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It was a Christmas present from my girlfriend, Laura. It was a gift that she knew I would love and that, equally, she had absolutely no interest in sharing: a two-day hike through mud and dense tropical forest to the highest point in Rwanda and back again, all being well. Mount Karisimbi stands on the border between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo in the middle of the Volcanoes National Park. Gazetted in 1925, it is the oldest designated national park in Africa. The reason for this first in continent status is that the park is the last remaining home for one of the most threatened and magnificent species on earth: the mountain gorilla.

My time on the volcano was preceded by a 10 a.m. visit to the Park office where the relevant fees were paid to a smartly turned out and professional warden who issued me with my trekking permit before introducing me to Felix, my guide for the hike. Access to the Park without a guide is strictly forbidden. Such a policy ensures the continued protection of the Park’s varied wildlife, by regulating the number of visitors allowed at any one time. For the tourist, such strictures have the added benefit of ensuring that one will not be shot by one of the anti-poaching teams that patrol the forest day and night. Rwandans take their wildlife protection very seriously.

I had packed as lightly as I could for the two-day trek. However, when one has to carry everything in and out, one quickly discovers that lightweight is a relative term. A small tent and a sleeping bag were a necessity for the cold night-time temperatures. On top of this, all food, water and cooking equipment that one thinks will be required also has to be carried in. With a spare change of dry clothes and a set of waterproofs capable of dealing with the tropical rainforest, the weight soon mounted up.

Although fully expecting to carry my own kit, Felix insisted that we would be taking porters. Never before having had such a luxury, I made an embarrassed and feeble protest about pulling my own weight. He added that the porters were central to the local economy in this poor, rural corner of the country. Delighted to have a clear conscience, I heartily agreed that we must have porters and quickly employed the services of three.

As Laura drove Felix and I and the recently acquired porters to the Park entrance, I noticed a group of soldiers lounging around in a manner suggestive of boredom and resignation. Felix told me they were also coming along.

“What, all of them?” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Just in case,” Felix replied.
“In case of what?”
“Just in case” he repeated, with an inflexion that suggested he was unlikely to say any more on the matter.

And so, as Laura and I kissed farewell, I couldn’t help wondering how far I had strayed from my initial plan of getting away for some quiet time on my own. With my Rwandan Army contingent, porters and guide, I found myself in the middle of a 20-strong caravan worthy of Stanley’s best efforts to find the un-lost Livingstone.

The park entrance isn’t hard to miss since a four-foot high dry-stone wall was put up around its entire 130 square-kilometres (51 square-miles). One reason the wall was erected, I was told, was to keep out more invasive species such as buffalo, but judging by the amount of spoor encountered within the Park it might have been an idea to see if there were any buffalo inside before the wall was erected.

My first sight of the volcanoes literally took my breath away and I was aware that I was happy through and through, thrilled in childlike wonder at the world. It was a wonderful if all too rare sensation in the oft-jaded state of adulthood. Each one of the towering beauties had a distinctive profile and they stood side by side, looking every inch as they would in a picture book. Proud and solid, these magnificent creations of uplift would hate to be mistaken for mere mountains. These were volcanoes.

After an hour’s steady uphill walk in the equatorial sun of a late December morning, I had worked up a bit of a sweat and was glad to be assisting the local economy by carrying nothing heavier than my walking stick. The porters – who I feel justified in pointing out were roughly half my age – didn’t seem in the least bit affected by their efforts and even kept racing each other to the next tree or turn in the path. Day one’s five-hour hike to base camp reminded me to get fit sometime in the New Year.

The Volcanoes National Park is also the final resting place of Dian Fossey, whose pioneering research work and the film biopic of her life, “Gorillas in the Mist,” almost certainly meant the short-term survival of the mountain gorillas. Today, there are some 700 surviving gorillas but their numbers are said to be increasing slowly, thanks to the efforts of the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund International and their partners in the Rwandan government. After Dian was murdered in her cabin on the volcano, on Boxing Day 1985, there was no question that she would be buried in the place she had made her home for 19 years.

Dian once said of climbing the volcanoes one was, “so high up that you shiver more than you sweat.” Her words rang true as we made tea that night and watched the moon rising over Congo. The following morning, as we made our slow final ascent to the summit, they were forgotten. At 4,507m (14,787ft) I was aware both of the thinness of the air and the sweat under my clothes. Reaching the peak slowly, the clouds were blown away as if on cue and the view stretched for hundreds of miles. Seemingly untouched by mankind, Africa looked magnificent, silent and undiscovered. The 19 people with me agreed.

Our descent was rapid, tiring and, when we found ourselves moving at a downhill trot, hair-raising. When we arrived back at the entrance to the Park in the middle of the afternoon, I was happy to see Laura waiting to drive me home.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked, looking me up and down to see if there was any permanent damage.
“Wonderful!” I replied, “but, I don’t think it would have been your cup of tea. I think you were right to stay behind.”
“Yes,” she concurred looking at my exhausted form, caked in exotic filth and grinning like an idiot, “I’m sure you right.”

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