Hours before our attempt to summit Mount Kilimanjaro, I slid into a sleeping bag in our hut at 15,000 feet and tried to nap. In what seemed like minutes, I awoke out of breath, gasping. In the bunk bed below, my friend slept soundly. He described himself as a couch potato. I’d recently run a marathon. Yet, he was the one comfortable at altitude while my head felt like it was pinned between the pavement and the wheel of a semi-trailer. It was the most wicked of hangovers without a remedy. Even before I bought a plane ticket to East Africa, I knew I was susceptible to altitude sickness. A trip to Colorado years ago made that painfully clear. Yet I had journeyed to…