CLIMBING MT MERU
Follow the trail from base to peak through shifting landscapes, changing air, and rare wildlife. An immersive, day-by-day narrative of the Meru experience – with reflections on altitude, terrain, and spirit.
Mount Meru is climbed almost exclusively via the Momella Route, the only official trail to the summit. This is because the mountain lies entirely within Arusha National Park, access is tightly managed to protect wildlife and the fragile volcanic terrain, and the horseshoe-shaped crater walls and steep ridges make other routes impractical or dangerous. Despite being the single route, trekkers report that Meru is far less crowded than Kilimanjaro, giving a more peaceful, intimate wilderness experience.
Mount Meru rises quietly above Arusha National Park, its horseshoe crater wall catching the early light long before the plains below begin to warm. Climbing it isn’t just about reaching Socialist Peak at 4,566 metres, it ’s a gradual slipping into different worlds, each day a shift in terrain, air, and mindset. The journey begins at Momella Gate, a modest wooden post for such a dramatic venture.
Day One: Momella Gate to Miriakamba Hut
The first steps ease you in. The path winds through savannah-like grasslands, tall, honey-coloured grasses at the end of the dry season, deep green and fragrant after the rains. Giraffes often stand still in the distance, watching silently as you move closer into the park. Buffalo graze nearby, so an armed ranger accompanies the group, not for show, but necessity. Their presence is a reminder that Meru is not an isolated alpine peak, it is deeply alive at the base, throughout the lower forests you might hear the rustling of bushbuck moving through the undergrowth, or catch a glimpse of the shy red duiker slipping between trees.
As the trail climbs gently towards Miriakamba Hut at 2,514 metres, the air cools and thickens with the scent of montane forest. Hartlaub’s turacos flash emerald and crimson through the canopy, while Abyssinian black-and-white colobus monkeys leap noiselessly between branches, their long white tails curling like brushstrokes against the green. By the time you reach the hut, mist may already be rolling in through the trees. Dinner tastes better than it should after just a few hours of walking. The altitude isn’t dramatic yet, but you feel it, air that makes you breathe just slightly deeper, a hint of what’s coming.
Day Two: Miriakamba to Saddle Hut
The second day is short in distance but sharper in gradient. The switchbacks up to Saddle Hut, perched at 3,570 metres, cut through a forest that gradually thins into heather and open shrubland. In this high montane zone, wildlife becomes quieter but more curious, mountain reedbuck sometimes stand motionless on distant ridges, watching from above, and augur buzzards begin to circle on rising thermals as the vegetation opens and the sky widens.
Every turn opens new views of the horseshoe rim and the ash cone far below, Meru’s perfect inner volcano that so many don’t realize exists until they see it. The trail edges closer to the ridge, and suddenly Kilimanjaro appears on the horizon, its snowy cap floating above clouds. It’s a humbling sight, another giant, watching your smaller ascent.
Altitude becomes a quiet companion here. Not dramatic, not overwhelming, just present. Your pace naturally slows as the air cools and dries. Conversations shorten. Your heart starts beating a little harder. This is the place where people decide whether the summit feels within reach or uncomfortably far. That afternoon, most climbers hike the short path to Little Meru, at 3,820 metres, a preview of the summit night. The views widen, the wind sharpens, and the realization sets in that tomorrow, you climb in darkness.
Summit Night / Day Three: Saddle Hut to Socialist Peak
Just before midnight, you wake to the sound of boots on wooden floors and the low murmur of guides preparing tea. The air outside is brittle-cold. Headlamps carve narrow cones of light along the trail, which begins innocently enough but soon climbs steeply along rocky slopes.
The route to the summit is a series of ridges, exposed, narrow, and demanding. Higher up near the crater rim, solitude replaces sound, but every so often you might spot the broad silhouette of a verreaux’s eagle or lammergeier, using the volcanic walls as their hunting arena. The winds sweep low across the crater rim, and the ground underfoot shifts into volcanic grit and boulders. Every step requires intention. At this altitude, there’s a pause between inhale and exhale that you become acutely aware of. Your body works harder, but your mind feels clearer, a strange duality that only thin air brings.
As you approach Rhino Point and then Cobra Point, the eastern sky begins to lighten. The silhouettes of jagged peaks emerge behind you, and the gigantic shadow of Meru stretches across the plains toward Kilimanjaro below you. This moment feels surreal; the world below is still dark while your ridge is catching the first colour of sunrise.
The final push to Socialist Peak is slow, deliberate. The air thins sharply, and your heartbeat echoes in your ears. But reaching the summit feels different from many peaks, there is no crowded signpost, no bustling crowd. Just space, sky, and the vast caldera yawning beneath you. The reward is both the view and the silence.
Descent Back to Saddle and Miriakamba
The return is long, sometimes harder than the ascent. The sun warms the ridge quickly, revealing how narrow the trail truly is and how high above the crater floor you’ve been walking. Back at Saddle Hut, exhaustion mixes with accomplishment. It’s only when you descend further into the forest that you realize how full your lungs feel again, how rich the air has become.
The mountain gives you its landscapes in layers – plains, forest, heather, alpine desert, volcanic edge. But it’s the internal shift that lingers, the reminder that you can move slowly, breathe deeper, and still reach the edge of a crater at sunrise. Meru doesn’t offer drama, it offers perspective. And that is its real summit.
