*Above the clouds on Mount Giluwe (4,368m), Oceania’s second-highest peak – Aymeric, Marian, and Kenny, April 19, 2025*

It’s seven in the morning in Port Moresby. Already, the day's heat can be felt in the apartment, and the sun is lighting up a carpet of warm clothes, bivouac gear, and energy bars. I'm packing my bag: gloves, fleece, headlamp, GPS, first-aid kit. Next to it, a satellite phone and a GPS tracker—just in case. It’s hard to imagine that tomorrow I might be shivering in these clothes when right now I’m sweating buckets just getting ready.

Indeed, in 24 hours, I’ll be setting off to climb Mount Giluwe, the highest volcano in Oceania: 4,368 meters above sea level. A sleeping giant, shaped by glaciers, wrapped in mist, covered in moorland and tree ferns. It’s one of the Seven Volcanic Summits—the highest volcanoes on each continent. For enthusiasts, it’s a legend. For me, a hiker’s dream.

We are nine. Five women, four men. Seven Papua New Guineans. One young woman from the Solomon Islands. And one Frenchman—me. All united by a shared, crazy idea: to climb to the top, together.

*We are seven Papua New Guineans, one young woman from the Solomon Islands, and one Frenchman. Bound by a common dream: to climb, to support each other, and to go as high as we could — together*

The trek is organized by 501 Tours, a young local agency founded by Kevin Rau. He’s there from the start, with his calm smile and already well-strapped backpack. Kevin is not just a guide. He’s a clean mountain activist, a community leader, a tireless walker. He wants to prove that ecotourism can transform lives, villages, and even an entire country.

Mount Giluwe towers over the Southern Highlands province. It’s not a sharp peak, but a broad shield volcano, flattened by time. Two summits connected by a massive plateau carpeted with tall grasses. In some places, you still come across glacial fossils—remnants of a time when the tropics bore eternal snows. Here, legends speak of giant spirits and invisible paths. But today, it’s our breath and our sweat that will bring the mountain to life.

At Mount Hagen airport’s parking lot, the team gathers. Some already know each other from Sunday hikes with Sogeri Hikers, an amateur group based near Port Moresby. Others have never done a multi-day trek. One thing amuses me: while we’re stopped at a gas station—our driver probably refueling—some of my fellow hikers take the opportunity to buy warm clothes they simply didn’t have, or because they were warned how cold it gets on Mount Giluwe and thought it best to prepare. It's true: the temperature difference is quite stark between the coast, where Port Moresby sits (about 30°C year-round), and the Highlands, especially the peaks (where it can drop to 5–10°C). I’m European, so I’m used to it!

At 5 p.m., we finally leave the capital of the Western Highlands province in a fully loaded, rattling Land Cruiser, winding along bumpy, twisting roads. The track meanders through the Highlands, and soon enough, darkness falls—ink-black night. The mountains close in. After over two hours of dirt road, we reach Lama—pronounced Kama—a remote village near the border between the Western and Southern Highlands provinces.

At the Giluwe Nature Sanctuary (GNS), a place dedicated to protecting local biodiversity and raising community awareness about the importance of forest conservation, we are warmly welcomed

The welcome is simple and warm. A few smiles, efficient gestures, bags passed from hand to hand. The air is already crisper, the night cooler. This is where our real adventure to the summit begins. We’ve just arrived at the Giluwe Nature Sanctuary (GNS). Our hosts, Solomon Kewanu and Shirley Tassi, created this place to promote local biodiversity and raise awareness in communities about the importance of forest conservation. Their initiative is both precious and meaningful.

The hike begins early the next day. The slope is gentle at first. The path leads into dense, humid, living primary forest. The smell of earth, moss-covered trunks, slippery roots… everything breathes the ancient world. Then suddenly, the forest opens: a vast marshy meadow unfolds before us. Walking becomes a balancing act. We cover nearly fifteen kilometers—sometimes moving smoothly, sometimes trudging through mud, often in silence.

*… to open marshland—the ancient world reveals itself, step by step*

At each break, we bring out garbage bags. We have a mission close to our hearts: collecting trash left by others. We do it quietly, without judgment, simply so the mountain can remain what it is—wild, beautiful, alive.

As fatigue sets in and we begin longing to end the hike, torrents of water pour down on us. Not just a drizzle—a curtain of cold, dense, relentless rain. Nowhere to take shelter. The shrubs are too small, the branches too thin to shield us from the downpour. We just have to keep moving, deal with it… and sing if we can! I’m singing in the rain!

*The summit is within sight, and yet, tonight’s camp is still nowhere to be seen*

Finally, the camp comes into view. A green tarp appears on the horizon: this is it—under this roughly stretched sheet—we’ll find a semblance of salvation. Thick white smoke rises, dense, almost ceremonial—it looks like the Vatican has been beaten to it! The fire seems massive. The place is austere, raw, magnificent. The wood crackles in a blazing fire, fed by an impressive pile of logs, cut and prepared with care by the support team awaiting us. We are at base camp, at 3,418 meters of altitude.

At last, we can dry our clothes—on ourselves. Socks smoke, hung around the fire like offerings. The hikers arrive one by one. Slowly, once warmed up, faces brighten, tongues loosen, laughter bursts under a sky dusted with stars. The cold settles quickly. So does sleep. And yet, conversations stretch, as if to prolong this suspended moment. Eventually, I pull away from the warmth of the fire to retreat to my tent, pitched a little further out. The night is short, restless. And yet, I know tomorrow will demand intense effort.

At 5:15 a.m., I return to the still-burning fire to have a quick breakfast. In front of me, the group is assembled. The previous day’s rain has made the slopes slippery, and everyone announces they are giving up the climb. But I have no desire to stop here. I’m ready to continue, if I can go with strong companions. I’m told two young women left at 5 o’clock sharp, with their porters and some guides. Very well, I’ll catch up with them. I have to insist, convince, even push back against others’ cautiousness. But I’m determined. I want to attempt the summit. And I’m sure we’ll make it.

So I set off, flanked by my porters. They speak constantly in their language, words drifting into the cold morning air. I stay quiet. I focus on my steps, on my breath. My headlamp casts flickering halos on the dark stones of the path. In the distance, we spot the lights of the first group. It’s a small comfort.

Then dawn breaks. The final kilometers are the toughest. The altitude weighs on every breath, the wind picks up. And finally, we catch up with the group. The two young women are there: Marian and Kenny. They’re from the neighboring Enga province. What strength, what determination they’ve shown! We take a moment for a group photo, then continue. Each at their own pace. For three hours and forty-five minutes, we climb without respite. One step, one breath. Another step, another breath. The air is thin, legs are heavy, but the summit is near. And then, suddenly, it’s there—bathed in light.

*The wind howls, the clouds part, and the world opens wide. Some collapse, others stand in awe. I float—breathless, heart wide open*

It’s 8:57 a.m. We’re at 4,368 meters above sea level. On the summit of Mount Giluwe. The second-highest peak in Oceania. The wind whips, clouds break apart, and the horizon opens like an endless sea. In the distance, we can see the ocean. Some collapse from exhaustion. Others spin silently, taking in the vastness. As for me, I float. Literally on a cloud—and not just metaphorically. Breathless, heart wide open, I absorb every second. It’s a raw, total, almost unreal feeling. The descent will be long. Eight hours through marshes, mud, and fatigue. But that feeling—that one—will never leave me.

Before returning to Port Moresby, Kevin speaks. He thanks us—not just for walking, but for sharing, respecting, cleaning. On the way back, I glance one last time at the massive silhouette of Mount Giluwe. A volcano, yes. But above all, a summit of silence and humility. A place where, step by step, you realize what truly matters.

Ascent of Mount Giluwe – On the Volcanic Roof of Oceania

Mount Wilhelm: A True Lesson in Humility on the Roof of Papua New Guinea!