There are places on Earth that feel less like geography and more like prophecy.

The evening light has faded. With an exhausted body, I have reached Bugata. I feel overwhelmed. Bernard and the other companions are coming over to hug me repeatedly. Seeing my condition, the experienced mountain climbers were filled with apprehension. They are praising my mental strength. They are bringing me hot water, making me drink coffee with honey, and trying to take care of me in every possible way. I am quickly changing out of my wet clothes. I cannot believe that I have actually arrived.

Outside the small, temporary camp covered with a tarpaulin, there is fog and a fierce wind. A heart-wrenching sob is rising within me; I cannot trust whether I will be able to complete the rest of the journey this way! It is desperately necessary for my body to recover.

I took some strong medicine along with dinner. Lying down, I think—what can a human not achieve if they truly desire it! If one can channel their stubbornness onto the right path, every treacherous trail eventually comes to an end. Reaching Bugata, my self-confidence was growing. Under the influence of the medicine and the inhuman physical strain, I quickly fell asleep.

I had fragmented dreams—a group of ghosts seemed to be carrying me away to the summit of the Rwenzori. Then, from there, they hurled me down toward a dark abyss. I am sinking somewhere into a cave of fire. All my limbs are being torn apart and scattered across the mountain. Some are blooming as “blood-flowers,” while the rest are vanishing into ash. I woke up at dawn.