It’s warm and sunny when we start climbing the chain ladders from the Sentinel car park, topping on the escarpment. It’s a different world up here. The towering cliffs are below us now, and ahead is a barren wilderness. We detour slightly to view the mighty Tugela Falls, which crash 500 m into the void below.
By early afternoon, the storm clouds start to scud across the sky, casting rapidly moving shadows over the rocky hills. I look up. A klipspringer is perched high on a rock, silhouetted against a mauve sky. Later, we see a lone male baboon loping far below in the valley.
Our route takes us inland, over a series of ridges and ribs, skirting peaks and crossing rivers, one step ahead of the approaching storm. We put on our raincoats just as the first squall hits, followed by a brilliant rainbow; then another, and another…
We find a sheltered camping spot beside a stream near Fangs Pass, just as the first rumbles of thunder echo around the valley. Rob’s back is giving him trouble, sending spasms of pain down
his leg. It’s an old injury, and carrying more than 30 kg on his back all day hasn’t helped.
“We’re on an exposed plateau, sitting in a cage of aluminium”, he points out as the flashes get closer. Our tent is the best lightning conductor for miles. Too late now. I cook up some pasta
and sauce in-between bursts of rain.

So we’ve seen hot sun, blue sky, five thunderstorms, four rainbows, a blizzard and 10 cm of snow. And that’s just in the first 24 hours. We wait for the blizzard to abate before breaking camp and heading off into the snow. It’s not long before the next one arrives, though. Rob, the more experienced navigator, is getting nervous.
“If the vis shuts down, we drop into that valley and sit it out,” he announces, motioning towards a distant stream, barely visible through the driving snow. But the squalls come in waves, allowing us to keep our bearings. There’s a break in the weather and we crest a ridge, to be greeted by a magnificent view of the Mnweni Cutback, cloaked in white as cloud billows from below, enveloping its towers and pinnacles.

Mnweni means “Place of Fingers”. It’s one of the wildest and remotest part of the ‘Berg, requiring a long detour to skirt its giant, twisted rock formations.
By lunch time, we’re striding up to the jagged peaks of the Rockeries, watched over by hungry vultures. “They’re just checking us out to see if we’re still alive,” Rob says as one swoops low over our heads. We scale another peak before descending to our second camp by the Koakoatstan River.
Just in time. The first hailstones hit and we dive for the tent. For the rest of the night the hail and snow mixes together, pummelling the tent so it sounds like a percussion orchestra in full swing.

It’s -4 ºC when we wake up, but the snow has stopped and the sight of blue sky above swirling clouds is enough to entice us out of bed early. We trudge up the valley through the deep virgin snow and into an icy wind.
As we crest the escarpment once again we’re rewarded by a superb panorama: the dramatic Bell, Chessmen and Cathedral peaks, which are covered in snow, rising above an endless carpet of cloud stretching across KwaZulu-Natal.
Mist swirls below, rising like steam around the sheer cliffs. Looking down on all this, breaking a trail through the deep snow, it almost feels like we’re in the Himalayas. Ahead, the ground is
pure white except for the fresh tracks of a cat, possibly a caracal. We follow the prints for several kilometres.
Our meals are strictly rationed, and a meagre lunch of 10 Pro-vitas, half a packet of tuna and a single piece of Laughing Cow cheese feels insubstantial. At least there’s an energy bar to look forward to – I’m going to need it for the long climb up Cleft Peak that afternoon. Tired and hungry, I focus on the step ahead, breathing hard, steadying myself against the buffeting wind. Why am I
feeling so weak?
We finally reach the summit, where an array of concentric rainbows in the mist makes me feel as if I am hallucinating. It’s a steep, slippery descent through deep snow on the other side, and we have to concentrate to avoid falling. This is not a good place to break an ankle. We set up camp at Windy Gap – sure enough, it lives up to its name.

“Hmm. ProNutro for breakfast. Again,” Rob exclaims. He’s wishing he’d gone for the oats option. Already, our food is starting to get monotonous.
We hike up to the Ndumeni Caves on a beautiful clear morning. To the north we can see the unmistakeable outline of Devil’s Tooth – close to where we started. Down in the next valley, the tinkling of bells gives the first hint of “civilisation” in four days, and we pass a Lesotho herder on the path, wrapped tightly in is kobo (blanket).
Lower down, we see a stone kraal and a shepherd’s hut with a grass roof, called
DAY 4: 28km, 1 300 m ascent Crossing paths a motebo. Our lives intersect with theirs fleetingly, giving us a glimpse into a different world.

The valley joins with another, the picturesque Yodlers Cascades between them. We climb to their source on the edge of the escarpment. There’s still plenty of snow on the ground as we start the long, high traverse to Cathkin Mountain Pass. Along the way, we pass a group of people, carrying large white sacks. We nod a greeting. This area is well known for dagga trading.

It’s starting to get dark and, although we can see the pass, the terrain is getting rougher and rougher. “Those cliffs ahead look a bit sketchy. I suggest we duck underneath and head down the valley to camp,” Rob says. “Then we have to climb all the way up again tomorrow. Let’s stay high and camp at the pass; there’ll be plenty of water up there,” I predict confidently.
Half an hour later, just as the sun is setting, we reach the pass, exhausted. There is no water. “And what do you suggest we do now?” Rob asks. “Hmm. Carry on a bit?” “From here we follow the escarpment for miles. Where are we going to find water?”
In the end we walk down into the valley until we find the first trickles of a stream and set up camp in the dark.

Breakfast in bed. Again! From his side of the tent Rob can operate the stove outside without getting out of his sleeping bag. It’s 6 am and he hands me my oats and a rusk. We’ve rationed ourselves to one rusk per day, but most of the remaining ones have been crushed into a fine powder by now.
We’re both feeling weak today. A bruise on my heel, caused by slipping in the snow on day three, is getting worse and I’m hobbling slightly. A flourishing blister on the other heel isn’t helping
either. I should have treated it earlier.
Yesterday’s push is taking its toll even the small hills have my thighs aching. We have to be careful not to overdo things.
Suddenly, I hear dogs barking, and I see three shepherd dogs sprinting towards Rob, with the shepherd hot on their heels. Rob scrambles to pick up rocks for defence as they get close. The shepherd catches up to them, clutching a stick, and scolds them. The dogs are used for security, and for hunting rabbits, mice and birds to supplement his diet.
By afternoon we’re standing on the summit of Mafadi, at 3 446 m, the highest peak in South Africa. The visibility is deteriorating, so we descend to the valley to camp. An eerie mist envelops the peaks and valleys around us, and the stream next to which we set up camp is lined with icicles dangling from its steep, rocky sides.

It’s the coldest morning so far: -8 ºC. Condensation freezes on the inside of the tent, showering us with tiny ice particles. I wash down my rusk with cold water – we’re too short on fuel now for the luxury of tea or coffee.
Yesterday’s lethargy has long gone and, despite my painful blisters, we’re flying. It’s clear again, and the views from The Judge in all directions are just wild. Giant’s Castle is in sight already.
But the mist is never far away and soon we’re in the thick of it again. The ghostly sounds of cowbells in the mist remind us that we’re not quite alone.
We make good progress, and set up camp near Tent Peak, on an exposed ridge near the edge of the escarpment. “Should be a good view of the sunrise from here,” Rob remarks as we pitch the tent with a 360-degree view of the mountains and plains. Nearby, a waterfall cascades into the chasm, chunks of ice visible in the foaming water.
Vultures soar between the vast pinnacles and circle above us. We open the maps on a flat rock. Rob makes a few rough calculations. “We’ll be at Sani Pass in less than two days at this rate!”
The sun sets over Lesotho, casting long rays over the hazy plains far, far below. We’re feeling fit and on top of the world.

Spectacular camp sites come at a price. During the night the wind picks up and hammers us mercilessly. But it’s worth it to watch the sun rise over the blanket of clouds below. At least the wind keeps the night temperature up to a modest -2ºC, and we’re on the move early.
We crest a ridge and the scene that greets us may as well be a hallucination. I’m looking at Table Mountain, Lion’s Head and Signal Hill. Sometimes the mountains all start to look the same, but this is ridiculous! As we angle towards “Tamboerskloof”, we spot a group of smugglers heading down “Kloof Nek”, bags of booty on their backs, and continue around to “Bantry Bay”. They’re moving fast (it’s a business trip after all). They wave and disappear down a pass.
We’re climbing again, past an abandoned motebo, and pitch camp on the ridge, with more spectacular views. After being pummelled by the wind for another night, we realise that all the motebos we’ve seen are built on the lee side of the ridge. It’s about time we learnt our lesson…
This morning we’re aiming for Thabana Ntlenyana – at 3 482m the highest point in southern Africa. It’s a steep hour-and-a-half’s climb in the face of a howling gale. Near the summit I put my pack on the ground and it promptly starts to blow away. I put it on again quickly. The views from the top make it all worthwhile, however.
We crest another ridge and I can see a road in the distance. Cars! Buildings! We’re at Sani Pass already.
I look back at Rob. He is sitting on his pack, shaking his head. It’s another recurring problem: shin splints. The ligaments on his shins are starting to tear away from the bone, and walking is becoming increasingly painful. We decide to set up camp and assess the situation in the morning.

Bad news: Rob’s foot is starting to hang limp; even lifting it is difficult. He tried to support it with tape and bandages, but it doesn’t help.
However, he’s not about to give up easily. “It’s not about the pain. I’ll deal with the pain to finish the traverse. I’m just worried the leg will give in completely.”
If it had happened half a day later, he would have had no choice but to hobble to the end. But now we’re next to the only road on the whole route, and the easiest exit. It’s the right decision to quit potentially avoiding a difficult mountain rescue and a serious injury.
I decide to push on and do the last day-and-a-half alone. It’s risky, but the weather seems to be stable and I’m feeling strong.
By lunch time I’ve covered 25 km along the edge, past Giant’s Cup and over No-man’s Peak, with the usual, awesome views towards the horizon. It’s strange to be alone. I feel exposed, but at the same time elated.
I descend Mashai Pass, slithering down the steep snow-filled gullies, and then rock-hop down the river, surrounded by giant eroded monuments of rock. After nine days at high altitude, it’s amazing to breathe warm, thick air again. I camp by the river, close to Garden Castle.
I am excited. The end is in sight, but after the longest day so far, I’m too tired to think much.

It’s an easy half day’s walk along the Giant’s Cup hiking trail to the border post at Bushman’s Nek. Standing on the last ridge looking down at the finish, I pause. It’s hard to take in how much we’ve seen and how far we’ve walked.
I stumble to the road and hitch a lift out with a local farmer’s wife. It’s hot but the wind has shifted subtly. After 10 days in the mountains I feel tuned into them, almost part of them. “Do you think it will snow tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Only fools and foreigners predict the weather around here,” she says, laughing. Next morning, the peaks of the “Dragon Mountains” are glistening white once more.