THE first chain ladder, a lengthy contraption that extends higher up than my eyes care to see, isn’t exactly what I expect. Neither is the second. The 50-odd wrungs are thin and curve over a face of the mountain they’re bolted on to, some with more and others with less space for hefty hiking boots. The ladders rattle in the wind.
It’s taken us a little more than two hours to get here, hiking from the Sentinel car park on our way up to the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, a jewel in the crown of the Royal Natal National Park. This hike is one of 20 recommended by National Geographic as the best trails to tackle in the world.
Many hikers braver than I had suggested I use the newer ladders on the right and not the seemingly free-swinging ones on the left, installed in the 1930s by resort-developer Otto Zunckel. All those hours of staring at internet images of the dreaded ladders ("avoid if you’re afraid of heights", some posts warn), seem insufficient. A punishing month of training after months spent roaming cities on assignment — in restaurants and museums mostly — here we are: me and my creeping terror of heights.
Mvula (Samson) Machobane, our guide from nearby Phuthaditjhaba in the Free State, has folded my small backpack into his and is behind me on the ladder. For a good few minutes before we start, while we’re refuelling on naartjies, juice running down my forearms, I wish I could crumple myself as easily and sneak into that backpack too.
My sporty Swedish friend Kat, who talked me — a food writer who has rounded in shape with the consumption of too many bread sticks and sedentary on-deadline snacks over the years — into this week of adventuring is here too. She’s silent, platinum-blonde hair fixed in a ponytail flashing against her pale sweater. She’s amazed I haven’t complained once (she tells me later), and I suspect she’s a little worried about what may transpire as I follow her determinedly up the ladder, with Samson behind me.
Samson matches my every slow and deliberate step, encouraging me. "You’re doing so well. That’s it," he says. "Thank you," I reply, grateful to hear his voice, listening to my breath wheeze noisily in my ears above the wind that’s staging a tough competition.
...
THIS is not exertion brought on by fatigue, although we have gained not insignificant altitude over the past two hours or so of careful climbing, pausing to take in the Witches, the Sentinel and Lesotho’s magnificent Maluti peaks.
My change in breathing isn’t because my hands and arms have engaged in a titanic effort to keep my body from plummeting (in case my legs should give in, being my mind’s contribution to the matter).
I feel my biceps clench, straining my shoulders, and my fingers adopt a claw-like grasp, welding to the ladder’s circular grips as my shins graze against the wrungs.
No, this laboured breath is born of fear. And more than the abstract fear of the thing — heights on unpredictable, hostile mountains in this case — it is the fear birthed in the act of trying to survive. And it spurs me upwards, one double-footed wrung at a time.
The tears that spill momentarily (to my embarrassment) remind me of my shortcomings and, to my relief, the utter joy of being alive. That much adrenaline coursing through your veins will do that too.
After a similar effort up the second chain ladder, we walk in silence along the mountain plateau where a puny stream that funnels into the mighty Tugela River has frozen in places. After 30 minutes, and 1.5km of flat trekking, we are at the edge — the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, and a virtually symmetrical view opens before us.
I stare at the Tugela Falls. Late winter has cast its spell and the water has frozen in a comical attempt to reach the ground, around 1,000m below, a feat that makes it the second tallest waterfall in the world. I can’t bring myself as close to the edge as Kat does.
"Take a picture of me from here," she says, handing me her cellphone and spreading her arms out to embrace the view. It’s where her husband, Dalu, proposed marriage. I leave her to enjoy the memories for a moment, walking to the left and watching an agile young couple scramble over boulders.
...
OVER packed lunch sarmies, Samson, who has been a mountain guide for the past 11 years, tells us about hiking these mountains as a teenager ("to find peace") and his love of nature.
"I can tell you this is the second-highest waterfall," he says pointing towards the Tugela, "but it’s better if you come see it for yourself."
About 20% of his guests opt not to climb the ladders, he shares. He flashes me an encouraging smile.
Climbing down the ladders, I find, requires as much concentration.
I refuse to look down, but Samson is there, walking behind and giving me wrung-by-wrung feedback. As we near the final step, he says: "Actually, you’re a strong lady. I don’t think you’re afraid; you’ve got this thing in your head. But you’re doing so well."
I can’t tell what the psychologists would make of Samson’s assessment, but one tearful hug later, our little group tackles the knee-crunching two-and-a-half hour trek to the base in high spirits.
The pink papery everlasting blossoms, violet wild agapanthus and barren pineapple lilies take on a new charm. Mink grass flutters on the breeze and golden hills spread in front of us like melted chocolate. In the distance, grey reedbuck wink before they disappear. Orange-breasted rock jumpers and Sentinel Rock thrush whistle their approval.
The rocks are rubbly in parts and sharp boulders require focus and careful placement of our weary legs, but we exchange banter, buoyed by the experience.
Having summitted the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, a trail I feared for so long, I feel heartened and hopeful, ready to tackle the week of hikes ahead.
• Book a hike: [email protected], Samson: +27 83 6848 590
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Ishay Govender-Ypma, left, and Kat Mancama with the Witches (the three peaks) behind them. Picture: ISHAY GOVENDER-YPMA
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The author fights her fears and tackles the chain ladder leading up to the escarpment. Picture: ISHAY GOVENDER-YPMA
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The awesome Drakensberg scenery. Picture: ISHAY GOVENDER-YPMA
THE first chain ladder, a lengthy contraption that extends higher up than my eyes care to see, isn’t exactly what I expect. Neither is the second. The 50-odd wrungs are thin and curve over a face of the mountain they’re bolted on to, some with more and others with less space for hefty hiking boots. The ladders rattle in the wind.
It’s taken us a little more than two hours to get here, hiking from the Sentinel car park on our way up to the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, a jewel in the crown of the Royal Natal National Park. This hike is one of 20 recommended by National Geographic as the best trails to tackle in the world.
Many hikers braver than I had suggested I use the newer ladders on the right and not the seemingly free-swinging ones on the left, installed in the 1930s by resort-developer Otto Zunckel. All those hours of staring at internet images of the dreaded ladders ("avoid if you’re afraid of heights", some posts warn), seem insufficient. A punishing month of training after months spent roaming cities on assignment — in restaurants and museums mostly — here we are: me and my creeping terror of heights.
Mvula (Samson) Machobane, our guide from nearby Phuthaditjhaba in the Free State, has folded my small backpack into his and is behind me on the ladder. For a good few minutes before we start, while we’re refuelling on naartjies, juice running down my forearms, I wish I could crumple myself as easily and sneak into that backpack too.
My sporty Swedish friend Kat, who talked me — a food writer who has rounded in shape with the consumption of too many bread sticks and sedentary on-deadline snacks over the years — into this week of adventuring is here too. She’s silent, platinum-blonde hair fixed in a ponytail flashing against her pale sweater. She’s amazed I haven’t complained once (she tells me later), and I suspect she’s a little worried about what may transpire as I follow her determinedly up the ladder, with Samson behind me.
Samson matches my every slow and deliberate step, encouraging me. "You’re doing so well. That’s it," he says. "Thank you," I reply, grateful to hear his voice, listening to my breath wheeze noisily in my ears above the wind that’s staging a tough competition.
...
THIS is not exertion brought on by fatigue, although we have gained not insignificant altitude over the past two hours or so of careful climbing, pausing to take in the Witches, the Sentinel and Lesotho’s magnificent Maluti peaks.
My change in breathing isn’t because my hands and arms have engaged in a titanic effort to keep my body from plummeting (in case my legs should give in, being my mind’s contribution to the matter).
I feel my biceps clench, straining my shoulders, and my fingers adopt a claw-like grasp, welding to the ladder’s circular grips as my shins graze against the wrungs.
No, this laboured breath is born of fear. And more than the abstract fear of the thing — heights on unpredictable, hostile mountains in this case — it is the fear birthed in the act of trying to survive. And it spurs me upwards, one double-footed wrung at a time.
The tears that spill momentarily (to my embarrassment) remind me of my shortcomings and, to my relief, the utter joy of being alive. That much adrenaline coursing through your veins will do that too.
After a similar effort up the second chain ladder, we walk in silence along the mountain plateau where a puny stream that funnels into the mighty Tugela River has frozen in places. After 30 minutes, and 1.5km of flat trekking, we are at the edge — the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, and a virtually symmetrical view opens before us.
I stare at the Tugela Falls. Late winter has cast its spell and the water has frozen in a comical attempt to reach the ground, around 1,000m below, a feat that makes it the second tallest waterfall in the world. I can’t bring myself as close to the edge as Kat does.
"Take a picture of me from here," she says, handing me her cellphone and spreading her arms out to embrace the view. It’s where her husband, Dalu, proposed marriage. I leave her to enjoy the memories for a moment, walking to the left and watching an agile young couple scramble over boulders.
...
OVER packed lunch sarmies, Samson, who has been a mountain guide for the past 11 years, tells us about hiking these mountains as a teenager ("to find peace") and his love of nature.
"I can tell you this is the second-highest waterfall," he says pointing towards the Tugela, "but it’s better if you come see it for yourself."
About 20% of his guests opt not to climb the ladders, he shares. He flashes me an encouraging smile.
Climbing down the ladders, I find, requires as much concentration.
I refuse to look down, but Samson is there, walking behind and giving me wrung-by-wrung feedback. As we near the final step, he says: "Actually, you’re a strong lady. I don’t think you’re afraid; you’ve got this thing in your head. But you’re doing so well."
I can’t tell what the psychologists would make of Samson’s assessment, but one tearful hug later, our little group tackles the knee-crunching two-and-a-half hour trek to the base in high spirits.
The pink papery everlasting blossoms, violet wild agapanthus and barren pineapple lilies take on a new charm. Mink grass flutters on the breeze and golden hills spread in front of us like melted chocolate. In the distance, grey reedbuck wink before they disappear. Orange-breasted rock jumpers and Sentinel Rock thrush whistle their approval.
The rocks are rubbly in parts and sharp boulders require focus and careful placement of our weary legs, but we exchange banter, buoyed by the experience.
Having summitted the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, a trail I feared for so long, I feel heartened and hopeful, ready to tackle the week of hikes ahead.
• Book a hike: [email protected], Samson: +27 83 6848 590
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