A Reasonable (?) Birthday Adventure

A milestone birthday calls for an epic adventure—at least in my world. And when that birthday lands at the tail end of a three-month journey through foreign lands, the bar gets set… unreasonably high.

So naturally, we decided to climb Mount Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia.

At 4,095 metres, Mount Kinabalu is the highest peak between the Himalayas and New Guinea. Apparently, it’s the highest peak in the region you can summit without technical mountaineering skills… which sounds reassuring right up until you find yourself gripping a rope on a 45-degree slab of granite in the dark, quietly questioning what exactly counts as “technical.” (More on that later.)

It’s also one of the only places where you can go from dense rainforest to a 4,000m alpine summit in roughly a day—on your own two legs—and sleep (somewhat), albeit with 40% less oxygen than you would have a sea-level.

Day 1? About 6 kms with almost 1500 metres of elevation. Think 4–6 hours on a Stairmaster. In a rainforest. Set somewhere around a 20–25% incline. And every hour it gets a little bit harder to catch your breath.

Day 2? About 2.8 kms with 850 metres of elevation. The Stairmaster is gone. In its place: giant boulders and a massive granite slab tilted at 30–50%—roughly two to three times steeper than most roads are allowed to be. And just for fun, you start that part at 2:15 in the morning, wearing a headlamp and no other lighting.

Sold. Completely, irrationally sold.

Because daily climber numbers are limited—and because I have officially aged out of any interest in shared hostel rooms and communal bathrooms—we booked early. A private guided climb with Remarkable Borneo (www.remarkableborneo.com)  secured us permits, logistics, private rooms, a guide, transfers, and most importantly, a summit attempt on April 15… my 65th birthday.

No pressure.

We arrived at Kinabalu National Park a day early to “acclimatize to the altitude”—a phrase that sounds scientific but mostly means “hope for the best.”

To get a feel for things, we did a shake-out walk from our hotel to Timpohon Gate, the official starting point for the climb. Four kilometres. 374 metres of elevation. Roughly the height of a Collingwood ski hill—which I’ve climbed many times.

A gentle warm-up… we told ourselves.

Our confidence still intact—helped considerably by the fact that the summit was completely shrouded in cloud. We could only imagine it. My brain, helpfully, protected me from the reality.

Then came the packing.

We chose not to hire a porter, which meant everything we needed for the 2-day, 1-night climb had to fit into a 6kg pack—including 2 litres of water. (Fun fact: 1 litre of water weighs 1 kilogram. This becomes very relevant very quickly.)

That left 4kg for everything else: warm layers for the summit push, a change of clothes, toiletries, and any illusions of comfort. For context, my suitcase currently weighs 18.5kg.

So this was less “packing light” and more “packing like you’ve given up.”

No big camera. No pyjamas. No iPad. One pair of pants. Bare-minimum toiletries. Advil and Tylenol—absolutely. Dignity? Questionable.

Everything else stayed behind at the hotel.

And just like that, this birthday hike started to feel a lot less like a cute idea… and a lot more like a serious challenge.

What had I been thinking?

On April 14, we were picked up at 7:20am and driven to Park Headquarters—where things suddenly felt very official. We dropped our luggage, rented poles, collected our permits, and were handed a packed lunch that—somehow—included two hard-boiled eggs.

Practical? Perhaps.
An odd addition? Also yes.

Then we met our guide, Deo.

Deo is 31 and climbs Mount Kinabalu at least a couple of times a week. In the annual summit race—a casual little 18km round trip with 2,300 metres of elevation—his best time is 4 hours 50 minutes, which placed him 33rd.

Daunting.

Fun fact (if your definition of fun is flexible): the fastest elite runners do it in 3 hours and 5 minutes.

Up. And. Down.

We, meanwhile, had been generously given 28 hours.

Humbling.

It was a perfect day with clear skies framing the summit, now very visible and seemingly looking down on us with mild amusement. Deo was anxious that we get ahead of the other 150 or so climbers, so we headed off immediately.

I repeat: Day 1 is approximately 6 kms and 1400+ metres of elevation.

To put this in perspective, it’s the equivalent of piling four CN Towers on top of each other… in a rainforest… and then climbing the stairs for all of them. In heat and humidity.

Except it’s not even that simple.

The “stairs” (and I use that term loosely) are uneven, sometimes too high, sometimes missing—wood, rock, roots, often wet and slippery, and never ending… even when you think they should be.

There are virtually no flat sections.

Just… up.

The first 2–3 kilometres are a bit of a tease. The incline feels reasonable, almost polite. Deo tells us we’re making good time. We settle into a slow, steady pace—about 2 km per hour—and he drops into “sweep” position behind us.

We huff. We puff. We stop. A lot. I’m so sweaty I look like I showered in my clothes.

Deo strolls along, texting, chatting with other guides, occasionally glancing up to make sure we’re still alive.

Not a bead of sweat.

Within the first kilometre, we start getting passed by porters—mostly young men carrying astonishing loads strapped to their backs. There’s no road access on Mount Kinabalu, which means everything—food, supplies, building materials—gets hauled up the mountain the hard way.

Roughly 1,500 metres of elevation.

Every. Single. Day.

Apparently they’re paid well. I’m choosing to believe that means at least a million dollars per trip.

Reality suggests otherwise.

By the time we reach Laban Rata, base camp, we’re spent—but also strangely triumphant. We’re among the first ten climbers to arrive that day, which feels like a huge accomplishment… until you remember all the porters who’ve already done this before lunch.

We check into our room—private (a major win), basic bathroom, no hot water, and electricity from 4–10pm only. Luxury, by mountain standards. We refuel at the buffet (carbs, carbs, and more carbs), then collapse into bed for the afternoon.

With over 12 hours before the summit push, the goal is simple: rest, hydrate, and hope our bodies figure out this whole altitude thing.

Day 1 isn’t really about strength. It’s about pacing. There’s no reward for rushing—just the quiet, stubborn decision to keep going.

Which, as I couldn’t help noticing with a birthday looming, applies to more than just mountains.

We managed to crawl out of bed for dinner at 5pm — another buffet, more carbs — and then crawled right back in.

Base camp is less hotel-ish and more camp-ish, which makes “quiet” more of an idea than a reality. It’s supposed to be quiet time after 9pm, but I seriously wonder if anyone is sleeping. Those girls chatting very loudly in the bathroom at 11:30pm certainly weren’t.

I doze off, briefly.

My Garmin watch will later inform me that I got about two hours of sleep and require at least another eight and a half. It also notes that I’m “overreaching” in my training.

It knows me so well.

Our alarms go off at 1:30am.

Anyone who knows me will understand that the term night owl has never, ever been used to describe me. Being awake in the middle of the night is, in my world, a menopause-related tragedy — not a time to leap out of bed, layer up, and climb a mountain.

Speaking of layering…

After three months in the tropics — and as self-declared hardy Canadians — our definition of “warm clothing” was clearly open to interpretation.

I put on everything I had:

• Uniqlo undershirt and long johns

• a light merino wool top

• three thin jackets

• a buff

• one of our kids’ old winter hats

• gloves

I strapped on my headlamp and decided that, since there was no snow on the ground and we’d be moving anyway, this would be sufficient.

Be bold, start cold.

At 2:00am we head down for yet another meal — no thanks — and find ourselves in a sea of mostly younger Asian climbers, fully kitted out in what I would wear to a ski hill.

Clearly, not hardy Canadians.

Deo meets us at 2:15am to begin the final push:

2.8 km
850 metres of elevation all of it up granite slabs and boulders
at a gradient steeper than anything a treadmill will admit to.

The next day we’ll hear that there was frost at base camp — a rare occurrence. We got lucky. It’s clear, still, and surprisingly calm when we step outside.

Twelve hours earlier it was humid and green.

Now it feels like we’ve landed on a different planet.

We head off — one of the first groups to leave. Behind us, people are still eating, dressing, taking photos.

And then, almost without warning, the trail disappears.

The stairs are gone.

The dirt is gone.

In their place: a massive slab of granite, with a thick white rope stretched across it to show the way.

Technically, we’re still “hiking.”

But now we’re leaning forward, gripping ropes, using our hands to guide ourselves over boulders and up rock faces that tilt uncomfortably toward vertical.

It’s not climbing.

But it’s definitely not just walking anymore.

And it’s dark — except for our headlamps.

And it’s quiet.
And it’s hard to breathe.

We’re above 3,500 metres now, pushing toward 4,000.

Our steps get shorter.
The breaks get longer.

And I start to seriously wonder if I can actually do this.

Gary keeps moving.
He turns back, looks at me, and says I can.

That’s one of the reasons I love him.

He keeps me going — forward, always forward — not letting me quit just because it’s hard.

The goal shrinks.

One rope.

One step.

One breath at a time.

I stop looking for the summit.
I focus on what’s right in front of me.

On using the rope to pull me up.

On not falling.

Somewhere along the way, I forget it’s my birthday.

And then — without ceremony, without warning — we’re there.

It’s just after 4am.
It’s taken us just under two hours.
It’s still completely dark.

There are only 3 other hikers even close to us.  We are alone.

The summit is small. Quiet. Empty, for the moment.

Gary reaches into his pack and pulls out a banner.

“Happy Birthday Tracey! You made it!”

I look at the banner.

And then it hits me.

It’s my birthday.

And we’ve just reached the summit.

We take our photos, congratulate each other, and then — almost immediately — turn around and start the long descent back to base camp.

There’s no lingering.

Just the quiet understanding that the job isn’t done yet.

As we head down, we pass the others.

A long, snaking line of headlamps moving upward in the dark — a slow, steady procession toward the summit.

Not all of them will make it.

But they’re out there trying.

And that counts for something.

As we descend, dawn begins to break.

The mountain slowly reveals itself — vast, layered, stretching out in every direction.

And from up here, everything looks smaller.

Even the parts that felt hard on the way up.

It’s stunning, it’s beautiful

The summit isn’t where the story ends.

It’s just where you finally understand what it took to get there.

We’re back at base camp by 7am, and now we’re hungry.

Another buffet — more carbs, plus protein — a quick change back into rainforest-appropriate clothing (aka the same sweaty clothes we wore yesterday), and we start the long descent to the park gate.

We still have 6 km and more than 1,400 metres down to go before we can officially call this a success.

And this part?

It might be the hardest of all.

Think about it:

• We’ve been up since 1:30am

• We’ve already climbed 6 km with 850 m up… and down and deprived of full  oxygen

• And now we have another 6 km and nearly 1,500 m down.  I sigh, but think, “at least we’ll be able to breathe” – not a small bonus.

Which, as any hiker or runner will tell you, is really just a slow, controlled fall… repeated thousands of times… directly into your quads and calves.

But we make it.

We pass the porters again — heading back up the mountain with yet more impossible loads strapped to their backs and heads.We pass the new climbers, just starting their Day 1 ascent — hot, sweaty, and already a little unsure.

We try to be encouraging. To smile. To look like people who have done this and lived to tell the tale.

But I suspect we look more like those other climbers we passed on our way up on Day 1 — the quiet, exhausted looking ones. The ones who say very little and just keep moving, slightly dazed, down the mountain.

By 12:15pm we’re back at the hotel, eating — yes — another buffet.

By 3:30pm we’re back in Kota Kinabalu.
By 4:30pm we’re on a ferry.
By 5:00pm we’re on Gaya Island, in a villa, on a beach, and I’m finally under a hot shower.

There will be no big celebration tonight.

No birthday dinner.

We’re done. Toasted. Kaput.

By 7:30pm, we’re in bed.

We climbed Mount Kinabalu.

And I turned 65 somewhere along the way.

Two days later,  my birthday banner is hanging on the deck of our beachfront villa. I’ve had a delicious birthday dinner that included a cake far too large for the two of us to eat - though I tried!

And…..we’ve barely moved since we got here.  Glorious!

Every now and then we look at each other and ask,
“Did we really do that?”

It already feels a little surreal.

And then we try to walk up the stairs to the restaurant for a drink…
and our legs remind us — very clearly — that yes, we did.

You don’t have to climb a mountain—or do anything particularly outrageous—to mark a birthday.

But there’s something to be said for keeping that sense of curiosity and adventure alive. For saying yes to something that feels just a little bit beyond you. For going for it… even when you’re not entirely sure how it’s going to turn out.

Apparently, turning 65 is no reason to start acting sensible.

Everything that’s on Mount Kinabalu has been carried up there by a porter.