Geotourism: Conquering the Mountain of Death.

The Charge  

Coming here was a passionate obsession. When the plan fell through, I grabbed it without hesitation. Behold, the legendary Chappal Waddi!  

Like Alice in Wonder Land, I stood transfixed by its foot, awestruck: such sublime, untamed organic splendor; a magnificent postcard. It took my breath away.

Hours later, I was at its summit!

This wasn’t just another whimsical jaunt but a long anticipated intellectual journey every capable geologist would prioritize. I was going to savor every minute of the experience. Although it was freezing cold at this time of the year with the temperature down to a single digit, the euphoria of the spectacle seemed to effectively subdue the chill. The moment was riveting as I stood staring wondrously in all direction. This is a destination seldom discussed, little understood and rarely visited – the zenith of the Mountain of Death.

I have made it to the last frontier.

Geographical Location

The hinterlands of Taraba State. Towering majestically before me at 2,419 meters above sea level is Chappal Waddi, Nigeria’s highest mountain. It is also known as Gangirwal, translated literally to mean ‘The Mountain of Death’. It hangs on the rim within the Gotel Mountains on the extreme South-Eastern fringes of Gashaka Gumpti National park in a mountainous region of North-Eastern Nigeria adjacent to the International border with Cameroon. The summit itself is bisected by the International Border with Cameroon.

This gigantic, natural edifice stood in sharp contrast to what I had remotely conceived. The towering uplift of Chappal Waddi, with the tip reaching far high into the heavenly blue clouds, stood like a gateway to another eon.

At first, an inner voice whispered discouragingly, “you certainly can’t scale this.” But my steely resolve believed otherwise.

Six hours later, from the remote hamlet of Jauro Hammansale, I stood on the threshold of history.

Previously

  This expedition was long in planning. I am glad though it didn’t happen much earlier as it certainly would have failed. I had submitted to several months of tasking physical training: jogging; hiking; endurance trekking and long-distance cycling, preparatory to the successful actualization of this daunting climb. Though a tall order, with the elements of doubt plaguing my mind and the wild elements of cold and awe-inspiring rocky formations rearing their frightening heads now and again, I consistently had to reassure myself that the feat was achievable. Needless to say, these physical exercises played a significant role by way of a fillip when I had found it difficult to advance.

 

DAY 1 (08.12.2019)

THE JOURNEY OF A THOUSAND MILES…

 

We shall never be here again; not on this planet.  This footprint, if providence permits,  is the only clue of how far we have travelled and where we have been. Lukeman A.O.

My conditioned body clock gently nudged me to wakefulness on that fateful day. Slowly, I sat up in bed while my eyes adapted to the darkness. This isn’t just another day, I reasoned, walking towards the door. I groped in the dark for the light switch on the wall, located it and slapped it down, illuminating the room. Glancing back at the bedside, my wife Sal, was curled up in sleep. She appeared to have set sail, in her shut-eye. Man, she looked beautiful, just laying there.

I waltzed over to her and lovingly ran my hand through her hair, braided in cornrows. It felt good to the touch. Her eyelids fluttered open. Sal is a light sleeper.

‘’Good morning darling,’’ she greeted romantically.

‘’Morning sweetheart, the day is finally here,’’ I responded with a tacit reminder. ‘’We need to start out early. It’s going to be an odyssey.”

We hurriedly went into a flurry of departure protocols: bathing, brushing, light breakfast, dressing up and all. Thankfully, we had carefully readied our backpacks the night before, which made packing a whole lot easier. We drove out of Kubwa shortly afterward, to hook up with Ade, our landscape photographer who was waiting at Mpape junction, in the precincts of Maitama.

The home team was complete. Together with Ade, we headed straight for Karu, a suburb of Abuja where my in-laws reside. They were still asleep upon our arrival, which was no surprise since it was hours to break of dawn. I knocked cautiously on the gate a few times to no response. Ade called out to the security man but there was no response either. Eventually, the massive iron barricade split in two and there stood both my in-laws under the beam of the compound’s security floodlight, with sleep obviously tugging at their eyelids.  A compatible couple with a huge sense of understanding, I likened them to a pair of rock stars. I didn’t expect them at the gate. I drove right in with excitement, parked the car in a corner and we all alighted, grabbing our luggage. Exchange of pleasantries briefly ensued after which we reiterated what they already knew: the task ahead. Ade had withdrawn to the flanks, not wanting to be caught up in family affair. Objection was palpable from my mother-in-law’s body language but there was no way I was going to back down on this. It was now or never. Fortunately, Sal came to my rescue. “Come on Mom, I know you guys mean well but trust me, my husband is capable. If he wasn’t you wouldn’t entrust me to him in the first place, would you?” Sal’s Mom nodded her head, reluctantly. Dad was mum, seemingly neutral.

“Dad, we’ll be fine, ok? We are already running late. See you guys in a couple of days. Please go back to bed. You have so much sleep left in your eyes. Don’t forget its our annual holiday season. Bye guys!”  We hurriedly filed out, oblivious of the unspoken parental objection, shutting the gates behind us. The hurried departure jabbed at my conscience. But better that than a truncated pivotal expedition. My inlaws were worrying for nothing anyway. Sal was on point, we should be fine.

We walked for a while before a tricycle came by, agreed on a fee to the bus park at Mararaba where Taraba-bound vehicles have their terminal. Mararaba is the first cosmopolitan town as you exit Abuja. It is located in Nasarawa State along the northeastern axis.  Eventually, our route turned out in this order: Keffi – Akwanga – Lafia – Awe – Makurdi – Ikputu – Ibi – Wukari – Mutum Biu – Garba Chede, where we disembarked to board a commercial vehicle for Serti via Bali and Jamtari. We arrived Serti about 10pm that night. Serti is a popular town in Taraba State and the headquarters of Gashaka local government area where the National Park Service Resort headquarter is located.

As we advanced towards the Park Resort, I had fleeting recollections of the first leg of the journey we had just completed. It wasn’t without incident, frightening and traumatic. It occurred while crossing the river from Ikputu towards Ibi town. The ferry conveying our bus was caught in a violent column of what seemed like a tsunami triggered by another speeding ferry. The wave hit our ferry hard, heaving it dangerously, tossing the passengers awkwardly upwards. With the ferry close to capsizing, all passengers held on tenaciously and instinctively, prayerfully. Amid the distress, a woman behind me was graciously singing what I thought was a hymn. All the while, Sal clung to me while I held tightly onto a backrest to steady us both. In a flash, I recalled the looks of objection on my in-laws’ faces, which omened over me. I looked towards the photographer, and even under the life-threatening situation, humored myself he must have his heart in his mouth. He looked mightily scared. Well, I guess everybody was. But I worried heavily over Sal. As providence would have it, minutes later, just as suddenly as the turbulence began, there was calm. By reflex, I stretched out both palms like Muslims do, and gave profound gratitude to God for once again, dispensing mercy upon His servants. Sal was as relieved as I was. We shall live to see another day. While some may credit our safety to the dexterity and composure of the ferry operator, as a deeply spiritual man, I tied it down to the Lord’s doing.  That was the first baptism.

Bello was waiting for us following a preplan. He is a native of Serti who would serve as my man-Friday and further double as a vital additional crew member. Having a ‘son of the soil’ in my team was a plus. I had kept up with him by phone. He was greatly excited when we arrived.

‘’Welcome sir,’’ he greeted.  ‘’Good to see you, Bello.’’

‘’My battery went flat and I was lost for what to do.’’ I sensed a feeling of guilt from his explanations.  ‘’Not to worry, I already guessed as much. Where do we go from here?’’

In response, Bello called out to my driver and motioned towards the Park’s entrance gates. “Please, just drive in through the gates.’’

The driver obediently guided the Nissan hatchback through. Bello was popular with his people who inundated him with a flurry of inquisitions. ‘’Are these the guests you have been expecting?’’

“Yes,” he’d answered proudly in response to a curious officer’s enquiry. “He’s my Boss from Abuja.’’ We went through reception documentation procedure after which we were ushered into our Resort rooms. It’s been an exhausting day and rest was desirable. Light dinner was served after which we retired for the night.

The day was done, duty fulfilled.

 

DAY 2 (09.12.19)

LOCK AND LOAD

    A Dream doesn’t become reality through magic;  It takes sweat, determination and hard work.

 

Collin Powell

I woke up this morning to the warm glow of the morning sun seeping through the window and the persistent chirping of a large colony of countryside birds: these are the enchanting sights and sounds of Gashaka Gumti National Park, Serti.

‘’Wake up darling, it’s another beautiful day,’’ I prodded Sal.

‘’Morning, Mungo Park,’’ she returned. ‘’Where are we headed today?’’

‘’Njawai. I can’t judge the distance from here, but prepare for a long, bumpy ride.’’

She approached me stealthily from behind, held me by the waist then followed my gaze out the window to several rows of dispersed thatch-roofed, cylindrical clay brick huts adorning the scenery. Like the one we were in, they mimicked the ambience of a typical African village. The numerous tall trees formed a local climate while the expanded tree canopies gave a mosaic of sun-penetrated beautiful pattern upon the fallen leaves strewn all over the floor. Serenity permeated the entire space. I was wowed.

‘’It’s so beautiful,’’ whispered Sal, echoing my thoughts.

“Yes, it is,” I concurred. ‘’I am confident we are about to share an experience of a lifetime. I have looked forward to a day like this. I pray we encounter that magic out there.’’

Mulling over the uncertainties that lie ahead, I inched away from the window and began tuning up my body in readiness for the big test. I encouraged Sal to do same. Together, we performed a few hundred skip ropes quickly followed by light aerobics and closed the session with a well-practiced Yoga. The room was decent: spacious, rounded and clad in polished wooden walls. The deep brown colored battens lining the ceiling added to the roofing members appeal. Hanging down the wooden ceiling was a vintage three bladed fan. The floor was covered in brown synthetic floor tiles with a matching threeseater leather sofa by the wall. A twenty-one-inch LCD television screen, which we never got around to confirming its functionality, completed the basic conveniences available in the apartment. It was peaceful in here, typical of an ideal holiday resort.

Outdoor, visitors may also enjoy their choice from select sports on the open courts.

A heavy knock sounded on the door, interrupting my activity. ‘’Who is it?’’ I demanded, suspecting Bello, my man-Friday.

‘’Bello,’’ he replies. ‘’Good morning sir.’’

I approached the wooden door, unlocked the keys and jerked it open. He was in the company of another man who greeted me in impeccable English.

‘’Good morning guys. Oh, please excuse me for a moment.’’

I retreated into the room, adorned a T-shirt and a jogger before returning to the duo outside.

‘’Meet Abdullahi Abdulhamid Sir, the resort manager,’’ Bello announced. Accepting his handshake offer, I expressed our positive impression of the resort’s facilities. He was amazed as I informed him we had been here before.

‘’Darling, can you please join us for a moment?’’ I called out to Sal in my baritone voice.

She arrived in a jiffy and exchanged pleasantries with them.

‘’How do we get to Chappal Waddi?” I demanded of Abdullahi, for I was eager to know what it would take to reach the Mountain of Death, being the paramount reason we were there.

He answered our enquiries intelligently, educating us further that for the truly adventurous, trekking through Gashaka village across Gangirwal would take about eight to ten days, if approached through the park itself and visitation to remote villages and seeking wildlife was on our itinerary. The last items didn’t apply to us. He added that the mountain can be reached most easily by taking a six hours drive from Serti to the town of Njawai on the north-east corner of the Plateau. According to him, the road is difficult and a 4WD vehicle is recommended. From that altitude, the ascent of the mountain is relatively easy without much steep climbing involved. Continuing to the summit on foot from Njawai, the journey is best divided into two stages. From Njawai to the small, friendly village of Jauro Hammansale is a six hours walk. From there, after a good night’s sleep, the summit of the mountain can be reached in a final five hours climb.

He concluded by intimating us that a different documentation procedure, tourist requirements and park fees will be required for gangirwal. The last item was to be expected.

According to the Manager, we had the option of embarking on the voyage using the Park’s four-wheel drive Land Rover. I eagerly accepted this offer as it was just perfect for us. Dramatically however, he returned moments later with the bad news that the Rover was in bad shape.

An alternative arrangement was made for a Taxi that would transport us to Nguroje, three hours away. From there, we are to proceed on the rest of the odyssey on a motorbike. Just then, Ade showed up with his gear. He looked refreshed and in good spirits.

Sal, though toughened, remains the concern. I pulled her aside to paint the picture of an unpredictable itinerary that could turn grim without warning. But she waved my concerns aside, saying she was down for whatever, so long as I was by her side. Well, so be it then.

All was set. This is same with the journey of life. If you have a supportive partner, all challenges become adventures.

At this point, Abdullahi invited the Head Park Ranger, named Salihu Bashago, and officially handed us over to him. He was in charge of Njawai, the out station covering Gangirwal. Coincidentally, he was preparing to depart for his station after an official visit to the Headquarters in Serti.

The hired Nissan hatchback coupe had arrived. The driver quickly checked the vehicle’s vitals, adjusted the front passenger seat before meticulously tucking our luggage in the trunk. Since this was a smaller vehicle, the entire crew along with Sal, settled behind while myself and Bashago shared the front passenger seat. And off we went!

We rode in silence for the most part, even though having already recovered from the previous day’s exhaustion. Sal and I have been down this same route before during one of our annual vacation rituals. Usually, we don’t drive but chose to travel by public transport, to a carefully chosen new, serene location. The occasions bonds us like nothing else and in the thick of it, we get to renew our matrimonial vows. Away from social media and the bustle of everyday living, we lose the phones to enjoy the present and mull the future together, spouse to spouse. It’s a time like no other to which we always look forward.

Oh, let me tell you a bit about my wife. She’s a graduate of Theatre Arts from the University of Jos, Plateau State. If as they say, you become a Geologist by association, then Sal is definitely my first graduate. She learns so marvelously fast it leaves me intrigued each time. At five foot ten, chocolate skinned, round faced with slightly bulging eyes reminiscent of an Indian movie screen goddess, she’s an exceptionally beautiful and committed wife. Slow to anger, Sal exudes boundless energy. She’s congenial, homely and walks with a rhythmic undulating flow accentuated by her motion. Decades younger than her actual age even after multiple childbirths, it amazes me how she sustains those girlish qualities that have simply defied phenomenal erosion. Honestly, she’s a charm that have kept me hypnotized.

We travelled several miles on through small villages like Bodel, Goje, before arriving on the fringes of another particular small village called Mayo Selbe. There, I encountered the expedition’s first astounding Geologic reality. We were onto an incredibly massive and arrestingly towering mountain standing imposingly at the point of ascent to the Mambilla Plateau. As a matrix of scale, I had innocently enquired

of Bashago, ‘’Can you please compare this Mountain to Chappal Waddi?”

The Ranger’s response was as shocking as it was sarcastic. ‘’Is this one even a Mountain?”

I froze on my seat. Have I turned out on an outlandish venture? Suddenly, my mind was in two halves: to do and not to do. Now, if this seemingly impossible-to-climb mountain doesn’t even come close to matching Chappal Waddi by every dimension, isn’t it just about wise to throw in the towel and head back home? Now in mental turmoil, I felt trapped. My heartbeat raged violently, banging against my ribcage. Lost for the shape of things to come, I momentarily withdrew into myself – into utter silence, pondering the staggering odds that stood between me and Gangirwal.

The dread raged on. Lethargy had set in. it rankled that I may have come this far only to be discouraged by the toilsomeness of summiting the almighty Chappal Waddi. Perhaps, I should just call off the expedition? But wait a minute, what would Jamil think of me, hero or coward? Well, under the circumstance, I wasn’t so sure if it mattered after all. One cannot push beyond reality. Barring divine interventions, a man achieves only what he is terrestrially empowered to. All of these raging defeatist thoughts combined to knock me hopeless. Then Fleetingly, fond memories of my son played through my numbed mind, stoking a resolve. Slowly but surely, I began getting over the incertitude.

Bashago was a thoroughly observant and experienced Ranger, which didn’t surprise me considering his calling. He noticed my unusual demeanor, and with a telling shake of the head, gave me a morale booster. ‘’Do not be discouraged, boss. You are as fit as a fiddle. I can tell a strong, determined man by their swagger. If you summon enough staying power you can even summit mount Everest. This is just

Chappal Waddi. Be rest assured, you can do this.’’

“I’ll give it my best shot,’’ I retorted. The Chief Ranger had just succeeded at wholesomely endearing himself to me. He was the first person in all my professional years to have spoken such kind words of field motivation to me: words that would resonate with me for a long time. I was highly appreciative of him. “Thank you so much, Chief,” I said, patting him feelingly on his back. “This mission means a lot to me.”

The odyssey continued and I now had a boost to my psyche. Ade, stunned by the rare, natural geomorphology and scenery we had arrived upon, had his head semi-orbiting in undiluted excitement, eyes almost popping through its sockets. “it’s a photographer’s paradise,’’ he managed to mutter.  “Fasten your imaginary seatbelt,’’ I instructed. “The flight is only just beginning. You ain’t seen nothing yet.’’

For over two more hours, we climbed on in silence through curly roads with impossible gradient, pausing on occasion to feed our eyes on the indescribable view. You can never get enough of the dazing scenery. As we progressed, I kept glancing all about me and noticed that the massive mountain still stretches on, thus feeding my earlier skepticism. Negative thoughts over the expedition began sneaking back into my head. Trepidation, doubt, potent fear of failure all began renting spaces in my head. In counter action, Jamil’s smiling image, again, suddenly shone brightly before me, effervescently suggestive. Then it blacked out after only a second or two. I paused for a bit, sat up and with a slow nod of the head, flashed my boy a knowing smile in return, just like I was seeing him besides me. Freshly emboldened by this encounter, added to the Ranger’s recent encouraging words, I resolved to disallow any more discouraging thoughts take residence in my head, to the extent that when they did flash through at another time, I mentally unsheathed an invisible sword to slay them all – for good. From that point on, it was forward ever. I’d rather fail trying than beat a retreat. The self-doubt was permanently removed. Well, so I believed. We trudged on.

As we ascended the Mambilla Plateau enroute Mai Samari to Nguroje, which was our vehicle’s final waypoint, the local climate began to change rapidly, turning chillier by the minute. Soon, the cold became so nippy that we had to slide up the hatchback’s window glasses. But it made no difference. The cold bit on.

It wasn’t long before we arrived to Nguroje, a small bustling town and our car terminus. The car pulled over to a safe spot. As we disembarked, I observed that everyone but my crew applied their outer clothing as pseudo cold retardants topped with all manner of hats: Anoraks, bombers, winter headgear and flyer hats with fur earflaps. We appeared comical, like a bunch of half-dressed Eskimos.

It was imperative we acquired appropriate clothing, so I made enquiries and sought directions to a fairly used clothes boutique at the local market wherefrom I hurriedly procured thick fur jackets, overcoats, shin-length stockings, hand gloves and beanie hats which should come in handy during the inevitable motorcycle ride.

I returned to the group shortly afterwards with my buy. We wore them over our travel garments and immediately transformed into a menagerie. The transformation was indeed amazing and Ade, being one with keen photographer’s eyes positioned us for a fascinating still against the backdrop of the rather old, rustic town. Almost all the houses’ corrugated zinc roofing had turned heavily rusty from years of vulnerability to rain, wind and mild temperate sunlight. The undulating valley topography gives a sweeping panoramic view of the ancient settlement. I don’t recall any household with air conditioner, due to the temperate climate, yet the people apparently lived contented lives and were quite friendly, willingly volunteering any information requested of them.

Bello, my man-Friday, had closed negotiations with the motorcyclists that would transport us to Njawai, the National Park Service outpost which was our destination for the day. Moments before departure, we were joined by another Park Ranger, Tadius Samuel, who suddenly rode into view on his way to his duty outpost at Njawai. Tadius, upon recognizing Bashago, his boss, pulled his motorcycle to a halt and alighted.

“Morning Sir!”

“Good morning Tadius,’’ acknowledged the chief animatedly. “Such good luck that you have happened by. Please, meet Mr. Lukeman and his team. They are our guests on tourist visit to Gangirwal. They shall be under your care on this expedition. I had planned to allocate you to them from the outpost station anyway.’’

‘’The pleasure is mine Sir.’’

Tadius turned towards me and we traded pleasantries and a warm handshake before he waved a general acknowledgement at the rest of the crew.

I took an instant liking to Tadius. He was fair-skinned, of average height, handsome, athletic and extremely fit. His bulging, attractive sinews appeared to be devoid of bodily fat. His eyes were deep set, keen and reassuring, exuding the air of a man well versed in the art of security and combat. Right there and then I had taken him for a dependable ally. There was an additional quality he later exuded: of someone who’d rather discomfort himself than renege responsibility.

“What are we to expect ahead?’’ Sal fires at me spontaneously.

“Don’t know,’’ I responded in truth.

“Well, isn’t that mysterious?’’ she questioned.

I turned to look at her. “What?’’

“Not knowing.’’  She retorts with a chuckle.

The itinerary of this leg was thus: Nguroje – ShabarGudale – Yurum – Kila Njeke – Mayo Ndaga – Jugulde – Mayo Wurbo Choice – Njawai. The bikers were all set as all personal packs had been secured to the bikes’ tails. Like traveling gypsies, we slowly filed out in a convoy, riding double on each bike – all five of them, the uncertainty of what lie ahead ever so pervasive. These bikers, in the face of the trying conditions and difficult terrain, were soon to prove to be among the most daredevil anyone could ride with.

The beauty of the topography as we gradually exited the village was inexpressible. Not long since embarking on this lap, we halted to procure nose masks at ShabarGudale. The masks are required to fend off swirling billows of airborne, clay-laden lateritic dust pulverized through countless years of incessant motorcycle impact.

One common physical feature of the village natives was their look. First off, it strikes your mind that they are uncivilized, like people from medieval times: gaunt and skinny yet ironically healthier than many urban dwellers even though they obviously depend on subsistence livelihood.

The expedition progressed with the bikers commuting at such breakneck speed that we held on to nothing but mother-luck. Intermittently, it would seem we were levitating in mid-air, hurtling through slopes and rises on the most perilous and treacherous landform imaginable. At Mayo Wurbo Choice, another waypoint, we pulled up to purchase drinking water. While at it, I cast a close, sweeping glance across all of us, and a laugh escaped me. But for sentience, we looked like giant figurines forged from clay.

All through the never-ending journey, I had problems adapting to the radical transition from savannah to rugged montane, eternally clothed in lush green, inch-high vegetation. The golden yolk sun receding into the distant horizon warned that dusk was fast approaching. I was in marvel mode all the while, gawking at the magnificence of the scenery, which seemed carved into globular shaped endless hills closely packed into a scintillating geometry silhouetted against distant rocky backdrops.

Dusk transitioned into night and the voyage was still a long way off. It was pitch-dark. The park service manager’s timing projection was obviously off the mark. Nothing was visible but for objects illuminated by the motorcycles’ powerful headlamps. Just as my worry over Sal’s adaptation to the cold intensified, we began descending into another valley at which point I noticed what appeared like dimly lit solar street lights in the far distance. Not long afterward, at a few minutes past 10pm, the powerful beam of my biker’s headlamp hit a conspicuous signpost with the inscription: WELCOME TO NJAWAI.

We rode into it, a sleepy settlement by every account, straddling the border between Nigeria and Cameroon. I heaved a sigh of relief. Things were looking up.

“Alhamdulillah Oga,” announced my rider in Hausa. “We have arrived.’’

By the time we touched down at the Rangers Camp, our butts were smoking hot and numb. I rubbed on mine frequently to restore its blood flow. We walked into the Rangers outpost compound and I was shocked at its shabbiness and near lack of basic amenities.

“Holy Moses! How could they?’’ I cried out loud, decrying the pitiable living condition of these fine Rangers. For the risky work they put in and what they represent tourism-wise, this was absolutely unfair, unacceptable. The facility was desolate, without water, electricity and the accommodation at best, was only a pseudo shelter. I was visibly aghast. This, most definitely, speaks bad for our tourism industry and the management framework.

The night temperature continued to plunge. To create warmth, my crew had to huddle together at a corner of the reception. Accommodation was been catered to by Bashago in conjunction with the village’s local chief, so we were told. I prowled about the room, since there’s nothing else to do but wait. A well-thumbed manifest sat on an empty dusty wooden table. Casually, I reached for it and leafed through with mounting interest at the turn of every page. It held entries by previous visiting tourists. None was a Geologist. This realization excited me tremendously.

The door slid open. “Accommodation is ready,’’ announced a Camp staff. “The Chief of Njawai has graciously offered his guest house. It lies two hundred and fifty meters due east of here. Shall we?’’  We grabbed our backpacks and filed out lazily with the Ranger taking the lead. The cold was still raging. With only half the distance covered, we stopped over for a cup of coffee at a local tea shop. The Mai Shai lay prostrate on a mat inside his store, fast asleep. Ade patted him to wakefulness. The man uncoiled to sitting position, with a demeanor indicating disapproval of the interruption to his nap. Unlike in the city where Shai customers are revered by the seller, here, the Mallam is king, which translates into a reversal of posturing. I pleaded with him that we were visitors, hours on a freezing transit and we required his brew to warm up our insides. He protested at first, but eventually obliged us. The ‘Mallam’, as was his business moniker, clumsily rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stoked up his fires and soon served up coffee so steaming hot it will cook your tongue.

“No hurries, people. We need to let this thing cool down a bit,” admonished Sal.

Ade ignored the warning, lifted his enamel cup to the lips and took a long, cautious sip. Only for him to hurriedly set the cup down, spilling a bit of its contents and blowing out his cheeks repeatedly at the same time.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” teased Sal.

We made more small talk for another while, leaving the tea to simmer down and resumed the walk after drinking to our fill. The tea offered momentary relief. We walked quietly around a bend, then through a pedestrian gate which the Ranger nudged aside to usher us into a vast compound.

“This is what we can provide,’’ announced the Ranger. “Please, make do with it.’’

“Did I hear you say Manage?” I responded with incredulity. “Whoever manages a Hilton? This is excellent!’’ I was neither flattering nor mocking the offer. It was my own way of expressing appreciation, which in this case was profoundly honest.

“Once again, you are all welcome to Njawai,” said the Ranger with a warm smile. Just before shutting the door, he adds, “Remember you must set out early enough tomorrow.” ‘’That wouldn’t be a problem, Jah willing,’’ I assured him.

The Ranger disappeared into the darkness, shutting the metal gate behind him.

We all took our rooms. I shared mine with Sal, of course. It got so cold that her teeth clattered. Taking a bath wasn’t a wise decision as things stood. One positive about the building was its fence, which instilled a reasonable sense of security. With the Chief’s cows roaming free within its spacious compound, the facility appeared more of a ranch than a guest house. It was obvious that the rooms hadn’t been in use over a long period of time. It was dusty and unkempt with a colony of spider webs conspicuously hanging over the ceilings. Each room held a wooden bed and a very dense, archaic mattress fashioned from straw. The only hint at modernity was the bedspread which was spick and span and neatly laid out, confirming that the room was hurriedly arranged for a valued guest. The bed offered limited but appreciable comfort. It’s been an exhausting day and sleep will come, even if it be upon the bare belly of a flat, molten igneous rock. “Lie down my dear, try and get some sleep,’’ I said, pulling back the Duvet for her to slip under.

‘’It’s been a long day,’’ she concedes as I curled up to her, holding her tightly, both our bodies generating enough heat to douse the cold. The sleep came, a pleasant one at that.

 

DAY THREE (10.12.19)

RIDE OR DIE

You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore  Christopher Columbus.

It was close to break of dawn. I was up already but Sal was still tucked up under the duvet. Time was running out. I closed in on her with stealth and tickled her on the side. Sal uncurled from her prone position with a hearty giggle. “Bet you thought I was still sleeping?”

“Hey, I thought you were. Well, thank goodness you are up as well.” I flipped the duvet off of her body. “We got to go before dawn breaks on us. I know you are an uncommonly strong woman. Let’s see if you can earn your stripes today.’’

She sprung up to her feet. “You are a different male specimen.’’ Sal has always wondered where I derive the strength to keep going. “And I truly adore you for the way you always carry on.”

“I’m no different than the next male. It’s just that once my focus is set, I become unstoppable.’’

We brushed and performed wudu, both with ice-cold water before observing the morning prayers amid intermittent shivers. While I was lacing up my boots, Sal was likewise just about set. Thank God she isn’t one for indulging in those patience-testing cosmetic rites that’s common place with women. We were soon ready.

“Just a minute please. I need to wake Ade up,’’ I informed her, stepping out the room.

My footfalls were audible as I stepped across the large, empty living room towards Ade’s. I rapped on his door with reckless abandon. He should be the one waking me up.

Moments passed before he responded in a faint, sedated voice, “I’m up sir. Join you in a moment.’’

I cherished my expeditions as much as Ade does his sleep. Leave him to himself and he’ll take his sleep till sunup. I bet he’s silently cursing right now: what in hell has brought this devil to my door so early this morning? I heard sounds of activity in his room and in a little while, his door handle slowly turned and he staggered through, bare-chested. Bed marks ran down his upper arm. “Good morning sir,” he greeted sedately.

“Good day to you my brother. I hope the day turns out good,’’ I returned with sarcasm. “We literally have an uphill task ahead, and we are running late.’’

“Just give me a few minutes sir.” Ade retreated into his room and I heard him rummaging around.

Alerted by my baritone voice, Bello yelled his greeting from behind his door.

‘’Good morning Bello, are you ready?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good. I’ll be waiting for you guys.” I returned to Sal who was already waiting outside, all set.

The photographer soon emerged with his trademark camera backpack, joined afterwards by Bello. Led by the same Ranger who had previously ushered us in, we waltzed through the gelid early morning weather condition past a vast, open field back to the Ranger’s camp to commence early preparations for the final lap. It was still dark upon our arrival.

Bashago and his staff were waiting for us. Pleasantries were exchanged a second time before we were ushered into the same poorly lit, dingy office to commence another round of documentation. Things haven’t changed: There was only a wooden bench and a chair. I marveled at the despicable office scenario. Imagine Park Rangers working from such unedifying space. Well, this is certainly something the appropriate authorities must look into.  

This round of documentation didn’t take much time. While waiting to know which of the Rangers Bashago would finally entrust with escort duties and guide, we fell into tranquil, looking on as darkness started to yield. The sun too, began gradually sprinkling the first ray of golden hour light. I walked out into the emerging dawn that slowly revealed the intricate, organic aesthetics about this hidden paradise. The improved visibility offered me the chance to really scrutinize the outpost facility. It is an L-shaped two block gabble structure roofed in corrugated zinc sheets. It has incomplete perimeter fencing with barbed wires. Much of the insides have been overtaken by weeds and plants. Another set of blocks holding two rooms each with iron sheet doors and windows along with silver handles stood in a corner. Isolated but not far off the blocks was a set of pit toilets for restrooms. In all, the entire facility was nothing spectacular, just utilitarian.

Sal came over to join me. We sat on an improvised log wedged against a leafless, stunted lone tree, serenaded by the dazzling beauty silhouetted around us. As she fell softly to my bosom, I could hear our heartbeats exchanging soft rhythm.

“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been,’’ she volunteers in an undertone.

“I’m equally blown away,’’ I responded, turning to gaze into her dilated eyes. “This is Paradise, and I am glad we are both here to witness the magic together.’’

We just sat there for what seemed like many moons, enveloped in nature’s subliminal fragrance and enjoying the bewitching grandeur. Here, time was meaningless. Even my chronograph wristwatch had seemingly stopped ticking. A trip to a fairytale destination has been an innate childhood fantasy anyway, and it felt so rewarding partly fulfilling the dream of this euphoric moment with my wife.

Minutes on, the serenity around us was rudely blemished by a local Cock crow welcoming a new day.  Till this day, that priceless moment captured in the company of Sal, far out and deep into the untamed parts of the North Eastern territories, remains indelibly branded across my heart and crystallized in my mind.

“We are ready sir,’’ a male voice sounded off without warning.

I turned around to look towards camp. It was Bello. I untangled from Sal and slowly hoisted her up. I wished we could tarry by the tree trunk awhile longer. Already feeling the effects of nostalgia, we walked back unhurriedly to rejoin the group. I noticed a convoy of motorcycles, trailed by plumes of dust, approaching from a short distance away. They pulled up at the Camp gate. “This is judgment day,’’ I announced to Sal. “Are you ready for this?’’ “You very well know I am,’’ she replied, with confidence.

And that was all I needed to switch onto my Gulliver’s mode.

I conducted a final check on our clothing to ensure nothing was amiss. Everyone was well protected from head to toe, with thick stockings drawn all up to the shins. I had my loyal expedition shoes, retired now, extra tightly laced to withstand the rigors and strain of mountain climbing. Our hoods were drawn forward to give full shield against the elements, more so that we are going to be fighting the winds.  How Sal, being the only woman, had bravely survived this expedition I would never know. Tadius and Abu-Bakr Suleiman, the same Ranger who had led us into the Chief’s guest house, were nominated by Bashago to guide the incursion. We’d previously had audience with Abu-Bakr on the night of our arrival and during a discussion on the achievability of Chappal Waddi summit, had impressed that he had been there before. Not once but many times! “Rangers have been up there,” he’d enthused. “In fact, there was an occasion when it had taken several days to the summit owing to the slow pace of one exhausted, decrepit woman among the tourists. But we still got there.”

I fired the next inquisition purely out of a Geologist’s instinct. “Please, can you describe the top of the plateau?”

“You will see it when we get there,” he replies, avoiding the question.

His evasiveness convinced me he was dishonest. No man, in my thinking, summits Chappal Waddi without acquiring a bagful of anecdotes he is ever willing to share. Abu-Bakr is a swarthy, thickset, middle-aged man with broad, droopy shoulders and a clumsy, irritant laughter that smears his face. He walks with a reluctant gait and carries his rifle like a burden rather than symbol of authority. His unbuttoned, loose uniform and half-laced service boots are indicative of nonchalance. Even though difficult to dislike him, finesse was clearly not his forte.

Bashago, without explanation, notified he would not be on the team, which was disappointing. I would have loved to have him along. As the crew began to mount the waiting bikes, I grabbed the Chief Ranger’s hand and shook it warmly.

“I wish you all good luck,’’ he says, his face lighting up with a big smile.

“We shall be needing every bit of it,’’ I replied. “God willing, we shall be in each other’s presence later today or tomorrow.’’

He stood watching as I mounted the bike – the last man to do so. The bikes filed out one after the other, bearing all six of us, including the two Rangers whose pump action riffles were strapped to their backs. With a Ranger in the lead and another on the flank, we blazed out, first into the open fields before dipping out of sight. I choose to recall this moment of the expedition as the point of no return.

Shooting for the last frontier, we rode through frightening uplifts and spine-chilling troughs akin to sailing a boat through crests of giant waves at sea. It was rough. Such were the impediments along our paths, so precarious at some points that I wondered if the destination was worth the peril. But the sprawling, enchanting scenery was an eraser: soul lifting, eye-opening and a mosaic of incredible extremes.

We kept on, levitating across unimaginable peaks, endless topographic ripples and scary plunges into abysmally deep valleys with dissecting fast running waters. What’s more? Another reality was the sequence of contrast between the patched earth and the incredibly lush green prairie. We couldn’t resist the temptation to stop now and again for a few memorabilia shots against those breathtaking backdrops.

“Sir, that background is irresistible,” Ade had observed at another picturesque location, pointing towards it.

“It’s a postcard,’’ I retorted in agreement.

“This is so beautiful,” gushed Sal. “I feel blown into a thousand fragments.’’

“I can relate, darling,” l told her. ‘’This feels like a second honeymoon on a fantasy island.’’

Ade held his camera ready. He’s always had it ready except when we were climbing on all fours when he’d have to return it to the safety of his backpack. “Okay guys, just do your thing at the count of three,’’ he’d instructed. “One…Two…”

At the mention of three, we leaped simultaneously into the air, setting up a stylish material for Ade’s creative lenses.

‘’Oh my! Check this out,” offered Ade excitedly, extending the camera display to my view. Sal doubled over.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. No one could. There we were, gaily suspended in mid-air, the imposing igneous landform watching over our backs. The still was awesome: a timeless portrait, of the kind that would impress even a Maasai. Ade had outdone himself once again!

“What a timestamp. I hope I can look back in another fifty years to re-live this moment,’’ I said.

The irresistible rock outcrop in the picture is a resistant Basaltic column sprouting from the ground in defiance of the weathering forces. It is bare, standing akimbo like ingress into the Jurassic period. As the voyage progressed, my rider said in Hausa, pointing at a distant peak, “that’s where we are headed.’’

“Is that Chappal Waddi?’’ I enquired.

“Yes, it will take about four hours to make it to the summit from Jauro Hamasale.’’

“Should I be worried?”

“Honestly, I am not sure. Perhaps you should be, considering it is Gangirwal.’’ I thought I detected foreboding in his voice. “What exactly do you guys seek?’’

“It’s a prize I must claim in memory of my son who passed,’’ I retorted. “I also aim to bring the area into geo-tourism spotlight.”

“Such big risk just to satisfy a small whim?” he queried.

The wind howled against our faces as we rode. To be heard in conversation you practically had to scream at the top of your lungs. The biker’s last remark clipped me in the chin. These are everyday rural people, content with their pedestrian lives. I could take no offense. I patted him thrice on his back in a soft, telling contact. “My brother, you just won’t understand. We are two different people. This trip is extremely important to me. Nothing can deter me now. There can be only two outcomes to this venture for me: tragedy or triumph. There is no middle ground. I am here to make my own history.”

From then on, silence descended upon us. However, personal thoughts were raging. The rider’s innocent statement kept echoing in my head: big risk just to justify a small whim. Then, I remembered Neil Armstrong’s famous words in paraphrase: this is one small step for me and a giant leap for geotourism – a courageous declaration that prodded me on afresh. I told myself to dismiss the ignorant rider’s offhanded insinuation and focus on what’s at hand. Not unless he was able to tell me who Neil Armstrong was.

We bumped on, navigating across true definition of hamlets, with people still living in the Stone Age. Agrarian, thatch-roofed mud houses adorn the landscape. No clinics, no schools. Drinking water from pools of running or stagnant water and the only form of communication is through physical contact.

Ages behind time, civilization will take a century to permeate this hinterland.

The fast-changing varied sequence of topography, landforms and geology gives the impression of virtual reality, with me flipping through a giant, high-resolution encyclopedia of igneous petrology. We rode through a very steep but thick forest housing some of the tallest trees I’ve ever seen, shockingly emerging to sight at the target waypoint, the famous hamlet, Jauro Hammasaleh. I thought Jauro was the most remote, desolate destination I could possibly ever visit. Astonishingly, its people, ignorant of the economic value of geo-tourism, the precious jewel lying in waste within their domain, flourish here in primordial existence.

The reception was like no other – warm, hospitable and genuinely friendly, just like I had read from an article prior to embarking on this expedition. Jauro Hammasaleh is located right at the base of the climb. It is accessible, in my view, only by motor bike, Donkey or foot. Shortly, the head of the hamlet, Yerima Sule, showed up and introductions ensued. He is middle-aged, gaunt, light complexioned with sinewy limbs. His eyes were deep-set, inquisitive – all typical features of a Fulani nomad. Abu-Bakr, with whom the local people were familiar, served as interpreter as more pleasantries were generously communicated. Yerima was then intimated about our mission, which didn’t quite surprise him since the community has a running full-fledged relationship with the Park Service. “How many of you are in party?’’ he demanded straightforwardly, eyes critically roving through the crew, implicit of an intention to disqualify whoever he deems unfit for the climb. On that score, I feared Sal may not make the cut. She was on the margin of chubby and the long climb may present some real difficulties to her anyway. Leaving the man’s question unanswered, I instantly decided she will have to stay back even before Yerima Sule could air his mind, which may hurt my wife’s feelings. In any case, I wasn’t ready to take any chances. My decision turned out to be a wise one.

I poked Abu-Bakr, the interpreter. “Please, ask him if he can accommodate my wife with his women, so we can confront the Mountain as men.’’ I noticed from the corner of my eyes that Sal was openmouthed. But she said nothing.

Obviously impressed by my astuteness, Yerima Sule, with a burst of complementary smile, gave a vigorous nod of approval to my request. I returned his smile, along with a thumb up. Done, the Chief walked away towards one of the mud houses.

I was ever worried about Sal’s safety and needed iron cast assurances this time over her cohabitation with strangers. So, I called Abu-Bakr aside and invited Tadius to join us. “How safe is my wife with these people?’’

“As safe as leaving her back at the Rangers’ camp. Maybe safer,’’ assured Abu-Bakr.

“We can trust them with our lives,’’ added Tadius.

That was enough for me.

Already, it’s a milestone for any female tourist, young or old, whatever the description, to have come this far. I wasn’t prepared to risk it further. I reached out to Sal, pulled her close with my hands encircling her waistline. She looks straight into my eyes with the anticipation of what she already knew. I didn’t mince words. “I must apologize for this decision,’’ I said, trying to avoid her gaze. “You know, like they say, it’s always a gamble when you’re rolling the dice. I am not ready to gamble with you on this one, honey. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine with these good people.” Sal kept staring at me in silence, a faroff look in her eyes.

Hamlet men and women resplendent in simple but colorful attires who probably have never witnessed a couple publicly exhibit such affection, stood in a semi-circle, watching raptly. Days later when the expedition was done, Sal had during a recap moment, told me her silence at this particular scene was occasioned by her reflection on the final year of her Theatre course where friends and a few foes had gathered in like manner at one of her final presentations to watch her succeed, fail of get humiliated.  As Hamasale natives and the rest of my crew looked on, I continued, cautiously. “You must stay back. There’s no assurance even I can even make the summit. It has been said repeatedly to our hearing that there is something ominous about this mountain. If I have to scamper, I can neither leave with nor without you.’’

“But I have worked hard towards this?’’ she protested mildly at last.

“Yes, I know. But this decision is in good taste and judgment. It’s for our own good, please?” I added pleadingly.

“Okay, okay, I accept your verdict,’’ she concedes and decisively undid her hand ornament. “Here, keep this bracelet. It is my good luck totem for you.”

Sal watched resignedly as we prepared to leave without her.

And then there were five: Myself, Ade, Bello and the two Rangers. That was the final count.

We routinely went through our equipment and the scanty supplies to ensure we lacked nothing vital and then, just about 11am, we were set to make the final push for the ellusive zenith. Sal stood by me, anxious as I. Her eyes were misty, but she was calm. Seconds to departure, we fell into each other’s embrace. While we held, I wondered if this could be our very last, after all I was headed for Gangirwal, the Mountain of Death. I shrugged off the eerie thoughts, kissed her on the forehead and walked away without another word; without looking back.

Each step I took forward felt labored, agonizing. I was leaving my picture-perfect life partner behind and couldn’t beat my chest on a safe return. But advance I must. A while later, when the clouds of doubt won’t let up testing my resolve, the powerful imageries of my son sprung forth like a geyser, to rescue me from the doldrums.

A gentle gust of wind was sweeping across the hamlet, wafting through the trees whose leaves swayed in liberty. Enlivened, I expeditiously descended the thickly forested valley into the foothills just a short distance away from the lead party. I imagined Sal still rooted at the spot I had left her, watching me slowly fade out of her sight, and into the valley below.

A barrage of worrying thoughts tugged at me from all sides while trying to clear my mind at the same time. I needed concentration. Tadius was ahead, leading the trail while the rest of us walked behind in solemn silence. Soon, we were plying a prominent spur up the flank of the mountain. To the right is Cameroon and to the left, Nigeria. Abu-Bakr broke the silence by addressing me. “Chief, please let us know when you get tired so we can take a rest.’’

“Okay. But that would be a long time coming though,’’ I returned.

The journey was at its infancy stage. I observed that Ade who had lost much of his sprightliness, was already showing signs of tiredness. About an hour later, he rang the alarm. ‘’We need to take a rest. I’m wearied.’’

Ade is a gangly, spirited lad, full of life and positive energy with a signature smile frequently visiting his visage. But the smiles were absent for now. We had met at a Geologic exhibition where he participated as a photographer. As I walked by his stand, where he was shooting a miniature specimen, his camera handling skills and style of photography sparked my interest. This is the exact sort of guy I’ve been looking for, I thought: detailed, organized, patient and very humble. He was very professional with a vast knowledge of cameras and its accessories. What’s more? He’s always seeking creative new ways for capturing images. We had connected ever since.

‘’You told me you were prepared for this, remember?” I teased.

‘’Sir, you didn’t educate me it was going to be a climb,’’ he countered. ‘’I assumed we were only going for a long walk. This is herculean!’’

“Yes, herculean but achievable. Get your acts together, brother.”

“I am a photographer; you are an accomplished Geologist – you must recognize that we are wired differently sir.”

“With the way you are going, I am afraid you may fail me,” I said, aiming to ginger him up.

“I’ll do my best not to.”

Abu-Bakr was the first to join Ade for the break, with a confession his exhaustion had kicked in much earlier. Bello still had something in his tank. But we all settled for a brief rest all the same.

Off we go again twenty minutes later. But not very long after resumption, Adefisayo sounded out a fresh distress call. “I need a walking stick to aid my balance.’’

The stick was swiftly provided by my Man-Friday. Ade applied it to good effect as there was an immediate improvement to his progress. But even that was short-lived. Barely forty minutes later, he started slowing up again. “I need another stick!’’

“Please, fetch him two sturdy shepherd’s staff.’’ I ordered Bello, who disappeared into the forest and returned in good time with the specification.

“We have another hour and a half to make it half-way,’’ Tadius announced pointedly, looking in Bello’s direction.

Ade struggled to keep up with the team. “There you go, soldier. Just keep moving. We are making progress.’’ I wanted to prod him on as much as possible until we make it half way. With effort, he sustained his movement a few more minutes before he began tottering. His arms hung limp from the shoulders while his legs wobbled: the extra effort was taking a toll on him. Unbeknownst to him, we were already halfway on point. At his wits’ end, he tossed aside both his staff and fell to ground with a thud. “Can’t go beyond this point. I’m done!’’

Jauro Hammasaleh was three hours behind us. Ade lay quiet on the turf, neither saying another word nor responding to anybody’s entreaties. He was truly done. We hovered around him for a while hoping he regains some strength to continue. We used the opportunity to get a breather while deciding what to do with the fallen lensman. Even here, around the location of Ade’s distress, the topographic scenery is astonishingly captivating. Wittingly or unwittingly, the photographer had chosen a spot most apt and relative to his calling, to throw in the towel. I was carried away by the varied beauty of the environment, momentarily forgetting the misfortune of losing my cameraman. It was too much to take in at once; too much to process. My brain became a giant memory card capsule, filled to the brim. I wished the camera had stereoscopic vision to impart a three-dimensional effect to these beautiful impressions from its different angles.

The sun was right overhead, but as typical of temperate zones, offered no relief from the spiraling cold.

Ade had fallen asleep right there on the grass. Imagine that!

“You are going to have to keep an eye on him,’’ I instructed Tadius.

“No problem sir,’’ he accepts.

We remained there for about twenty minutes before it dawned on me that another photo session on location was desirable. Left with no option, I had to wake Ade up and talk him into a premature final lap. After managing to squeeze out a few exposures, his fatigue hit home again and it appeared his camera had suddenly grown too heavy to bear. He gently set it to the ground.

“You can go on with the camera sir,’’ he offers in a low, tired voice as he sank to the floor. Ade’s gaze was fixated on the skies while he groped around dramatically with both hands, like a blind man trying to locate his walking stick. Seconds on, I observe him tilting slowly but steadily to his side till he was flat on the ground again. The photographer was back to slumber. I felt sorry for him.

Drained of energy, any additional gram of luggage would surely hasten me to breaking point. Ade’s camera weighed by the kilograms. He lay prostrate on the ground with the mid finger loosely hooking his camera strap while Tadius stood watch over him. The two had reached their zenith: one by design, the other by default. Tadius, though evidently distraught by the unexpected turn of events, gracefully accepted his new task.

“It’s time to go,’’ I announced with the authority of a General leading a dangerous skirmish. The rest of the crew smartened up in response.

And then there were three!

Abu-Bakr was now to lead the final assault. He was the only Ranger left. We covered a lot of ground before he announced it won’t be long before we arrived the destination. I was constantly struggling to stay up and strong; bravely determined not to give away any hint of my relentless fight against lassitude. Beautiful sights lay before us in their preponderance while the gumption for pressing forward dwindled variously from one individual to another. All the while, I was trying to crystalize the aura of the endless sea of rock outcrops as the swarm of ridges in their dizzying clusters and varied configurations kept throwing themselves up. It was like living in a third dimension. I was humbly awed. The entire space felt like a ghost habitat, crafted by some invincible creator with a phantom caretaker who assiduously lawns the magnificent landscape, perpetually leaving it a simmering sanctuary of emerald green.

We crawled along, every one of us gasping for breath on the go. To conserve energy, we ceased conversation. The entire experience at this point was akin to an unscripted heroic scene from an adventure motion picture: surreal, yet true. The journey heightened with its unpredictable twists and turns. Soon, the labyrinthine of pathways converged into a singular pointer, indicative of the nearness to the ultimate destination. The upper surface of the mountain carries a flora unique to Nigeria. Most of it is covered in montane grassland. Local streams are frayed with narrow strips of montane shrubs and small patches of forest, while the precipitous faces and slopes of the mountain habour luxurious montane forests.

Wobbly like cooked spaghetti, my legs could barely hold. Yet, I managed to keep trudging, determined not to be the first among the group to proclaim distress. A little while later, we were walking through a very narrow alley with abysmal gorges on both sides. Though an acrophobic, I was adequately stable irrespective of the dizzying height. This in itself, is the mark of ingenuity and human progress, I told myself. To one far end is a barefaced, massively intimidating plug or prominent volcanic rocky spire locally referred to as Dutsen Dodo. The spire, sprouting majestically from a chasm all the way skywards hypnotized us in our tracks. According to local myth, an old and very bad-tempered grey-bearded keeper of Gangirwal, sleeps at the base of this rock. Disturbing him is to invite great misfortune, hence the rocks’ ominous title – Mountain of Death. At this very juncture, we must span the gulf, like performing a rite of passage to and from the Zenith. Paradoxically, hardly can any sight be more spectacular.

We clambered on with the unsteady gait of a toddler learning to walk. I recalled the words of Miguel de Cervantes who wrote: …In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd. My team was already thick in the absurd, or so it seemed. Yet, Miguel’s narrative bespoke of heroism, extreme courage and uncommon determination. My entire senses were numbed; my body muscles sore and achy. Worse still, I had developed an impaired-decision making reflex. Wearied, exhausted and dehydrated, but for family pride, it would have mattered no more if I gave up or trip and fall into ignominy.

Absolutely spent, we travelled for what seemed an eternity before arriving at another thickly forested segment with tree canopies towering very high. My throat had become awfully dry. By now, we were out of everything except life. But of what substance is life without water? We weren’t going to survive for much longer anyway. Our endurance hung in the balance.

Then, barely another excruciating mile, the air around us was filled with the hopeful sound of slowly flowing river. Alas, we had located respite: an oasis on the mountain! Hygiene took a back seat as we fell flat on our faces, gulping directly from the mysterious pool. Done drinking, my countenance quickly improved. I squatted on the grass and heaved a sigh of temporary relief.

Revived and a great deal refreshed, we filled our water bottles and moved on, aiming to cover as much ground as possible before we inevitably begin losing steam again. Abu-Bakr and Bello were just as tired, which was understandable. I did okay by myself, despite a few failings. Abu-Bakr had just announced we were almost there. Regardless of the cheery news, when fatigue finally hit home again, it got me so bad that I crashed straight onto the ground, palpitating for a couple of minutes. I couldn’t be helped, and that’s because none of us was fit enough to engineer any. Everyone was battling their own demons. When I was myself again, I squinted inquisitively into my GPS receiver. It read above 2,300m: we had one leg on the summit! The realization bolstered my morale. Looming in my subconscious was the encouraging image of Jamil: that beloved son of mine. He stood studiously observing my snail-like progression. We all could smell the zenith now, but possessed not enough strength for a photo-finish. Still fledgling, I mustered the last vestige of strength to inch towards the finish line. It’s in view now: a mound, about 1.5m high, of carefully heaped angular shaped basaltic rock fragments, with patches of whitish mold discoloration from exposure to insufficient semi-temperate sunlight. There it was, just about a hundred meters away, but the lift of each foot felt like a ton. Like the legendary beleaguered Greek soldiers amid the throes of war, I gathered myself together, sluggishly rose up to my feet and straightened. Laboriously, I dragged one foot after the other, and in this manner, travelled over what seemed like a considerable distance, trailing Abu-Bakr. It beat me how I achieved it, but I did. Shortly thereafter, I slipped into a trance-like state. Like a mirage, there was my son again, his celestial image beaming effusively this time and proudly declaring in a surprisingly booming voice: “I told you my father will trade everything to stake this claim.’’ His entire frame then lit up in bright lights as he pumped his right hand in the direction of the finishing line, urging me to breast the invincible tape.

I did, Providentially.

It was like crossing the Rubicon. I just laid there, sprawled on the ground, face up, as if star-gazing in broad daylight. I was weakly ecstatic. I couldn’t be prouder. I imagined myself in the middle of an ancient coliseum: a victorious Roman warrior in a gladiatorial contest, being cheered relentlessly by the crowd in a deafening arena. According to an anonymous quote: the positive thinker sees the invisible, feels the intangible and achieves the impossible.

I had assured myself, saying:

This is my moment.

This is my day!

Success of this magnitude can be therapeutic indeed. I recovered my breath and presence of mind speedily. Immediately following the restoration, I sat up, took a studious look at my GPS. What did I see?

Date: 10.12.2019

Coordinate: 07 01 52.2N, 011 43 00.0E

Elevation: 2,428m

Accuracy: 27.6ft

The sight before me was breathtaking. I looked around the vast, endless, indeterminable frontier. It is a phenomenal desert of Rocks offering the best panoramic natural landscape carved out of swirling basaltic rocks. Standing upon this fortress, at these narrow bounds of altitude, I understood why this peak is spoken about in hushed reverential tones. This is the only spot where giant waves of drifting clouds kiss the crust, yes right here. The experience is aptly captured by a quote from a rock hound documentary:

…the mountain will always stand proud, the breathtaking symbol of our spirited adventure, of our need to explore and desire to conquer. 

Admittedly, I never felt this far away from home or so insignificantly small. The ageless longing, almost obsessive yearning has been fulfilled and for the very first time in my geologic professional life, I acknowledge this as a significant milestone.

Chappal Waddi peak is a sprawling twenty-one square Kilometers of marvel. I had managed to wriggle through to the threshold of history, being the first indigenous Geologist to summit the testosterone-inducing Chappal Waddi, in all of Nigeria’s 100 years as a republic. Here I was atop the roof of my country, hovering above 200 million Nigerians at far over 2,000m all the way down below. This wasn’t the first of my extreme expeditions though. I had in times past, variously toured just about every geopolitical region’s significant geologic sites, racking up invaluable experience in the process. I give profound praise to God for the privilege.

Regaling in a graceful sense of accomplishment, I sprang to my feet, held aloft my life-saving water bottle, its hue matching the azure blue skies. The cold mist was soothing, mixing with the telltale droplet of tears cascading down my blank cheeks. It was emotion overload for me. I stood still, seeking good balance and poise prerequisite to this impending final worded implosion. I was prepped for a symbolic tough love salute to an immensely beloved fruit from my loin; the apple of my eye I had lost at his sweetest. Audaciously, and in a voice laden with undiluted passion, I bellowed:  “J-A-M-I-L!

This one is for you!”

Little echo greeted my announcement, but twenty-one square kilometers of undisturbed high-rise nature bore witness to this personal moment in time. The message, like the expedition itself, was successfully delivered. From being fired up, I gradually begun calming down, my chest heaving in irregular sequence. Only now did I drop my upraised hand. In its wake, I uncapped the bottle and took a singular celebratory drag off it, clicking my tongue to savor its revamped taste, in a generational toast to my boy. My heart was light now. A burdensome yearning has been fulfilled.

Abu-Bakr reminded that it was a tradition for tourists to pass the night on the summit. Along with Bello, they tried to convince me we had little chance of making it back in our devitalized conditions. Come to think of it, all previous visitors had arrived with camping gear for a night, sometimes several nights. I weighed the pros and cons and decided we must leave by all means necessary. First, the cold was too dangerous to risk and second, Sal will likely conclude that the expedition had gone awry and may suffer a heart condition from the enfeebling thought. Either consideration leaves us with only one option: vacate the area immediately.

I wasted no time in pronouncing the marching order.

“We must head out now!’’

A hurried photograph session by phone cameras quickly played out, with Abu-Bakr demonstrating the most excitement. I have been studying him since regaining my full presence of mind. His undiluted exhilaration and general demeanor weren’t consistent with a Gangirwal veteran, which easily gave him away on his earlier claims.

“You don’t look to have been here before, admit it.’’

His chaotic dentition was exposed in a tawdry, wry smile. ‘’It’s my first time, really,’’ he confesses in negation of his previous assertions, thereby vindicating what I had suspected. Though a Ranger, but like us, this was his maiden visit. He had lied to earn a false credit. I needed not dwell any further on the matter since we had a more critical return leg of the entire expedition at hand. Bearing in mind the plethora of impediments we had encountered on our way up, descent, along with its own peculiar challenges, could either lead us home or God forbid it, to perdition. Everyone knew that going down was going to be tempestuous. But we had to go down anyway.

And so, the climb-down began.

Soon, there was a real time general confirmation that descent was more challenging. Stamina is required, so is stability, focus and lady luck. I was mortified to discover how unstable I had become, regardless of the most recent recess taken. I believed everybody else was in the same state. My foot grip upon the treacherous slopes had weakened. The quiver of our eyes and shakiness of every step taken grew more palpable by the minute. We remained reticent, either due to lethargy or will to conserve what was left of our charge.

Upon return at the mysterious oasis, we enjoyed another round of refreshment from its pool. The energy-sapping events which had occurred leading up to arrival at the oasis on the two occasions we had, confirms the African proverb which says: ‘When you carry your water, you will know the real value of every drop.’ At the most critical moments along the expedition when dehydration had set in, every man-jack of us would have chosen a few drops of water over a kilo of Diamonds.

We moved on. From the distance, the outlines of our left-over companions began to gradually emerge. The welcome sight gifted us a temporary burst of energy. We tumbled on with much effort, eating up the distance and soon, everyone was delighted to be reunited with Tadius and the photographer. Ade was still at asleep upon the grassy open plains, unaware of our presence.

I jabed him in the ribs. “Wake up, dude.’’

He stirred with a little grunt, repositioned himself and went right back to business. Piqued, I followed with a measured kick, which jarred him to consciousness.

“Ah, Oga!’’ he sat up begrudgingly.

I crashed to the floor just beside him. Bello and Abu-Bakr did same. Any sort of breather is always welcome. “We are beleaguered,’’ I said, looking towards Ade. “We need to get ourselves out of here before it’s too late.’’

“I’ll do my best sir,’’ he muttered.

“You have no choice, brother. We are homeward bound anyway. It’s either that or we acquiesce to the uncertainties of a night of spooky, Rocky wilderness.”

Yet, the thought of navigating downward isn’t the least bit appetizing. We have lost stamina, clout and for those of us who have been to the top, a bit of original enthusiasm. Only the nostalgic longing for home and in my case, the strong willpower to survive and keep telling our story kept us going. Again, I marveled at the ironic contrast between the colorful, ebullient and knee-length matrix of blooming flowers delicately swaying to the gust of cold wind all around us, and the uneasy, eerie silence that delivers a creepy and spine-chilling feeling. It reminded me of the beauty and the beast. When the anxiety and creepiness of the entire space began getting to me, I jumped up to my feet and looked around to ensure we had left nothing of value behind. Tadius was up already.

“Guys, we need to move. It’s a long way down.’’

As we psychologically prepared for departure, the spirituality in me crept to the fore. More than ever before, the desire for a safe return was democratically overwhelming at this point in time. Turning away from the rest, I supplicated to my Maker in a low, solemn voice: “Our Lord, you have been with us thus far. Please, stay with us and lead us home in one piece. Amin.” And my mind was at rest.

I am not certain that any other among the team had noticed the covert entreaty. I hoped none did. Ade carried on with the air of someone who was at self-denial. The hitherto ebullient and trendy artist was reduced to a sheepish follower. I couldn’t much help him since the reality of the moment put every man’s fate in their own hands. So, I got myself together and with Bello, stormed after Tadius who was already off in the lead. One furtive look over my shoulder before plunging into a deep gorge right ahead and I noticed Ade and Abu-Bakr had hopelessly resolved to tag along.

Tadius duteously prevailed on the terrain, guiding us through the confusing maze of deciduous trees, spooking the birds which desperately flapped their wings in hurried flights. It was as though he had an inbuilt GPS signal receiver. Relentless, I managed to maintain a stable distance behind him, but at other times, I had to call out his name whenever he had vanished into the thick forest.

We continued, grabbing at tree trunks and low-hanging branches for balance every now and then to ward off the risk of plummeting into the crevasse below. Though depleted of oxygen, we took rest only a couple of times, our chests heaving heavily from the exertion. The right leg sole of my Italian shoes had ripped open half-way and the resultant flip-flopping was slowing me down. I had to tear it all off for the remainder of the journey, saving the specimen for a personal souvenir. Sure enough on a mission of this magnitude, my right foot soon became vulnerable and I began to feel the weight of my body over the loose, weathered gravels and rocks with every footstep. This not only slowed me down but was also extremely discomforting. I had to device a style of walking that circumvented leaning my entire weight on the foot.

I had a close shave with tragedy somewhere down the line. The going wasn’t getting any easier when I inadvertently slipped off a thick pile of gravelly screes on a steep slope. Without premonition of danger, the initial warning came in the form of a wheezing, fast travelling projectile. I launched forward to grab at a tree trunk just below me, effectively avoiding whatever was coming. Just when I thought I was safe, I overheard a rumble, and then glanced back to see an avalanche of loose rocks thundering in my direction. Instinctively, I let go of the trunk and dashed downwards, hurtling under gravity along the slope. There was no time to think as it all happened too quickly. By the time the seismic rumble had quieted down, I was on all fours, breathing profusely. Disaster was averted. My prayers were working. This Ranger, Tadius, is by every definition a professional. With a Jack-knife tightly strapped on his waist and the shotgun across his back, he untiringly sliced through the forest like a Red Indian warrior. Attentive, sure-footed and keen-eyed with all senses on full alert, he was the lifeline without which I had no idea what becomes of our fate. On top of it all, Tadius spoke less, which occurred nearly the entire time, and responded only when spoken to.

We had lost sight of Ade and Abu-Bakr who we knew for sure were somewhere behind. Well, at least Ade was in the company of a Ranger. We hinged our hope on the belief that they would somehow find their way. My feet trembled from infirmity and starvation. At the time, dusk had vanished and Tadius was too far ahead for me to enquire how much longer we had to endure before Hammasaleh. With doubled effort, we soon caught up with him. But the going had gotten so hectic that between the three of us – Tadius, Bello and I – none had the reserve ability to utter a word, let alone start a conversation. We were simply dead men walking.

We kept slumbering on through pitch darkness, with Tadius’ flashlight serving to illuminate the pathway. A hair’s breadth from reaching breaking point, we observed what seemed like a faint glow of indiscernible ray of light in the distance. We were at the final hurdle: the last gorge, just behind a major flowing river. Enveloped in utter darkness, we faced the crucible, all three of us, desperately seeking ways for overcoming it. Both Bello and I had become too feeble to launch across.

After two failed attempts under the watchful eyes of Bello, who wasn’t ambitious enough to even dare, and Tadius, whose reflex had become too languid to bear another man’s burden, it was eventually this same durable Tadius who had against all odds, summoned the strength and courage from God knows where, to practically hoist us up and across. I owe so much to him.

Frazzled, at just about 8pm, we climbed out to Hammasaleh with roars of Jubilation acknowledging our triumphant entry. One after the other, we trickled in. Ade was the last man to surface. When he eventually did, I was overly relieved. How in the world would I have gone about reporting a tragedy involving him? Shriveled, deflated and famished, I managed a confirming look across the line of fellow survivors, all bent over, gasping for breath.

There was no ‘last man standing.’ We had all arrived as smoldering wrecks.

Word of our victorious return quickly permeated the hamlet and shortly, we were cordoned, with everyone gawking at us like we were some apparition. Even then, there were a good number of cynics and doubters amongst the gathering, evidenced by their sardonic whisperings. Photographs vindicated us. Only then did their faces light up in genuine celebration.

Sal showed up amid the hubbub with worry lines all over her face. I jerked myself erect out of a powerful longing to know she is alright; to be in her presence again, and reached out to her. She delightedly dissolved into my warm embrace, misty eyed.

“I was petrified,’’ she muttered. “I have been praying and hoping all the while that the worst shouldn’t befall you guys. They keep saying it’s the mountain of death.’’ She added.

“Our boy, Jamil, can rest now. By God, I have kept our promise.’’

By this time, night has fully settled in and since no man born of a woman would even contemplate continuing on back to Njawai in the like of our famished condition, we accepted Yerima Sule’s meal offer. Apparently, the clan had been busy all day preparing a feast. What we got was a buffet: everything was in there. Honestly, and without exaggeration, this singular gesture saved our lives.  As the locals watched under the full glare of countless lanterns illuminating the carnival while we devoured the banquet, I adopted a new resolution: to become a better human being.

I have to be. I was overwhelmed by this show of unconditional, underserved kindness, so much that when our departure hour arrived, I stood rooted at the middle of the hamlet square to the amazement of onlookers, unmoving for minutes. The women willingly parted with quite a bit of souvenirs and takeaways from their meager possessions, thereby further galvanizing the humanitarian fire in me. From that moment on, I knew I was never going to attain inner peace and a meaningful life if I didn’t replicate this gesture to other human beings, consistently.

Since I was incapable of expressing gratitude on behalf of the rest owing to language barrier, I invited one of the bike riders who was the most lingually qualified amongst the team, to transmit my words in Fulfulde. We drew close: me and Yerima Sule. I took his hand in mine and both our grips mutually tightened as we rocked to the warmest of handshakes. These were happy people who placed small premium on material things, it seemed to me, and since I had none to offer them anyway, I channeled all my appreciation, coming right from the depths of my heart, into this handshake, holding onto Yerima’s palms like my life depended upon them. His bright smile and subdued gaze were matched by mine as I stared right back at him, conjuring up the split image of a proper genteel; the perfect gentleman leading a thoroughly hospitable people. Beyond Yerima, just behind him, was an old woman dancing gaily to no music, in celebration of the show of mutual love between her leader and a total stranger: two different people brought together by providence. The sight provoked a second emotion overflow. Surreptitiously, I cast a sweeping look across the line of swaying onlookers standing in witness to this exceedingly emotional moment. Words refused to come out of my mouth, but I knew I must say something: the right things. Tears stood in my eyes, blurring my vision as I began, emotively. “Tell him,” I croaked, carefully selecting my words:

“I don’t know about the afterlife. But here, on Earth, for as long as we live, we shall never forget this. Not this day. No, not this community’s brotherly outreach.”

Our hands were still intertwined. Upon the rider’s translation, Yerima nodded his head vigorously in acknowledgement. The tears were rolling down my cheeks now, steadily, drop after drop.

“Tell him also that he and his people, by their acts of kindness, are unwittingly making the world a better place.” My voice shook in irregular cadence.

“The love they have given today shall be passed on to the next man we meet after departing Hammasaleh. Above all, I personally have learnt from you the true meaning of contentment. For this

priceless gift I am eternally grateful. Thank you. Thank you very much indeed.”

The profoundness and sincerity of my words tore the veneer holding off his tears. Next thing I knew, we were in each other’s embrace, holding tight like long lost brothers. He uttered no words. He couldn’t.

We just hugged each other, waves of emotion rocking our beings.

Slowly, I disengaged to be face to face with him once again saying:

“On behalf of my crew,’’ I declared, indicating the team, “I thank you for everything. God bless you all.’’ That final word required no translation. Yerima had a fair idea of its import.

“It’s our pleasure to receive you all,’’ he responded through the interpreter.

I turned away and walked clumsily towards the waiting bikes. My rider exchanged a few more banters with his familiar friends before catching up with me. With just one stroke of command, the machine roared to life. I was the last to mount and the last to exit. A few seconds after my man had engaged gear and headed out of the assemblage, I turned around for one final look-see and there they were, waving their spirited goodbyes even as my convoy had already put scores of yards behind them, navigating the winding undulations and gradually fading into the early night.

Even though the paths remained just as we had traveled it earlier in the day, this time around, owing to darkness, they seemed narrower, lonelier and sinister. We would ride skyward, then plummet down giant topographic waves through ravines and forests so thick that moonlight struggled to penetrate. Even the skyline, including the stars, were invisible. Noise and illumination emanated exclusively from the bike convoy. The night was bone-marrow chilling cold with our every speech spewing misted frost. My hands were frostbitten. Countless times, we have had to alight and walk uphill leaving the bike men riding single and at other times support the bikes to scale over difficult segments. The struggle between man and machine came to a dramatic head when one of the bikes developed a mechanical fault nearly halfway into the journey. Stranded out in the middle of nowhere with the frigidity intensifying, we were in dire straits. As always, Sal was a major concern. All six riders hovered around the faulty machine, seeking to restore it to order. The Rangers, along with the rest of the crew, knowing little or nothing about motorcycle engines, only stood by, watching expectantly.

I opened a conversation just to keep us in high spirits. “How will our story be told?’’ I put forth, addressing no one in particular. “What is the driving force behind each and everyone’s participation in this odyssey?”

I received no response. The distant crashing sound of a running stream was audible to us. Undiscouraged, I changed the topic saying: “Do you guys agree that the sound of running water while one is at meditation, does possess amazing healing powers?’’ still no response. Seemed everyone was only interested in getting out. The scenario was scathing for them, traumatic for me, being the convener of the expedition. Ade has been unusually lackluster since departing Hammasaleh, and it worried me that the rigours of the expedition may have affected his psyche. Without the thick over jackets, we all ran the risk of hypothermia. Riotous thoughts occupied my mind. There was only one means by which we can get out of here: the bike. What happens in the event that the fault can’t be rectified? What alternative is available to us? Even if I am able to squeeze Sal on my bike, what becomes of the faulty bike and its rider, knowing fully well it’s impossible to evacuate both man and faulty machine? We may end up in a stalemate here.

But the bike attendants were determined to overcome the challenge. They stayed at it for about forty minutes, buoyed by combined heads and the will to succeed. Eventually, I heard the bike responded to command as it was resuscitated. I automatically let out an exasperated sigh, pleased with the repair team. I would have rewarded them handsomely if I’d had the means. Done with the reset, we jumped back on the road.

Darkness engulfed us. We rode in silence once again, with prayers on everybody’s lips, no doubt. The immediate environment and its surroundings were so treacherous and barely accessible that if these mountainous regions had been a hotbed of the banditry currently plaguing the Nation, the malady would be extremely difficult to contain. I have been to every State in Nigeria and there is hardly any other location that compares to this North Eastern highlands in terms of altitude, difficulty of terrain, remoteness and paradoxically, beauty. It’s a different planet out here.

Amid the tribulations, we managed to pose, albeit reluctantly, for a nocturnal photograph with Ade’s enthusiasm almost all gone. I guessed he was fed up with the hassles. We all were. I was occupied with mine too and Sal’s to pay much mind to another’s.

We kept on till we hit the next valley. The riders strutted their stuff excellently. The dexterity by which they fluidly maneuvered around impossible terrains and under pitch darkness was second to none. From the valley, an unstable sprinkle of bright lights was distantly visible against the night skyline. We sailed uphill towards it. Nearing the brightness, we found a mighty billow from a naked conflagration raging through, fueled by the gentle winds, speedily consuming the dry grasses. The emanating heat offered temporary reprieve. We tarried by it for momentary warmth.

By the time we finally arrived Njawai, it was past 1:30am. We had crossed the midnight hour mark on the road. The Rangers alighted at their camp. They were home at last. Ade, Bello, Sal and I proceeded straight to our accommodation. The weather was unbearably frigid. I don’t remember having ever gotten into bed so fast. On this occasion, I do remember darting in indecorously, threw an arm around Sal and losing consciousness of my surroundings almost immediately upon contact with body and beddings. Sleep had conquered the Geologist in double quick time!

 

DAY 4 (11.12.2009)

GOING HOME

You don’t learn to walk by following the rules. You learn by doing, and falling over. Richard Branson.

I woke up to a nagging nostalgia. It was early dawn. I longed to be home worse than a kid hankered for ice cream. Sal was awake herself, silent, eyes wide open and roving the dull ceilings. “Good morning darling,’’ I greeted.

“Good morning. I have been wondering, you know. Was Gulliver’s Travels any different than this experience?’’ she prodded, sitting up to face me.

“I can’t tell. They lived in a different time.’’

“Well, marrying you has made my life one long, unending adventure.’’ Sal’s forehead furrowed.

“Come to think of it, did Gulliver always travel with his wife?’’

“Honestly, I have no idea. But I bet any adventure-loving woman will kill to be in your shoes,’’ I taunted. “And vice versa,” added Sal hurriedly, preening all the while. “In my next life, I’ll seek you.’’

“Aw, you will?” I drew her close and planted a reassuring kiss on her forehead. “I’ll forever cherish your companionship and the beautiful memories we’ve developed together. I want to thank you in advance, for a lifetime of brilliant color.’’

I had barely gotten off the bed to begin the day’s chores when Sal jolted me with a crazy ask.

“Where’s the next expedition?’’

I stopped in my tracks, almost betraying my tough guy reputation. I have just had close shaves with disaster; endured the most trying conditions and lost skin to multiple scars. We were still in the twilight of one odyssey, and here was my wife suggesting another? But it’s all good. Having impressed on her from the get go that I am ever welcoming of adventurism in whatever form, she had come to see me in the light of a superhuman. It does good to the ego that she keeps seeing me that way, I reasoned.

Based on this justification, I timely regrouped myself. “Oh, the Serengeti; Kilimanjaro; Everest or maybe New Zealand. Just take your pick.”

“Wow!’’ she exclaimed, lacing her boots. “I’d love to do Kilimanjaro!”

I shuddered inwardly. The Kill-man-jaro: way more treacherous than the Gangirwal!

Ade and Bello were already waiting. So, we strolled over to the Rangers camp, stopping over at Mallam’s for a deserved quick cup of hot coffee. There, we encountered Tadius and Abu-Bakr who were already having theirs. Together, we all proceeded to the house of Jauro Ahmadu, the chief of Njawai.

The Chief was aware of our coming. Dressed in a neat, flowing garment, he looked his part. Introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged after which I read out my rehearsed speech: ‘’Our noble father, chief Jauro Ahmadu, I wish to, on behalf of my team, express our profound gratitude for your hospitality, more so that our coming was at a very short notice. That is the mark of a true host. Let it be advocated that building a great country like ours require participation, not wishful thinking. By your singular gesture Sir, along with like kindness demonstrated in times past, as attested to by our new friends, you have indeed demonstrated the exemplary leadership quality we so much need today to unite us. We vow to follow in your footsteps and pass the practice forward. Ultimately, humanity should be the better for it. I pray God continue to strengthen you. May the mutual cooperation existing between your community and The Nigeria Park Service continue to wax stronger, to the glory of God and benefit of mankind. Once again, I thank you immensely.’’

The Chief responded by thanking us for visiting and assured we are always welcome at any time. He also gave assurance of Njawai’s continued support to tourism causes and urged us to be good ambassadors of the country in whatever capacity we find ourselves.

He shot a few photographs with us after which he shook hands with everyone. When the Chief was through with the last man, he, in the company of subjects, ceremoniously departed from the arena.

Word spread quickly and our Bikers were summoned to the public square. They, like us, had become local heroes. Exchange of pleasantries and negotiations for return to Nguroje were agreed before another round of photograph involving Bikers and sundry people took place. On a lighter mood, I parodied myself over the previous close shave with the avalanche and this elicited a cacophony of impetuous laughter. With our packs already fastened on the bikes, we mounted sequentially and filed out to an anticipated long return journey.

I was already mesmerized by the success of the expedition. Whenever the rocking motorcycle permitted, I would launch into a mental recap of the fresh experiences recently gained. The bittersweet events rolled off in my head one after the other: the people; the food and famish; the drama; the toil; the adrenaline rush… Besides field Geology and spontaneous adventure, what else could be more fulfilling than delving into unchartered realms impactful to meaningful living? These bold undertakings are instrumental to breaking barriers and opening fresh vistas; substantiating what’s only theorized or re-presenting hitherto erroneously held ideals and models from a new, futuristic perspective beneficial to humanity. This pilgrimage had taken us to the edge of many variables: civilization; nature; fear; strife; oblivion; time and many more, all within the context of Eden’s garden, right within the Gotel Mountains.  We continued through the huge dust clouds occasioned by the fleeing bike convoy. I scanned the far horizon and noticed, not as before, the ubiquitous huge rings of thick-red piles of lateritic conical hills, possibly catalyzed by episodic geologic events. This is Nigeria’s Grand Canyon.

I was still at reverie when that remarkable Ranger, Tadius Samuel, leading our return convoy to ensure we weren’t imperiled, made a stop at Mayo Urbo Choice, a village along the route, to visit his sister. We alighted for a short break and another photo session before moving on. Two significant and memorable events occurred before our arrival into Nguroje. The first was at a scenic, picturesque countryside with its sublime landscape. It had a giant inviting basaltic rock boulder idling on the floor. Right there, I sought break from Tadius and climbed over it, pulling Sal along. There, I took her hand in mine, reminiscent of the first time I proposed matrimony. Upon the basaltic outcrop, I went down on one knee and expressed my re-commitment. She was pleasantly surprised by my spontaneity:

I said: “Aside finding God, you are the best decision I’ve ever made.’’ she stared back down at me, gaze for gaze. “I have loved you from the moment I saw you. Now and again, I find reasons to adore you even more.’’

Sal was swept off her feet in the heat of the well timed, stock-taking moment complemented by the rare, natural ambience of the vicinity.  Repeatedly, she lovingly patted my palm by her free hand. Tears, love and emotion all stood vividly in her eyes.

“For you, I will straddle the stars;

Walk the Moon;

I will invoke the winds and stir the waters;

Through invincible Planets, I will seek you again.

Just so you know, your love I’ll forever court.’’

Sal’s decent attempt at poetry impressed me. It was her first.

“Thanks for travelling through Earth with me,’’ I said in appreciation, and rose to square up with her.

She offered no more words in return. Her eyes spoke her belief. Unabashedly and under the witness of Tadius, Bello, Ade and bewildered bike men, Sal bent forward, held my face still between both her hands and gave me a kiss that was between us, eternal.

The photograph was shot in silhouette. Those moments remain frozen.

The second significant event involved the chance meeting with an Italian adventurer, Ivan Bianconi, from 9001 Miles, a global bike confraternity. At the time, he’s been on the road for eight months, bicycling from Italy to South Africa en route Nigeria. He projects to arrive his final destination in another six months, based on his rate of progression. Ivan was environmentally friendly to a point that he wouldn’t discard his biscuit wrap anywhere on the grounds, choosing instead to tuck it away somewhere in his bicycle. When I had volunteered to assist him trash the waste, he passed it on only after extracting an oath to keep to my promise. I shared our mission with him after a lively photo session and he was thoroughly impressed.

We parted ways with Ivan on a high note. With our party in good spirits, we pushed for Nguroje en route Serti for a well-deserved rest. On the cards the following day was Yola, where I had another date with the spectacular Columnar Basalts.

By the time we arrived Nguroje, it was well past 2pm. Tadius had gone out of his way to see us off this far. He was such an incredible human being to whom I feel hugely indebted. Deep in my heart of hearts, I knew I would see him again. Have to see him again. We bade him another round of emotional farewell before hiring the service of a local transporter to convey us to Serti.

We were back to our original strength: the three men and a lady. The home squad, with the exception of Bello, that set out from Abuja four days earlier. It’s been a long, rough, eventful adventure. Our bodies ached. Silence for the most part, dominated this leg of our return as our vehicle bumped on. Sal and I had the backseats to ourselves while Ade and Bello kept the driver company. Childishly, I anticipated taking a passing glance at my symbolic ‘Boogeyman monster Rock’ once again. Only a couple of hours away, Sal and I were familiar with the scenario. In due course, as we glided down the plateau towards Serti, the monster rock gradually fell into view. As we drove by, I took a good look for the umpteenth time and grinned sheepishly. I reasoned there must be something bohemian about a well-traveled geologist’s fancies.

“Why are you smiling?’’ demanded Sal.

“Have you read Bill Clinton’s book titled My Life?’’

“No, why?’’

“He’s my role model, you know.’’

“That much I know, but what about his book?’’

“I like his birthplace – Arkansas,’’ I returned evasively.

“I still don’t get your drift, Gulliver.’’

“Relax, my dear. We will get there. I’m particularly fascinated by the name of its capital city.’’ We were at the bumpy section of the dirt road, several yards off the rock’s mouth, and forced to slow down.

“Which is?’’

“It’s known as Little Rock,’’ I uttered, with a hint of allegory.

Sal shot me a sharp look before bumping her fist into my chest. She’s game now.

“Is that why you won’t even stop to pay respects to our rock?’’ she enquires with a made-up frown on her face.

“I don’t need to,’’ I countered without delay. “Infantry Generals don’t look back to vanquished territories.’’

We hit Serti well before nightfall. When the gates flung open and our hired vehicle revved into the Park Service Resort, we were received not as mere guests this time, but as geo-tourism conquistadors.

The feeling was good.

According to the Greeks, what we achieve in life echoes through eternity. My geologic journey is a work in progress, with this real-life geo-expedition constituting another of its milestone building blocks. Harmonious tunes of discouragement haven’t been in short supply each time I set forth, but the burning desire to know; impact, reinvent and win has always trumped doubt. This successful foray into a supposedly sinister enclave is a clear testimony to man’s resilience and defiance to overwhelming odds in his quest for excellence. Fittingly, and on the strength of this accomplishment, we can lay genuine claim to that old, infrequently applied but coveted victory anthem by which I am signing off on this piece: we came, we saw and against all odds, we conquered.

 

Postscript 

The road to glory has been so rough and full of twists it largely accommodated aesthetic evaluation at the expense of the traditional petrologic probing, largely due to the essence. Geologically, according to Bawden & Tuley (1966), three main types of rocks are to be found underlying the Mambila Plateau region:

Basement Complex: basement rocks underlying the lowland plains outcrop as isolated rocky hills and low ranges with a serrated outline. In the highlands they form massive, steep sided hills and mountain ranges with an angular, structurally controlled drainage pattern. The rocks consist of scattered remnants of highly metamorphosed sedimentary rocks, and diverse, predominantly granitic plutonic masses, collectively known as the Older Granites. The Oldest rocks comprise remnants of an ancient sedimentary series now almost entirely transformed into migmatites and granites. Biotite-Gneiss and hornblendeGneiss are among the most frequently occurring types. The Older Granites vary considerably in structure, texture and mineralogy. They can be divided into three major divisions: syntectonic granites, which are by far the most extensive, fine-grained granites and basic and intermediate plutonic rocks. The granitic members are generally rich in potash. The Basement rocks have been intruded by dykes of varying composition which gives rise to prominent linear features in the landscape. Considerable faulting and warping has affected these rocks and this, in association with strong rectangular jointing, gives rise to the characteristically angular drainage pattern.

Superficial deposits of concretionary ironstone occur scattered throughout the region, frequently forming resistant caps. They vary considerably in texture but are generally vesicular and contain oolitic or pisolitic ironstone. The broad distribution of these deposits and their mode of origin have been discussed by du Preez (1949).

Volcanic Rocks: Extensive tertiary volcanic rocks occur as highland plateaux in the Mambilla area and in the Shebshi Mountains. Elsewhere these and similar more recent formations occurs as scattered local lava flows or plugs. They consist mainly of basalt with some trachyte, rhyolite, tuff and agglomerate.

Recent Deposits: recent alluvium deposits, poorly sorted sands, silt and gritty clays may be found in several of the larger valleys.

Generally speaking,

Most of the park area is thought to be underlain by rocks of the Basement Complex (Lower Palaeozoic to pre-Cambrian) with some basaltic outliers capping the highest summits. Certain highland regions, such as the fillinga Plateau, are said to be underlain by Tertiary to Recent Basalt indicating past volcanic activity in the area. Flat summit areas within the Gotel Mountains for example, may owe their origin, at least in part, to near horizontal lava flows. Volcanic plugs are evident in some areas, most notably Jabure, a tall volcanic rising on the northern escarpment of Chappal Waddi (Tuley and Jackson, 1971), and there are also two other volcanic plugs below the south-western escarpment of Gangirwal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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