The first time I saw the famous peak of Kilimanjaro I was sweltering in the late evening sun, watching the clouds gently drift away. Looking up at this huge mountain in the middle of Africa, the snow-capped summit just visible, I could only imagine how cold it must be up there.

My journey had started at Heathrow Airport in November 2008. After spending a few days in Nairobi I travelled over the border to Tanzania, where I had booked myself on the Kilimanjaro expedition. I had read a lot about Kilimanjaro before I left England and I knew that it was the highest free-standing mountain in the world. However, when I saw it for the first time, the volcanic peak looked impossibly steep – a far cry from the ‘long hike’ I had imagined it would be. I also knew it was 5,891.6 metres (19,329 feet) above sea level which was put into perspective on the flight over there when the pilot said we were cruising at 37,000 feet, less than double the height of the mountain I was attempting to climb.

I managed to book just over four weeks leave from work and flew from Heathrow to Nairobi in Kenya with the plan of spending a few days here and then travel over the border to Tanzania where I had booked the Kilimanjaro expedition and afterwards a safari around the Serengeti. If I survived these two then I would spend the last couple of weeks travelling the rest of the country ending up on the tropical island of Zanzibar before a flight home getting into England on Christmas eve. Undoubtedly my main goal of the whole trip was to make it to the top of the mountain, however I had debated whether it was as black and white as to say if I made it to the top then the trip was a success and failure was anything else, the experience of living on a mountain for a week and challenging myself to do this was the interesting thing for me.

It was definitely going to be a challenge and as I was looking up at this dominating mountain above I wished I had done more training, actually to have done any training would have eased my fears. I had grand plans when I decided to do this of going walking in Wales to get used to walking uphill and doing plenty of swimming to increase my lung capacity. These unfortunately fell foul to the wet English weather and a busy few weeks so my mountain specific training was non-existent. I was pretty fit from playing football up to three times a week, however I had stopped this about 4 weeks before I left in case I got injured so I was left with running; which I did for at least 30 minutes four or five times a week, not really the recipe for success when mountain climbing.

Fitness was never going to be a problem for me, the issue would be how badly I would suffer from altitude sickness and whether it would stop me. Altitude sickness is caused by continuous exposure to low pressure atmospheres where oxygen is reduced, this becomes apparent at altitudes of above 2,500m and the symptoms are headaches, fatigue, dizziness leading onto nausea, unconsciousness and potentially death. I was, along with everyone else attempting this, always going to get some form of altitude sickness but if I had a few of these symptoms then it would have meant it had moved onto acute altitude sickness and I would not be able to continue on risk of doing permanent damage to myself. You cannot avoid altitude sickness only reduce the chances of developing it and how badly it will affect you, this can be done by ascending slowly, acclimatising to the high altitude, drinking lots of water, amongst other things.

With a bit of trepidation but plenty of enthusiasm, I set out on the ‘Machame’ route. I started walking to the words "Pole, pole..." from the guide, meaning "slowly, slowly" in Kiswahili; the main language of Tanzania, I wouldn't understand why on this day but would find out soon enough. The first day we walked through dense, humid rainforest with monkeys chattering away. It got distinctly colder as we broke into the cloud layer and I quickly realised that the sleeping bag I had brought with me was more suited for a summer’s night in England. I woke up freezing in the middle of the night and had to quickly scramble to put on a few layers of clothing.

I didn’t see the sun for the next couple of days. We were walking through cloud that engulfed us and this limited our vision to only a few metres. The muddy track of the first day had evolved into a steep, rocky path obstructed by boulders and streams. So far it had been fun and relatively easy and I had only found myself short of breath a few times.

The third day was the first real test. We had camped at 3 800 m and our route took us up to the top of a collapsed volcano at 4 600 m. I was struggling to catch my breath, had a pounding headache and was freezing cold. I was glad when we reached our next lower camp and got some much needed rest.

We awoke on day four at the foot of the main peak, looking up towards the snow-capped summit that looked like a section of Toblerone® with milk poured over the top. The views were breathtaking; we had the magnificent peak over one shoulder and the entirety of Africa sprawled out as far as you could see over the other. Up here, the landscape had changed from rainforest, through heath and moorland to alpine desert, where not much survived. It was quite desolate but, amazingly, I could still get a mobile phone signal up to about 4 500 m.

At midnight on Thursday 4 December we set off for the final push to the summit. The first hour or so was OK, but then the wind hit and the trail got steeper. At some point the wind brought snow and my arms, legs and face were icy cold – coldness I had never experienced before. This was killing me. Breathing was now a conscious effort. If I missed a breath, I had to stop and take five quickly to catch up. I had to count each step I took so I could cut out the pain and make sure I was still walking. These few hours seemed like the longest of my life.

Kilimanjaro is an extinct volcano and the summit is a crater with steep sides of loose stoned gravel. After finally reaching the crater rim, we walked for another hour, skirting round the ridge to the summit. This was supposed to be the easy section but at this altitude and temperature nothing was easy.

I staggered to the summit at 5.57 am, after nearly six hours of walking. All the effort and pain was suddenly worthwhile as I was greeted by the most amazing views I have ever seen: a stunningly beautiful sunrise over a blanket of cloud covering Africa, broken only by peaks of nearby mountains. The cold and lack of oxygen meant we only spent about 10 minutes at the summit before heading back down, walking high on adrenalin and exhilaration.

Climbing Kilimanjaro was the hardest thing I have ever done, both physically and mentally. It took me a few days to recover: my legs ached and my face was a mess from the sun and the cold; but after I returned to normal I could reflect on the achievement, and the pride saw me through the rest of my travels around Africa.