I leapt up full of energy on Day 5, ready to tackle mountains and wild bush pigs. I put on some lovely dry, clean socks which quickly absorbed all the excess water from my sodden shoes and squelched out the hut for a sumptuous breakfast of coffee and rusks against the backdrop of the most spectacular view. My enthusiasm was not even dampened by the fact that my pack was as heavy as it was the first day due to all the wet clothes ..... I had been bitten by the hiking bug and could suddenly understand why they all kept going back for more.
We set off briskly and soon encountered the Bosbou guys in their 4x4 coming to see if we were okay after our ordeal the day before. Kevin mentioned that he was so glad to see I'd overcome my frog phobia .... apparently while standing talking at the bakkie, three frogs were happily frolicking to and fro over my feet. I ran the next kilometre. First time I’d been in front of the pack. After just over an hour and not one stinking mountain, nor a single drop of sweat, we were suddenly back in civilization - at the Shell Ultra City at the Storms River bridge. What a let down. The last days walk is only 3,5 km. And there I was, finally fit enough to take on Kilimanjaro.
We stood and stared in horror at all the noisy cars and clean people. Ugh! Just as I was really beginning to appreciate being in the wild bush surrounded by musclebound sweaty, unshaven men. We were also all dressed a bit funny having thrown together our ensembles from whatever dry and relatively clean clothing we could salvage from our packs. So there was nothing for it but to head for the restaurant and order some ice cold beers.
We then drove back to Natures Valley, my, the scenery went by quickly! We all had a HOT shower and put on clean clothes we'd kept specially in the trailer and that was fabulous. All the girls then hauled out various appearance enhancing accessories which I hadn’t thought to bring since I thought I was packing for a hike, and stepped out looking gorgeous. All thirteen of us then piled into the combi and headed off to Plett to tear the town apart.
We started off at the Lookout on the beach for some lunch and a quiet beer followed by a noisy 14. As the noise levels escalated as we made up for lost beer time, Theresa hauled the management over the coals for cruelty to crayfish, Mary confessed to owning a vibrator which came as rather a surprise to her husband of twenty years, David declared his everlasting love to Carol, who he’d only just met on this hike and my dad started a rousing hiking song with brilliant lyrics ..... "Super C, Super C, Super C for energy. Up the hill, down the hill, up the hill etc. etc.". The management were very happy to see us leave as we continued our inspiring song into the carpark.
Next stop was Flashbacks where we played some pool, however after a few rounds of tequilla no one knew who was playing who or with who or whether they were stripes or solids. So everyone started giving everyone else body shots. And then things got out of hand. Luckily for Theresa, a sweet, young 21 year old from Bloemfontein carried her to Cranzgots for supper. The rest of us had to weave our way over there. I was by then incapable of reading the menu, but it didn’t matter anyway because I managed to turn my pizza upside down on the table when I took it from the waiter and when I flipped it back again it could have been anything. As long as it wasn’t a granola bar and dried banana pizza, I was happy.
It was pitch dark back at the camp and no-one had torches so we wandered around in the forest for what seemed like hours (luckily we were SO fit), with my dad intermittently bumping into trees and causing a domino effect behind him because we were all following very closely. We eventually found our way to the chalet when we spotted the immobiliser light flashing in my dad’s bakkie. Kevin insisted on sleeping in the bakkie with all the wet rucksacks and smelly shoes and socks. My first night on a soft, comfortable bed and I could have been sleeping on a bush pigs back and wouldn’t have known the difference.
But I do know that I will be back, even if its just for the after party. I have some vague memory of committing ourselves to the Otter Trail next year and I can't wait. This trail was one of the best experiences of my life, although if I look back on Day 1, I can't quite work out how I reached this conclusion ..... and I lost the bet I made on day 2, the "Never Again" one!
Monday, 21 October 2013
Thursday, 15 August 2013
Trail Tarts Part 4
Woke up on Day 4 feeling very spritely, notwithstanding the fact that I was still as stiff as a board, I think my body had adjusted to this state as being normal. It had started raining at about 3am that morning and continued without letting up so we decided to start off anyway after waterproofing what we could.
We crossed the first river, just below the hut, the Kleinbos, and, what a joke, we all took our shoes and socks off because it was ankle deep and we didn’t want heavy sodden shoes. What a waste of energy because within ten minutes our shoes were sodden anyway. I took to walking right through the middle of the puddles. There were two reasons for this, one that it used up less precious energy than walking or climbing around the puddles and two, I was convinced that frogs prefer it on the banks to sitting in the middle of puddles. This is called denial in psychological terms I believe.
We spent the morning climbing yet another long, forgotten uphill and then a steep descent into another forest. Once again I was too busy applying frog-avoidance strategy by making sure I was walking through the deepest part of the puddles that had now become pools, to notice the scenery. We reached the Witteklip River where we would have had a swim if the sun was shining, however this was completely unnecessary as we were all soaking wet anyway. We found the front runners pacing up and down the bank in frustration. The river was a raging torrent and any attempt at crossing would have washed us away in seconds. We tried to find other ways to get across, like fallen trees, but decided this was too risky. I would have tried anything because I just couldn’t face the thought of climbing back UP the steep decent we had just come down, however, good sense prevailed over desperation. Which was just as well because we would just have been stopped by the next river and been out of cell phone range. So back through the forest we went, which I just knew was infested with hordes of hopping frogs but my psyche was effectively preventing me from seeing them and then it was back up that dreaded mountain. The path by this time had become a running waterfall which we had to walk up against. Peering through the mists we could make out some magnificent waterfalls cascading down the cliffs and into the rivers, effectively flooding them.
Eventually, cold, hungry and tired we arrived back where we started at that little river, the Kleinbos, the one we had removed our shoes for that morning, to be greeted by a familiar sight: the frontrunners pacing up and down the bank of a raging river in full flood. The hut was a mere five minutes away yet we couldn’t get there. We managed to phone the Bosbou “stasie” who arrived on the hut side of the river an hour later. Once again we were lucky we'd walked back to one of the two huts that were accessible to vehicles. By this time the tension and the cold had reduced some who had given up smoking to start puffing again despite having to puff under the backs of other peoples raincoats. The two guys from Bosbou attempted to reach us by tying a rope across the river but the one guy was so nearly washed away it was frightening. And he was huge. They then called for reinforcements who arrived with a chain saw and found a place further up river where they could saw down huge pine trees. They cut them down so that two fell across each other over the river and they then helped us climb across that way. Luckily these okes were huge and strong so I felt quite safe once I reached their helping hands. Theresa was so upset because she forgot to get the one hero’s phone number. She was quite willing to marry him and bring him his lunch in a little metal suitcase everyday while he lumberjacked. A pulley system was rigged up to get the bags across and of course mine was the only one to get dipped into the river after managing against all odds to keep it relatively dry the entire drenchingly wet day.
They took us in two bakkies onto the next hut, Sleepkloof, but could only get within 3 km’s of it so we had to put our packs back on and trudge through more water in the dark to get to the hut which was situated overlooking a beautiful forested gorge and surrounded by magnificent mountains which we couldn’t see through the mist and rain. On arrival everyone hauled out their stoves and made cup a soup, wonderful stuff, and then we all huddled around a huge fire, drank any alcohol we could scratch out of the depths of our bags, ate pasta and argued about whether we could have made it over the first river or not. In all we walked 16 sodden km’s though we did miss one massive mountain climb, the highest of the trail.
Day 5.....the last stretch to a cold beer....
We crossed the first river, just below the hut, the Kleinbos, and, what a joke, we all took our shoes and socks off because it was ankle deep and we didn’t want heavy sodden shoes. What a waste of energy because within ten minutes our shoes were sodden anyway. I took to walking right through the middle of the puddles. There were two reasons for this, one that it used up less precious energy than walking or climbing around the puddles and two, I was convinced that frogs prefer it on the banks to sitting in the middle of puddles. This is called denial in psychological terms I believe.
We spent the morning climbing yet another long, forgotten uphill and then a steep descent into another forest. Once again I was too busy applying frog-avoidance strategy by making sure I was walking through the deepest part of the puddles that had now become pools, to notice the scenery. We reached the Witteklip River where we would have had a swim if the sun was shining, however this was completely unnecessary as we were all soaking wet anyway. We found the front runners pacing up and down the bank in frustration. The river was a raging torrent and any attempt at crossing would have washed us away in seconds. We tried to find other ways to get across, like fallen trees, but decided this was too risky. I would have tried anything because I just couldn’t face the thought of climbing back UP the steep decent we had just come down, however, good sense prevailed over desperation. Which was just as well because we would just have been stopped by the next river and been out of cell phone range. So back through the forest we went, which I just knew was infested with hordes of hopping frogs but my psyche was effectively preventing me from seeing them and then it was back up that dreaded mountain. The path by this time had become a running waterfall which we had to walk up against. Peering through the mists we could make out some magnificent waterfalls cascading down the cliffs and into the rivers, effectively flooding them.
Eventually, cold, hungry and tired we arrived back where we started at that little river, the Kleinbos, the one we had removed our shoes for that morning, to be greeted by a familiar sight: the frontrunners pacing up and down the bank of a raging river in full flood. The hut was a mere five minutes away yet we couldn’t get there. We managed to phone the Bosbou “stasie” who arrived on the hut side of the river an hour later. Once again we were lucky we'd walked back to one of the two huts that were accessible to vehicles. By this time the tension and the cold had reduced some who had given up smoking to start puffing again despite having to puff under the backs of other peoples raincoats. The two guys from Bosbou attempted to reach us by tying a rope across the river but the one guy was so nearly washed away it was frightening. And he was huge. They then called for reinforcements who arrived with a chain saw and found a place further up river where they could saw down huge pine trees. They cut them down so that two fell across each other over the river and they then helped us climb across that way. Luckily these okes were huge and strong so I felt quite safe once I reached their helping hands. Theresa was so upset because she forgot to get the one hero’s phone number. She was quite willing to marry him and bring him his lunch in a little metal suitcase everyday while he lumberjacked. A pulley system was rigged up to get the bags across and of course mine was the only one to get dipped into the river after managing against all odds to keep it relatively dry the entire drenchingly wet day.
They took us in two bakkies onto the next hut, Sleepkloof, but could only get within 3 km’s of it so we had to put our packs back on and trudge through more water in the dark to get to the hut which was situated overlooking a beautiful forested gorge and surrounded by magnificent mountains which we couldn’t see through the mist and rain. On arrival everyone hauled out their stoves and made cup a soup, wonderful stuff, and then we all huddled around a huge fire, drank any alcohol we could scratch out of the depths of our bags, ate pasta and argued about whether we could have made it over the first river or not. In all we walked 16 sodden km’s though we did miss one massive mountain climb, the highest of the trail.
Day 5.....the last stretch to a cold beer....
Wednesday, 29 May 2013
Trail Tarts Part 3
If I thought I was stiff on day 2, well! I had to be pulled out of bed and propped up on the bunk from where I managed to propel myself forwards so that my momentum got me to the showers a few metres away. I managed to overtake a caterpillar on the last metre. Getting back up the stairs to the hut was another story. However once I set out and loosened up a bit I actually found myself for the first time enjoying the walk and the scenery despite another massive, forgotten mountain climb.
And enjoy the scenery I did because I still stopped to rest every few metres, although I convinced myself this was purely voluntary, until I was overtaken at speed by the power walkers despite my half hour head start. They greeted me cheerily as they rushed by without a drop of sweat on their noses in pursuit of some record breaking ascent. Got to the top of the mountain and was rewarded with the most astounding view of the surrounding Tsitsikamma mountains where I realised for the first time how truly isolated and in the middle of nowhere we were.
It started raining as we descended into yet another valley. I was by now getting very confident and evidently delusional after making it to the top of that mountain without any of my vital signs being in danger of fading. We stopped at another river for another best cup a soup I've ever had for lunch. Smoking in the rain takes a fair amount of agility in having to dodge the drops off the dripping trees but these drops have the added benefit of cooling your soup down quickly. Scouts badge goes to my dad for being able to boil the water in the rain.
After lunch it was more uphill and maybe I was just getting fitter, but this did not seem quite as steep as the Kilimanjaro wannabee slopes that had previously threatened my physical limits. Rear gunners dad and I eventually caught up with some of our party having a rest in a clearing in a pine forest, so out came all our snacky things, including a tin of mussels from someone’s, possibly a weightlifters, bag. We then continued down into another beautiful forest where my dad stopped often to point out various shrubs, trees, lichen etc. which was fine by me, because it gave me the chance to reduce my breathing to ragged gasps. After a few more little uphills, designed to finish you off if you think you've made it to the hut unscathed, we arrived at the hut, Heuningbos, with everyone waving cheerily at us from the balcony. I was just about to hurl yet more expletives at them when my dad fell down in front of me with an exclamation of joy. I thought he was just glad to be at the hut, but then I saw a Windhoek lager and a Black Label, glistening with glorious little droplets, on the last step and I fell on it like a woman deranged. Nevermind the cup a soup, this was definitely the BEST beer I had ever had in my life and ever will. The Eastern Capers, bless their hearts, on discovering there was cell phone reception wasted no time in phoning the Bosbou “stasie” 6 km’s away and placed an order for as much booze they could fit in the back of their 4x4 bakkie, which they then delivered. This hut and Blaaukrantz are the only ones accessible to vehicles. Not as isolated as I thought. After phoning my little darlings back home and assuring them that we hadn’t been trampled by wild elephants although we had had the odd run in with a wild bush pig named Pumba, we joined the party which was already in full swing.
That we night we braaied steak, although some people refused to eat theirs, it was looking a bit iffy by then. Well they missed out because it was the most tender steak I've ever had. Now I know how the restaurants get it right! But by far the greatest feat, and this was a team effort, was to finish ALL the booze by 9 o’ clock. There was not a drop left to have to carry the next day! One of the girls had trouble telling the lapa from the hut and eventually had to be carried to the hut from the lapa. Someone else managed to set fire to his boot, yet another fell down the steps of the hut after two unsuccessful attempts to make it up and, oh, the jokes were getting raunchier and rougher with each passing night.
Day 4 ......more drama to come .....
And enjoy the scenery I did because I still stopped to rest every few metres, although I convinced myself this was purely voluntary, until I was overtaken at speed by the power walkers despite my half hour head start. They greeted me cheerily as they rushed by without a drop of sweat on their noses in pursuit of some record breaking ascent. Got to the top of the mountain and was rewarded with the most astounding view of the surrounding Tsitsikamma mountains where I realised for the first time how truly isolated and in the middle of nowhere we were.
It started raining as we descended into yet another valley. I was by now getting very confident and evidently delusional after making it to the top of that mountain without any of my vital signs being in danger of fading. We stopped at another river for another best cup a soup I've ever had for lunch. Smoking in the rain takes a fair amount of agility in having to dodge the drops off the dripping trees but these drops have the added benefit of cooling your soup down quickly. Scouts badge goes to my dad for being able to boil the water in the rain.
After lunch it was more uphill and maybe I was just getting fitter, but this did not seem quite as steep as the Kilimanjaro wannabee slopes that had previously threatened my physical limits. Rear gunners dad and I eventually caught up with some of our party having a rest in a clearing in a pine forest, so out came all our snacky things, including a tin of mussels from someone’s, possibly a weightlifters, bag. We then continued down into another beautiful forest where my dad stopped often to point out various shrubs, trees, lichen etc. which was fine by me, because it gave me the chance to reduce my breathing to ragged gasps. After a few more little uphills, designed to finish you off if you think you've made it to the hut unscathed, we arrived at the hut, Heuningbos, with everyone waving cheerily at us from the balcony. I was just about to hurl yet more expletives at them when my dad fell down in front of me with an exclamation of joy. I thought he was just glad to be at the hut, but then I saw a Windhoek lager and a Black Label, glistening with glorious little droplets, on the last step and I fell on it like a woman deranged. Nevermind the cup a soup, this was definitely the BEST beer I had ever had in my life and ever will. The Eastern Capers, bless their hearts, on discovering there was cell phone reception wasted no time in phoning the Bosbou “stasie” 6 km’s away and placed an order for as much booze they could fit in the back of their 4x4 bakkie, which they then delivered. This hut and Blaaukrantz are the only ones accessible to vehicles. Not as isolated as I thought. After phoning my little darlings back home and assuring them that we hadn’t been trampled by wild elephants although we had had the odd run in with a wild bush pig named Pumba, we joined the party which was already in full swing.
That we night we braaied steak, although some people refused to eat theirs, it was looking a bit iffy by then. Well they missed out because it was the most tender steak I've ever had. Now I know how the restaurants get it right! But by far the greatest feat, and this was a team effort, was to finish ALL the booze by 9 o’ clock. There was not a drop left to have to carry the next day! One of the girls had trouble telling the lapa from the hut and eventually had to be carried to the hut from the lapa. Someone else managed to set fire to his boot, yet another fell down the steps of the hut after two unsuccessful attempts to make it up and, oh, the jokes were getting raunchier and rougher with each passing night.
Day 4 ......more drama to come .....
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Trail Tarts Part 2
Up at the crack of dawn on day 2, having gone to bed sober and sore. Feeling stiff as a board but a bit more optimistic as this day is only 14 kms as
opposed to yesterday's 16 kms. Two whole kilometres less! Optimism
fades fast as I realise I can't move very fast. I was overtaken by a
caterpillar on the way to the loo! Tried to flag down the Ranger’s
bakkie when they came to collect the refuse so I could get a ride back
to civilisation, but my immobility prevented me from even making it down
the hut stairs before they left again in a cloud of dust.
I needed help getting the dreaded pack onto my back and then staggered off up another monstrous mountain from hell which towered over yesterday’s little molehills. The temperature was 30 degrees and within minutes we could wring the sweat out of our clothes. And so another morning ensued of bitching, swearing, moaning and wondering what the hell I was doing there. Oh for a flat tennis court and a chilled glass of post-tennis bubbles. The scenery was supposed to be fantastic but I really could not have given a toss, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
I needed help getting the dreaded pack onto my back and then staggered off up another monstrous mountain from hell which towered over yesterday’s little molehills. The temperature was 30 degrees and within minutes we could wring the sweat out of our clothes. And so another morning ensued of bitching, swearing, moaning and wondering what the hell I was doing there. Oh for a flat tennis court and a chilled glass of post-tennis bubbles. The scenery was supposed to be fantastic but I really could not have given a toss, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
Once
again my dad and I brought up the rear and eventually caught up with
the others at another spectacular pool in the river. It was huge, cold
and fringed with ferns and frog-free as far as I could tell. After the
best cup of soup I have ever had in my life we continued up another hill
and another, and another etc. etc. By this time I had given up smoking,
I was too debilitated the day before to even think of a smoke. At the
sight of yet another mountain, I stopped for my 500th rest of the hour
and was just about to burst into gut wrenching sobs when Kevin gallantly
offered to relieve me of my wine stash and the Old Brown to make my bag
lighter. He probably figured that this would be a lot easier than
carrying me. Or dragging me.
After
almost standing on a puff adder I picked up a bit of pace. We then went
through another beautiful forest and as luck would have it I was
looking upwards the whole way (for boomslangs) and must have missed all
the frogs. A definite bonus for someone with a frog phobia. Kevin later told me the forest was infested with them and he was wondering how I was coping.
My dad and I eventually caught up with a foot sore Theresa and we hobbled, uphill again, the last few kms to the hut. I did not even have the
energy to swear at the rest of the bunch already at the hut, I could
only manage some obscene gestures when they cheerfully enquired after my
health. The hut veranda looked like an emergency ward with everyone
suffering from blisters and sore feet. My feet were fine, I just had
blisters on my hands from leaning so heavily on my hiking stick.
That
night everyone made further serious inroads into their alcohol rations
and we had marinated pork steaks and pasta for supper. A wild cat ran
off with someone’s biltong but no-one had the energy to pursue it.
Keurbos hut was set in a forest clearing with no view to speak of but
pretty nonetheless. Managed against all odds to start smoking again and
even drank some wine, although this was more to get the weight out of my
bag than because I wanted to.
Day 3 to follow ... it DOES get better ....
Day 3 to follow ... it DOES get better ....
Wednesday, 23 January 2013
Trail Tarts Part 1
Since the primary purpose of our strenuous and challenging weekly tennis is exercise, and not as you might be led to believe, quaffing champagne and gossiping over snacks, we do every now and then have to resort to other activities when we can’t play tennis. Patty runs in any weather, Meg traverses the spines of towering mountains on her mountain bike and Theresa heads off into the wild bush for days on end with a heavy pack on her back. Its called hiking and its supposed to be enjoyable. Not quite convinced about the enjoyment factor, she nonetheless convinced me to join her on a 5 day foray into the Tsitsikamma forest with everything needed for our survival packed into a rucksack. And so I digress from the tennis court as the Tarts hit the Trail.
We began our journey with our arrival in Natures Valley to meet the Eastern Cape contingent of our hiking party at the first overnight hut. Seasoned, experienced hikers, they come from a small town in the North Eastern Cape which prompted my husband, Kevin to precede any contribution to the conversation around the braai in the lapa with “You know what you farmers are like ...”. They found this rather perplexing since none of them actually farm, they are all business entrepreneurs. I reassured them that it would be quite safe to hike with Kevin and that by the end of the first day they would be just as comfortable as I am in saying, “You know what Kevin is like ....”. And so the adventure began with all of us drinking far too much in a premature celebration of our invincibility on the eve of setting out to conquer nature.
DAY 1: Invincibility was definitely not the word foremost in my head the next morning as we set off briskly, hangovers and all and headed into the forest. This is great I thought. I can do this! Its a walk in the park! 15 minutes later we hit our first hill and I thought I was going to die. I could maybe manage 10 steps before gasping. This was not helped by the fact that my bag was far too heavy (I had 2 litres of wine, OB's, brandy, tons of Game for mixers, cigarettes, too much food, too few clothes and a beer...I could only fit 1 in). I considered tossing the beer out but luckily came to my senses once I had reduced my breathing down to mere painful gasps.
Having made it to the top I was assured that I had been through the worst. Hah! They have short memories, a bit like the childbirth experience. We stopped for lunch at a beautiful pool and waterfall and had an ice cold swim which revived me a bit. Then we set off up another mountain which made the first hill of the morning look like a molehill, and which they also seemed to have forgotten about since their last trip. By this time me and my Dad had been left in their dust - they are all fitness fanatics and to prove it, Kevin witnessed them power walking the last 3 km’s uphill to the hut.
By the time we got to the overnight hut I was half dead. I believe we walked through a stunning tree fern forest and a pine plantation. I however was more familiar with the top of my shoes and watching sweat drip off my nose. The hut was situated on top of a stunning (this is what they tell me) gorge with spectacular views. Lying on my back on the verandah with my rucksack still attached to my back, I was unable to summon any response other than being very abusive to anyone who cheerfully tried to point out the lovely vista to me.
I was also too debilitated to drink anything other than my one precious beer and I only drank that so no one else would, having lugged it over the back-breaking mountains from hell.
The others, obviously not suffering any ill effects, had another celebratory, roaring party which must have made serious inroads into their rations. At some stage in the night some wild bush pigs came out of the bushes. It was quite spectacular to seem them so close, they're gorgeous. By the time the rest went to bed (I was long gone), Kevin had earned himself the nickname Pumba, after he and Theresa, doing an excellent impersonation of bush pigs, came in snorting, snuffling and giggling. The highlight for me that night was that we made a huge potjie and I threw every single potato and onion I could find in my bag into it. I might have thrown in an orange or two as well. I think I prefer tennis.
DAY 2 of Torturous Hell to follow .....
We began our journey with our arrival in Natures Valley to meet the Eastern Cape contingent of our hiking party at the first overnight hut. Seasoned, experienced hikers, they come from a small town in the North Eastern Cape which prompted my husband, Kevin to precede any contribution to the conversation around the braai in the lapa with “You know what you farmers are like ...”. They found this rather perplexing since none of them actually farm, they are all business entrepreneurs. I reassured them that it would be quite safe to hike with Kevin and that by the end of the first day they would be just as comfortable as I am in saying, “You know what Kevin is like ....”. And so the adventure began with all of us drinking far too much in a premature celebration of our invincibility on the eve of setting out to conquer nature.
DAY 1: Invincibility was definitely not the word foremost in my head the next morning as we set off briskly, hangovers and all and headed into the forest. This is great I thought. I can do this! Its a walk in the park! 15 minutes later we hit our first hill and I thought I was going to die. I could maybe manage 10 steps before gasping. This was not helped by the fact that my bag was far too heavy (I had 2 litres of wine, OB's, brandy, tons of Game for mixers, cigarettes, too much food, too few clothes and a beer...I could only fit 1 in). I considered tossing the beer out but luckily came to my senses once I had reduced my breathing down to mere painful gasps.
Having made it to the top I was assured that I had been through the worst. Hah! They have short memories, a bit like the childbirth experience. We stopped for lunch at a beautiful pool and waterfall and had an ice cold swim which revived me a bit. Then we set off up another mountain which made the first hill of the morning look like a molehill, and which they also seemed to have forgotten about since their last trip. By this time me and my Dad had been left in their dust - they are all fitness fanatics and to prove it, Kevin witnessed them power walking the last 3 km’s uphill to the hut.
By the time we got to the overnight hut I was half dead. I believe we walked through a stunning tree fern forest and a pine plantation. I however was more familiar with the top of my shoes and watching sweat drip off my nose. The hut was situated on top of a stunning (this is what they tell me) gorge with spectacular views. Lying on my back on the verandah with my rucksack still attached to my back, I was unable to summon any response other than being very abusive to anyone who cheerfully tried to point out the lovely vista to me.
I was also too debilitated to drink anything other than my one precious beer and I only drank that so no one else would, having lugged it over the back-breaking mountains from hell.
The others, obviously not suffering any ill effects, had another celebratory, roaring party which must have made serious inroads into their rations. At some stage in the night some wild bush pigs came out of the bushes. It was quite spectacular to seem them so close, they're gorgeous. By the time the rest went to bed (I was long gone), Kevin had earned himself the nickname Pumba, after he and Theresa, doing an excellent impersonation of bush pigs, came in snorting, snuffling and giggling. The highlight for me that night was that we made a huge potjie and I threw every single potato and onion I could find in my bag into it. I might have thrown in an orange or two as well. I think I prefer tennis.
DAY 2 of Torturous Hell to follow .....
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)