already the view has completely disappeared here on the ridge line. I feel like I’ve been let down yet again by the Guinean tourism industry and march on in annoyance.

I’ve never been to the Scottish Highlands. I’d like to go someday. This feels pretty similar to what I imagine it’s like there. Rocky grasslands, pelting rain, dense clouds in every direction. And it’s cold. It feels like the Marin Headlands during a winter storm. The rain increases from a windblown drizzle to an outright downpour. It’s absolutely amazing to experience the elements like this. I can’t take many pictures because everything is too wet, but there is little to photograph anyway with visibility only extending about a hundred feet into the clouds. In hindsight the pictures of this moment are really cool.

Almost an hour of hiking like this, up, and up, and up, through frigid rain and strong winds until we reach a couple of cairns of small flat rocks. This is the top. The weather continues to be ferocious. Here we are. I whoop and yell with delight, but at the same time I’m not happy at the notion that I missed the views because of a seemingly arbitrary change of schedule. The clouds rolled in only within the last hour or so. I know because I watched from the lower ridge. I take pictures of what I can, and ask Elsie to get a picture of me, which is accomplished with some difficulty in the soaking rain. Right after he takes the picture, he tells me to turn around. I look behind me and gasp. Towards the east the clouds have lifted just enough to vaguely glimpse the landscape of jagged peaks— La Region de Dix-hunt Montagnes, Côte d’Ivoire. This could well be a momentary break in the clouds, and I hurriedly take a number of very poor photos and videos of this epic landscape.

Then I sit and eat some food. I’m hungry, and scarf down my beans and bread, sharing some with the guides. I begin to notice that the rain is letting up. The skies are getting a bit brighter. Hard to tell if this is just a break, or the end of this weather system. To the north I watch the clouds get blown over the ridge and dissipate on the Guinean side. With time it becomes clear that the storm is passing, and the clearing of the skies continues. Over the next 20 minutes I bear witness to a gradual and indescribably beautiful revealing of the tropical mountain landscape. The views, once the clouds lift, are excellent. The light is heavenly, and the air is perfectly clear, and now, 30-40 minutes after reaching the top in the midst of a zero-visibility storm, we are graced with panoramic views of three different countries, and a number of slightly smaller peaks in this mountain range. I’ll stop trying to describe it. Check out the pictures.

While in epic locations, such as this, I have a tendency, and I don’t think I am alone in this, to expect to experience some kind of moment of clarity. As though reflecting upon life in an extraordinary location will somehow lead to an insight of some significance; satori. As though I’ll finally know what I’m looking for. Unless you’re on drugs this does not tend to actually happen (and even then it is rare), but I do enjoy a moment of reflection up here. This entire trip has been something of a break from real life, if I am being honest. I felt trapped, to a certain extent, in a job that, while perfectly fine in a lot of ways, did not feel like the way I should be spending the remainder of my youth. Moreover, while locked into the exhausting routine of this job, I did not have the time or energy to alter course as I might have liked. In fact, I felt like I didn’t even have time to reflect on or plan how I’d like to move forward with life in a deliberate way. I’m very lucky to have the sense of security necessary to do what I eventually did— slam the brakes and quit, travel, and take the time to figure out what I want to do. I still can’t believe, sometimes, that I actually succeeded in extricating myself— albeit temporarily— from the momentum of a career and life in the city, a routine I’d been locked in for about 5 years.

I still can’t believe, looking back, that I won that game of chicken with all the obstacles— quitting my job, moving out of my house, actually buying the plane ticket— that bore down on me from the future as last summer and fall rushed by. Happily, I believe it has been a fruitful enterprise. I spent a lot of time when I first got to Senegal reading and thinking about different academic tracks/careers, and ultimately applying to and getting into a few master’s programs. Yet the lack of clarity lingers even here, and on top of this mountain I consider my current ambiguity, between choosing a program with higher name brand recognition, versus one that, while still highly rated, is at a school most people haven’t heard of-- but that focuses much more closely on the field I am interested in. I can live with temporary ambiguity. I’m lucky to have a family in Senegal that took me back unconditionally, giving me back my old hut, and a family in California to stay with during this upcoming summer of transition.

One small moment of clarity does occur to me on the top of Mount Nimba, which that this is my turnaround point for the whole trip. This is quite possibly, in a sense, the farthest I have ever been from home in my entire life. And it is as far as I will go for now. I’ll still make some detours and see some stuff, but ultimately from here on every step and every pedal stroke, every moto ride and bus trip, will propel me back home; back down the mountain to my bike and the rest of my stuff in Bossou; back to N’zerekoré for a day or two of rest; north through the dry dusty Sahel of Haute Guinea towards Senegal and Dar Salaam, my second home, where I will soak up as much as I can for a week or two; then a night bus to Dakar; and a flight from Dakar to Lisbon to San Francisco, and from there, to the rest of my life. I could not ask for a more perfect or epic place to quite literally, take it all in, and turn around. The beginning of the beginning of the next chapter?

I ask for some more pictures of myself on top of this mountain. Elsie is not a photographer, and I look haggard, but I’m happy to have pictures of myself at the summit of Mount Nimba (and technically in Côte d’Ivoire). There is one mountain in particular, to the north of the summit, that is especially epic. It stands off to the side of the main ridge. Elsie tells me you can climb this mountain as well. Looks absolutely amazing. Some day.

I stare in awe at this side mountain, and the rest of the chain during the descent. Unlike during the way up, we now have perfect views the whole time. I stop frequently to take pictures. It’s unreal. I am reluctant to leave this gorgeous alpine landscape. I want to keep soaking it in, but before long we reenter the forest. The hike down takes about as long as the hike up, a little less than 4 hours. It’s a full day. It gets quite humid after the rains in the afternoon heat. I run out of water, and drink/refill my hydration pouch out of a small alpine creek. Pure, sweet water straight out of the mountain. While traversing a particularly dense bit of forest we hear chimpanzees squealing, and wait for a couple minutes, but hear nothing more.

As we are approaching Selinngbala, I praise and tip the guides. They did a great job. Totally nonchalant, just chatting in Mano almost the entire time. No handholding, just a brisk pace and intimate knowledge of the forest and mountain. I’ve had some guides in Guinea and Senegal that I found rather annoying. Not informative, just chatty. I thought Elsie and his pal were extremely cool.

Back in Bossou the street food is on point. Soreness sets in soon after getting back, mostly in my mid-quads, muscles used to stabilize my bodyweight for every single carefully controlled step during the long descent. Climbing Mount Nimba was absolutely extraordinary, vastly exceeded expectations.