This is Part 7 of a multi-part essay that chronicles Tembea Na Mimi, a walk across Kenya.

by Jeff James

“I love hills!” Terry exhaled as she charged past me.  I wheezed an affirmative in reply, which was all I could do.  Gravity was pulling me backwards, while some insane devotion to hills was driving Terry forward. It seemed to be her mantra; she invoked it to whomever she stormed past this hilly day.

“I love hills.”

As I write these words, I find myself growling them as I try to understand their source.  Not because Terry’s voice was guttural, but because they came from a primal place.  Spoken with ferocity, they were an affirmation to the self — to herself, as she climbed out of the Rift Valley, bounding upward with ease. Her walk was strong and steady, as if tethered to an umbilical cord pulley towing her to the top.

So what does it mean to love hills? In our language we have so many sayings that teach us that hills are not to be loved.  If you’re old and incapable, you’re over the hill. If you’re sick or struggling in life, it’s an uphill battle.  Hills are obstacles that slow us down. They interfere with our need for speed and efficiency.  We level them or carve tunnels through them when building roads and sidewalks.  They are to be appreciated from a distance, as a vista of rolling hills at sunset incites calm and increases property values.

But Terry loved walking up hills! What was that about? Was her love really just a desire to conquer the hill? Was a hill Terry’s Goliath, the larger foe with the less worthy cause? All adventurers and endurance athletes need to possess an inner warrior to call upon when things get tough. If conquering a hill is an affirmation of your fortitude and prowess, it is to be revered. But is it love? To conquer and to love are not the same. And perhaps that confusion is the source of many strained relationships.

An alternate representation must exist for Terry. If one strides against common wisdom and loves what most despise, the source of that devotion must be sacred.

The night before my son was born, I was lying next to my wife, her belly a perfectly curved hill.  The contractions transformed the smooth, taut bow into angular peaks jutting upward, tectonic plates of elbows and knees beneath the skin. When the contractions subsided, her belly returned to normal and relaxed into a rounded summit, a sacred life about to arrive, a life to whom I was already devoted.

A hill, a symbol of emerging life, and a promise of play and laughter on the other side.

You want to know how to make Terry cry? Just ask her about her children, ask her about the kids she met and embraced along the way, and ask her about the orphans in Matoso. Ask her to describe what makes them beautiful and special, and she will lovingly tell you, with her voice cracking and tears pooling in her eyes, about the sound of their laughter, the wideness of their smiles, and their enthusiasm for life in spite of having few opportunities.

Or perhaps Terry knows, like the indigenous people of many hillside cultures, that to be closer to God one must climb to the mountain top. The summit, literally nearer to heaven, just a stone’s throw away from the celestial gates. The mantra then, “I-love-hills,” is a prayer to help her reach the top, syllables to count steps by and regulate breath, utterances of love to remind her of her sacred journey . . . up.

The day we reached Matoso, our goal, Terry walked towards Lake Victoria with a celebratory plunge in mind. There among the throngs of heads, bare to the sun, she met a young woman named Hillary, who spoke flawless English.  She is one of the lucky few to receive a Lalmba scholarship for secondary school, and will most likely go to college. Terry describes her like she would a mountain vista – lovely, expansive, and graceful.  Against all the odds, Hillary is successfully climbing life’s hills.  Her hard work reveals opportunity where there once was none.

Thinking of Terry’s mantra, I wondered if Hillary had one too, or if prayer was a factor in her success.  I wondered if there were any good hills nearby that she climbed to cast a better-aimed prayer, because something miraculous is working in her favor.

When we were kids we played a game called “king of the hill,” a test of strength and strategy, the victor winning the glory of being on top.  Many battles were fought on the slopes: falling down, sliding backward, getting up and charging the hill again like a warrior, until the best among us was standing on top, looking out over the heads of his weaker or less fortunate opponents. No doubt Hillary too has lived a life of valor; life’s slopes in her community are very steep.

Terry’s love for hills, whatever the source may be, mirrors Hillary’s recipe for success, I think. Perhaps the key ingredients to a life fulfilled are the recognition that there is no substitute for hard work, life is sacred, and prayer works. Hills are to be loved, the figurative and the factual, but the top is over-rated. Most lives are spent on the slopes anyway, so a healthy amount of love for climbing is prudent.

I love Hills!

My wife’s name is also Hillary; we sometimes call her Hill.  Her uncle is a runner, and he hates running up hills. He told me once that when he comes upon a hill, he thinks of his niece, and he screams “I love you, Hill!” while charging upward.  The burst of energy he gets by replacing what he psychologically hates with what he emotionally loves, allows him to surge through the hard parts.  Now that’s something to think about.

Terry and James, photo by Terry Robinette

Terry at the Flora Hostel. Photograph by Yogesh Aradhey

After walking all day, Terry still has the energy to walk on Fred’s back.

Terry and Michael spend a stretch together. Terry was energized by walking and talking with people.

Terry has a quiet moment enjoying the sunset at camp.

There must be wild animals in the distance. Terry and Rob are taking aim, while James enjoys a stretch in the tall grass.

Terry Robinette, walker extraordinaire. Photograph by Rob Andzik