Outside the taxi window the Drakensberg escarpment marches by like the Great Wall of Lesotho, all along the R74, between the towns Bergville and Phuthaditjhaba. From here the edge of the plateau runs almost straight, as if drawn with a ruler. 
By the time of the Great Trek in 1837 there were already entries showing the “Drakensberg” or “Draakberg” on maps. 
The original inhabitants of the area were small groups of Bushmen who lived in the valleys and kloofs. After the Zulu wars of the early 19th century, however, the region was depopulated. In those days the Drakensberg was a dangerous, unknown place. 
“Many were quite convinced that it was the abode of mythical dragons…There was a well established rumour that the mythical unicorn was to be found there,” writes RO Pearse in his book Barrier of Spears: Drama of the Drakensberg.

We jump out of the taxi at the car park, from where climbers set off to scale the Sentinel. We’re late; Dian Wessels, a graphic designer from Stellenbosch, has been waiting for us for two hours. We hoist our packs onto our backs and fill our bottles with tap water. 
The Sentinel towers above us. We set off up the narrow footpath that twists up the steep hill. There are a few trails up to the the plateau, but the trail to the Amphitheatre up the chain ladders is one of the easiest. It’s a popular day trail, even for families. 
An elderly woman, coming down, passes us, then two young boys. If they could get up here, so can we, I tell myself… but then again they’re not carrying the weight of a Labrador on their backs. 
The Royal Natal National Park and the uKhahlamba Drakensberg Park are part of a wilderness area, so there are no facilities on top of the plateau and you have to carry everything you need: food, clothes, a sleeping bag, mattress and tent. 
You have to be prepared for any weather: warm jacket, rain jacket, poncho, beanie, scarf, gloves and longsleeved vest. At any time of the year you can be caught in snow or a thunderstorm with rain and hail. Apart from a few caves, there isn’t much shelter. Hikers who land in trouble sometimes have to be airlifted out by helicopter. 
We trudge on, circling the Sentinel, to a ravine behind the peak, where the heavy chain ladders hang on the cliff face. The first one is 20 m long and the next one 13 m. Driekie, a doctor, and Peter Jacobs, a marketer, a couple from Port Elizabeth, are first up. The soles of their boots vanish above
our heads until all we can see are brown rock and blue sky. After a while we hear: “Next!” 
My turn. I grab the cold steel rungs, take a deep breath and climb. I long to look over my shoulder at the view, but I’m so scared I just focus on my fingers and grip the steel. Hand over hand I climb to the top. 
We revel in the late afternoon sun on top of the cliff, waiting for our whole party to reach the top. “I’m not even ashamed to say it: I was s**t-scared,” the last guy pants. 
We have to quicken the pace. It’s already 3.30 pm and we’ve only walked 4 km of our goal of 12 km for the day. “We have to stop by 4 pm so we can pitch tents and make our meals before nightfall,” says Jan Spies, a lecturer from Pretoria and leader of our group. 
Around us, vast grass plains unfold on the plateau. Mont-aux-Sources (3283 m), one of the highest peaks in South Africa, is a short distance away. It doesn’t look very imposing from here – we’re already at 3000 m above sea level. 
The first people recorded to have made it to this peak were two adventurous French  missionaries, Thomas Arbousset and François Daumas of the Morija mission station in Lesotho, in 1837. 
They believed that four rivers had their origin in this location, hence the name Mont-aux- Sources, which means “mountain of springs”. Actually only three rivers rise here: the Elands River, which flows north; the Tugela River, which flows east through KwaZulu-Natal; and the Senqu River, which becomes the Orange. 
A lone hut stands in the open. It was built in 1930 by mountaineer Otto Zunckel and his son Walter, for the Natal Section of the Mountain Club of South Africa. All the building materials except the stone had to be carried up 21 km of mountain paths. Sadly, the hut has been plundered so many times that it’s now only an empty shell. The only thing still working is the long drop. Hey! Thieves can’t steal gravity. 
I follow the path to the Tugela River, which tumbles down a cliff in five separate waterfalls about 500 m away. Tugela Falls are the second highest waterfall in the world, but today the wind blows the narrow trickle of water off the cliff in a fine misty rain. A few of us sit on the cliff and dangle our feet over the edge. 
The dramatic 4 km-wide Amphitheatre looks like a giant horseshoe of solid rock. It’s one of the most dramatic natural phenomena in South Africa. 
Sheer cliffs gradually give way to the green hills of Lesotho.
A few lights flicker far down below in the valley. I look up. The stars seem much closer up here.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. You’re almost relieved when your cellphone’s alarmclock goes off, because even a polar bear would toss and turn on the cement floor. 
It’s still dark in the hut. Someone opens the door and a rectangle of the most beautiful blue, white and yellow layers appears.
The sun is throwing a pale yellow glow over the grass plains. In the distance down in the valley fingers of mist swirl among the blue mountains. 
“Bring your passport,” Pieter had reminded us before we departed on this trip, because today we’ll cross the “border” between South Africa and Lesotho a number of times – not that any civil servant would come and stamp passports out here. The overnight hut was the last bit of civilisation; from now on we’re like tortoises, carrying our homes on our backs. Apart from a hiking group from Stellenbosch University we wouldn’t see another soul for the next few days.
We start to ascend a koppie – one of hundreds, we would find out later.We have the 6 km to cover that we didn’t finish yesterday, and then 15 km to reach our goal for the second night.
The veld seems to wash over the escarpment like waves, and we move through storybook scenery of hills and dales.
There are no signboards telling you where you are. You’re also never quite sure which peak you’re seeing. Is it Mount Oompie or the Ifidi Buttress? To know precisely, you have to do your homework beforehand and at least one person in the group should know the trail – a good map is a must and a GPS is very useful. 
As we slog up the umpteenth hill I start to count the steps to the top, just to concentrate on something other than the fatigue.We stop four times en route to the top to catch our breath. 
My heart is thumping, and the thin air makes matters worse. 
We stop for a rest on top of a koppie. The hills that lie ahead of us look just like the ones behind us. Down below in the valley a river shimmers like a ribbon in the sun. According to our planning we have one more hill to conquer, but it’s already 4pm. We inch down the slope and decide to camp next to the stream– only 5 km short of our goal. 
There’s still an hour-and-a-half of sunshine left.We scramble down to the river for a quick wash, little knowing that this will be our last bath of the hike.
Then clouds move in front of the weak sun, and suddenly it’s freezing cold. We fish socks, beanies and scarves out of our backpacks, and crank up the stoves so the pasta cooks faster, because by the time darkness falls you want to be snug in your sleeping bag.

“I wasn’t even this cold on Kili,” someone says from one of the other tents. One by one the tents are zipped open. I stick my nose outside. Frost covers our tents and the grass like icing on a cake. A shirt that was left on top of a tent is frozen solid. 
“It might snow tonight,” says Pieter, looking up at the clouds. He knows the signs – he lived in QwaQwa for two years. 
We start walking again, up, up, up to the top of a koppie, and then down, down, down again. Then we cross a valley to the foot of another koppie. It’s hard to keep track of how many mountains and valleys we’re crossing. 
For the first time we find a path. Some are marked on the map, but here on the slopes paths appear out of nowhere and then vanish among tufts of grass. There’s always the nagging doubt: Could we be going in the wrong direction? 
We walk on marshy soil, over clumps of grass and stones, surrounded by hills to our right and an abyss on our left. Up and up and over and down and down. Tired. Keep going. Persevere. 
The deeper you penetrate this landscape, the smaller the worries of your ordinary life seem. Up here, on these plains close to heaven, you attain such a feeling of freedom that it makes the cold and exhaustion seem worthwhile. 
In time, your panting breaths become rhythmic. Your heart beats fast but evenly. Your body feels stronger and your backpack isn’t that heavy any more, even on the uphills. 
On top of the hill I sit down on a rock, exhausted. We’ve hiked 42 km. That’s the entire Otter Trail, and yet it’s only Day 3 for us. 
Around us it’s dead quiet. It’s hard to believe that there’s still such a stretch of wilderness left. 

“Guys, we’re either going to hike in the rain or pitch our tents in the rain,” Pieter says at tea time. “We’d better get going.” 
We feel the first drops. Rain changes your hiking experience dramatically. You hurriedly pull a black bag or tarpaulin over your backpack, and ask yourself why you hadn’t just packed everything
in plastic bags in the first place. 
The reverberating thunder makes it sound as if the dragon’s stomach is rumbling. 
Armoured in canvas and plastic we push on into the wind. 
Dawie and I reach a crest in pelting rain. Hailstones explode on my jacket sleeve. We look around
us, but we don’t see any of the others coming over the edge of the ridge we have just climbed. 
Then we see the rest skittering downhill like wind-blown leaves into a hollow in the next valley. Bolts of lightning flash among the dark clouds. We stumble after them with our backs to the wind to avoid the hail smacking us in the face. 
“We can’t… any more in… weather… find… shelter,” we hear Jan calling into the wind. 
On the floor of the valley we hurriedly pitch our tents and change into dry clothes. My teeth won’t stop chattering. We can’t even make hot chocolate, because the lightning might just seek out a stove. 
Snatches of chatter, punctuated by thunder, pass between the tents. “I’m sitting in my fleece jacket and undies; they’re the only dry clothes I have.”
“I’m wearing only a black bag.”
“My tent is now completely wet after I fell into it in wet clothes.”
Ten minutes later the clouds open up slightly. Some venture outside to light stoves. On the ground are chunks of ice the size of compact disks.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do tomorrow if the weather stays this bad. The Mlambonja Pass where we have to get down is on the other side of the hill,” says Jan, pointing north. “Perhaps we
can overnight in the Twins Cave if we have to.” 
Despite the terrible weather we’re only 3 km behind schedule. And tomorrow we’re going home. 
“Be thankful there are no mozzies here,” someone says.

8am. The sun shows its face for a few minutes, as if to apologise for yesterday’s harassment. To us it feels almost foreign as we sit and watch it. That’s how long it’s been since we’ve felt any warmth. 
We stand at the top of the Mlambonja Pass. “Pass” is misleading. It conjures up images of a neatly made road passable by car. But from where we’re standing it’s just as steep to the bottom as most of the other ravines we’ve seen in the past four days. 
Even Jan seems a bit unsure. He picks his way down the slope while we optimistically search for a path. 
“You descend about 1800 m in 3 km,” Jan told us yesterday. The path – which we still can’t see – joins one of the built contour paths that skirt Cathedral Peak. “So the last 8 km should be easy.” 
We inch down the hill and into the narrow kloof. Grass crowns the towering rock formations around us like green picnic blankets. In places a path winds its way over and around the Mlambonja River, passing through wet branches and over slippery stones. 
It’s raining softly.

Noon. The pass seems endless! We meet four hikers coming from the foot of the pass. “The path becomes clearer to the top?” one says, half-questioningly. “We’ve lost the trail a few times already.”
By lunchtime we meet another group. “We’ve been hiking for five hours from the bottom.” 
Five hours! We reckon it won’t take that long once we’re back on the contour path. Around us the mountains are greener now, rounder and softer.
Finally we spot the contour path to the right of us at the top of the slope. We blunder through a clump of wet trees, lose our way a few times and reach the contour path after half-an-hour. The path is neat and the grass ankle-height and level. 
“Home stretch,” I think. Looking back from where we came, it seems impossible to get to the top of that steep, narrow ravine. Way at the top, where the other hikers are now inching up, clouds of mist swirl around the rocky towers.

3pm. We head onwards in the rain to a small plateau. By now we’re just walking to get home. All I can think of is that hot shower and soft down duvet waiting at the end. 
“It took us about five hours to get here, lunch included,” the leader of a group of school children tells us. “If you hurry, you might get to the bottom before dark, but then there’s still a bunch of reeds to get through.” 
We continue along the wet path. Three of us finally reach the river at the bottom. 
“Where are the others?” someone asks. 
“Hey, wait for us!” Jan calls from the peak behind us.We wait on a rock, drenched and cold. It’s dusk, and within 10 minutes it’s dark in the kloof. The three of us take out our headlamps. Then two headlights come bobbing through the bushes.

7pm. Staying together, we hike at the pace of the slowest one. “A moth just flew into my mouth,” someone laughs between coughs. I set my headlamp to red, because insects aren’t attracted to red light.

8pm. The path now looks like a real footpath, something you might find in Kirstenbosch. Left, right, left, right, we finally come out on a soccer field. The grass is trimmed short. 
We pass a sign that innocently describes the path we’ve just come from as “a walk”, then a big garden chess set. A few steps further a neatly paved path with lights on either side leads to the veranda of the Cathedral Peak Hotel. Behind the windows, people in jeans and jerseys eat their dinner by candlelight while an unknown singer performs quite a decent version of John Paul Young’s Love is in the Air. We must be a strange sight to the diners.
I drop down on the bench outside, much too dirty for the hotel. 
Why hike? 
It’s simple. Once in your life, you should climb your way up to and down the Drakensberg’s spine. No tall stories, coffee-table books or pictures can prepare you for the majesty of the place. 
It’s vast. It’s quiet. And only your feet can take you there.
 

Source: Barrier of Spears: Drama of the Drakensberg by RO Pearse.

You have to be completely self-sufficient, carry everything and be prepared for the worst. Here’s a list of essentials:

Hiking boots. The terrain is uneven and rocky. Make sure your ankles are protected.

Good guests. Fires are not allowed – take a gas stove and a spare gas canister.

Top tent. Take a good wind- and water-resistant two-man tent. Our Echo E3GEAR worked well. See www.backpackshop.co.za.

Mini mattress. Either a compact, self-inflating mattress or an ordinary sponge mattress.

Stay dry. You could get rain and even snow in mid-summer. Take a groundsheet, rain jacket, poncho, black bags and a carrot for the snowman’s nose.

Space blanket. It can save your life if you’re caught in a storm.

Zibi rules. Don’t leave anything on the mountain. Take extra refuse bags.

What’s the number? Carry cellphones that work on every network, and take the numbers of the nearest Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife offices.

Whistle. Take a whistle in case of emergency.

Overseas. The park straddles the border with Lesotho; take your passport.

At least one member of the group should be good at reading maps and know the difference between a GP and a GPS. Jan Spies explains how he loaded the data on his GPS:
“I ordered maps from Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife beforehand (033 845 1002). They mail it to you within a week.
“At home I scanned the maps. Computer programs such as Ozi Explorer and GPS Trackmaker (free) can open scanned maps and calibrate them so you can key in waypoints on them.
“Finding the waypoints is a challenge. You have to read up in hiking books, search on the Internet or ask hikers who have hiked the trail.
“A friend who has hiked the trail sent me info from the book Best Walks of the Drakensberg by
David Bristow. With this and a few Internet searches I decided which waypoints looked the easiest and marked them.
“On a marked trail like the Otter, most of this work has already been done. You simply scan the map, calibrate and mark the route from the map and load the info on the GPS.
“You can also buy information from Garmin.”