North Woods River Runner: The Summons Of The Black Hill

It looms—the Black Hill. Not in a foreboding way, but as an unseen force; both something to be reckoned with as well as an interaction. Stable. Solid. Constant. Always in the background. Always present. The surrounding bush, bomas, and villages fall under its shadow; physically and figuratively.

The Black Hill lies as an anomaly. Rising just North of Africa’s Tanzania-Kenya border in addition to what would amount to a day’s drive from the base of Mount Kilimanjaro. Although protruding to vastly different heights, they both are surrounded by rolling bush country. There really is no other way to describe the perimeter land. Towering trees exist within that rolling land such as the classic and uniquely shaped acacia as well as the sycamore fig—typically found growing along seasonal river banks. The sycamore fig itself is called mukuyu in the Swahili tongue, or olng’aboli to the local Maasai. Various species of monkey and baboon love their safe lofty branches. The rest of the vegetation is comprised of bushes; some as large as small trees, and others of medium height and sprawl—but all are covered in long protective thorns. It seems a trait that's shared no matter the species.

And amongst the trees and beautifully canopied oiti, green needled orng’osus, and yellow bulbed osilalei bushes are the people themselves. Good people, that live within supportive familes—known as olmarrei—often with herds of goats, cows, and donkeys. Under the Black Hill’s shadow these families have lived for countless generations; traveling the region to where their herds can graze. The olmarrei-families were gracious of their time and resources during our visit; kind and hospitable.

On several occasions during our stay we were invited to households for a lovingly prepared meal. It was food, but more so it was a gift. The meal was a gift from the heart—cooked over open flames from the heart. I suppose in no small way we returned that gift, for when my wife and I traveled back to the other side of the world, our son, daughter in law, and grandson remained rooted in the community. The rate of exchange was that we were served scrumptiously tasty food. Our first lunch came at the home of John and Josephine. It was a meal of goat stew with rice, cabbage, and the delicious Kenyan flatbread known as chapati. It was at that time that John presented me with a special walking stick from the oiti bush—a staff known as a fimbo that I’d be able to use for stability when on adventurous excursions back home in the United States. A few days later we too were guests at the home of Pastor Paul and his wife Agnes; enjoying conversation and a beautifully prepared meal with their family. In such circumstances one can only be thankful—should only be thankful. Nothing else would adequately describe the experience.

Cindy & Me With Todd, Emeris & Baby Henri
At The Home Of John & Josephine.

After Attending Church At The Base Of The Black Hill,
We Ate At The Home Of Pastor Paul & Agnus
With Their Son Richard-Holding Henri.

These are just some of the examples of meals cooked outside of Kijani Farm. For upon the Farm’s property, the Kijani kitchen crew makes chai tea—every weekday—from sweetened milk that’s served ceremoniously at 10:00 sharp for the various Kijani employees. In addition, a lunch is prepared that nourishes the entire staff for the afternoon’s work. And that staff involves a very large group of workers! Faith’s secret recipe for ndengu was one of my favorites! Throughout that bush country and community, as one peering over your shoulder, the Black Hill watches from the Namanga Range; while rubbing its belly and licking its chops!

Some Of The Kijani Kitchen Staff
Faith, Jennifer, & Joy

Like all land forms reaching towards heaven, heights and distances are skewed—seemingly closer and more readily attainable than they actually are. It’s that very draw that makes the Black Hill alluring; drawing you to wonder and come forward with a longing to explore. It implores your spirit to engage with its presence! It’s a voice I’d wanted to answer since the first time I set eyes on it back in 2017. It was then when I first heard it speak. And now over 8 years later, the call had not diminished. Time had only amplified the summons of the Hill.

Arrangements were made for a time when I could formally meet the Black Hill on one of our remaining days together. I was looking forward to making its acquaintance. Together with my son Todd and friend Richard, we drove to the Hill’s western flank and the village of Maili Tisa. There on the outskirts of the small town we parked and met our guide named Malei.

While our troop of four ascended the foothills, local children laughed and followed behind us. As in a game of follow the leader, when I zigged and zagged, they mimicked my actions. If I took extra big steps they leapt from print to print. It was fun. It was play. But in time they turned and followed a different path within the thick brush. We waved good-bye to their smiles and continuous, fast paced, talking.

Baboon Prints In The Sand

We soon came upon prints in the sand of another kind, from another troop; those of baboons who made their homes in the trees and rocks further up on the hillside. It is called a hill. The Black Hill. But for all intents and purposes, it’s a mountain plain and simple. Perhaps classified as a smaller mountain, it still rises nearly 4000 feet (1,200 meters) above the bush country where Kijani Farm is located and sits at nearly 8,200 feet above sea level (2,500 meters).

Richard, Todd, And Me Following Malei
Up The Black Hill

I was thankful for being in good shape. As the “old man” in the group, I had been averaging around 20-25 miles of trail running per week with long runs in the 10 mile range. Todd and Richard, while much younger of course, were in just as good of physical health. This allowed us to keep strides with our guide Malei. For him it was just short of a walk in the park. Although comforting, it was somewhat humorous to watch him periodically turn around to check on where we were—only to find us hoofing along and right on his heels. As I said, I was thankful to have a level of fitness that allowed me to participate in such an undertaking. I was honored to be a guest of the Black Hill.

At one point we stopped and Richard showed us a rock that had been worn smooth to a saddle shaped curve on one of its edges. It was a landmark of sorts—where many others over eons of time had routinely stopped to sharpen the olalem short swords that typically hang from sheathes at their belt. It was a tool used much like a machete. We also passed a multitude of specialized plants that were uniquely designed to thrive in such a rocky environment.

Each of us walked and climbed with a fimbo in hand; mine from my new friend John. I appreciated having the staff to help stay balanced as we climbed. In addition, Malei also carried a spear. Eventually we came to a rocky outcrop high in the Eastern Rift Valley. It was here that we took some pictures, ate a quick lunch, and talked. It was also here, as we stood on the precipice of rock overlooking the valley, that we heard the screams of the baboons in the canopied tree tops far below. Although I would have loved to have seen them up close, I was also glad that we were each in our own locale.

Far off in the distance to the northeast, we could see a giant cloud of dust rising from the bush country next to what is now the newly built Olashiki School. Later we would discover that the local governor had landed in a helicopter—fueled with promises; hence the disturbance in the force.

We were only an hour or so into the hike and were feeling as though we were just getting warmed up; so with a quick glance and nod of his head, Malei spoke something to Richard in Maa, and we proceeded down the other side of the rock. In turn, Richard smiled; relating to us in English that we would descend into the ensuing valley before climbing to the next ridge and peak. Awesome! Our journey was to continue onward and upward. I felt as though we had earned something similar to a rite of passage for Malei to decide that we could extend our adventure.

At times our path was like traveling through a thatched tunnel—through thick bushes—although we would occasionally walk into open vistas as well. As we walked, we saw cloven hoof prints. It was explained that these were not from cattle; for the Maasai herders did not bring their cows this high upon the Black Hill. These were apparently the prints of the buffalo. I figured that these were a different mountain species than what we had seen in large quantities while on safari a couple of weeks prior; when we first arrived in Kenya.

Within eyesight of the peak—mere minutes from standing at the summit of the second high ridge we had climbed—Malei said we had to stop. Through Richard’s translation, we had apparently been pushing a herd of buffalo ahead of us and had them centralized a stone’s throw from where we stood. We would rest there and enjoy the view before descending back down to the valley far, far below.

I realized then that the buffalo we were talking about was the same animal we saw on safari. And while these were definitely different from our North American Buffalo—technically called a bison (Latin name: Bison bison)—the buffalo hidden in the scrub brush just above us was none other than the African, Cape Buffalo (Latin name: Syncerus caffer). It’s why scientific Latin names are so important; there are so many local, regional, or distorted labels for living things. However, there is only one Latin name for each species. And while the three of us following Malei had no idea what we were up against, he did and therefore stopped us cold!

A Herd Of North American Bison
Photographed In Illinois' Nachusa Grasslands

A Herd Of African Cape Buffalo
Photographed In Amboseli National Park

The herd of Cape Buffalo we had been driving ahead of our troop was also a member of “Africa’s Big 5”—which is a term used to describe the continent’s most dangerous and awe-inspiring animals. The five included the lion, leopard, elephant, rhinoceros, and Cape buffalo. Not that there aren’t plenty of other potentially life-threatening animals, but those five top the list. As if it needs any further explanation, the nickname for the Cape buffalo is “Black Death”—used to describe the 2,000 pound (1 ton) bovine that is often known for its short temper. As much as I wanted to see them and hike to the tippy-top of the nearby ridge, I’m not sure that was a good idea up close and cornered. Good call Malei! I’m glad we stopped!

As we sat and soaked up the view, I spotted a candelabra tree far off on the distant ridge (Latin name: Euphorbia ingens). Its distinct shape was fashioned like a multi-armed candle holder. I also took a picture of the four of us looking out over the southern range of the Black Hill—known locally in Maasai as Oldonyo Orok (Oldonyo=mountain or hill & Orok=black). The picture wasn’t forced. It was natural. Far off stares reflected our collective spirit in the moment. Awed. Thankful. Grateful.

As we made our descent, my only regret of our iconic trip was that we hadn’t been able to see any actual animals. I’m sure they saw us; for in addition to the animals I’ve mentioned, the Hill was also home to hyenas, leopards, and a host of those with hooves. It was at that time of contemplation within the thicket, that a bird flew down in front of me. It landed not to the side or just beyond my vision, but right smack dab in front of me; where my next step would have been. I tried to enjoy the moment, while fumbling to retrieve my phone from my pant’s pocket. The brilliantly colored bird, later identified as a white-browed robin-chat, was so close I was able to take a high quality picture with my phone’s camera. I talked softly to it and thanked it for showing itself to me before it hopped further into the bushes. Down in the valley I also saw scat left from the buffalo and baboons, but it was the robin in its simplicity that summed up my whole experience.

Buffalo Scat

Baboon Scat

The Black Hill. So simple and yet so complex. The people, the region, the exposed rock, the forest, and the animals; together in harmony. The entire environment. The experience. For many years its vision had haunted me. I did not fear its formidable size and strength, although it was something to be reckoned with and behold, but rather I feared whether I would ever have the opportunity to get to know it on a more personal and spiritual level. The fact that I was able to experience all that the mountain represented and had to offer—with friends down on the level of the bush country as well as upon its slopes and ramparts with my son Todd, friend Richard, and guide Malei—soothed my soul. Until next time Oldonyo Orok, may God’s spirit rest upon your broad shoulders; protecting you and the community that lies under your shadow. To you, the Black Hill, I say thank you for sharing yourself with me and teaching me.

See you along The Way…