The wind on Kilimanjaro has a way of announcing itself long before the summit appears: it moves through the heath and moorland like a restless animal, shifting cloud and light across the bare slopes until suddenly the ragged silhouette of Kibo rises into view. On the first morning you step beneath a green cathedral—the rainforest that holds the Machame Gate—wet spoor in the mud, moss dripping from the branches, porters’ laughter folding into the trees. By day four the canopy gives way to bleak scree and glittering ice, and the mountain’s personality changes from generous and green to high, dry, and uncompromising.