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.

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 ....