On the second day the trail swings away from the river towards the hills. Fromhere it’s still an hour’s hike to the overnight hut.

We’d heard that miggies can be quite a nuisance in the park, so we quiz the woman at the reception office before we set off on the hike. She’s obviously heard the question before and her answer is evasive: “You won’t find any in the air-conditioned buildings...”
Air-conditioning? Not where we’re going. I guess we’ll just have to take our chances with the insects.
The trailhead is next to the park’s only rest camp. Like the rest of the trail, the starting point is clearly signposted and the paths clearly marked.
We head for Arrow Point on the rim of the 18km-long Orange River gorge. The views of the gorge and the river below are spectacular.
The trail then veers away to some potholes – an impromptu tea garden that we share with some small grey lizards catching a tan, sizing up one another and jumping from rock to rock.
The trail meanders back to the rim of the gorge. By lunchtime it’s really hot and we do what game do at this hour: flop down in the shade of a boulder to rest and chew the cud.
Above us, a pair of Verreaux’s eagles glide through the air. “Look!” Vanessa says under her breath when one of them touches down a few metres from us. We must blend into the landscape where we’re sitting. The eagle scans the ground and gives us the onceover before taking wing and disappearing into the blue.
We started walking at 9.30am and we still have 8km to go, more than half of the day’s hike. I stuff another cracker in my mouth and pack up my things.

We’re walking next to a ravine named Waterkloof – at this time of the year a “waterless” kloof – when I slap at my first miggie… and then at another one.
They must have been the scouts, because soon a cloud of their kin descends on us. On a quest for moisture, they aim straight for our eyes and noses.
We’d come prepared for their guerilla tactics, however. At home, Vanessa cut an old mosquito net into two squares big enough to cover head and shoulders. We scramble to dig the nets from our backpacks and throw them over our heads. (There’s no way a photo of me wearing this veil will ever be posted on Facebook.)
The miggies home in on our sweaty arms and legs. Citronella oil is our next weapon, but we have to reapply it every 45 minutes.
Wrapped in our home-made veils, we march on. The sun’s rays reflect off the net, so I can’t see much. I just pray we don’t stumble across one of the cousins of the juvenile cobra we saw earlier. I make out a few klipspringers through the mesh. We also see big oval giraffe spoor but, alas, no giraffes.
At the Ararat picnic site and lookout point near the westernmost edge of the gorge there are signs of civilisation, like a dirt road, that spoil the wild feel of the trail a bit. But at least we can fill up our water bottles here. The view of the gorge and the river warrants spending an hour taking photographs.
I don’t know why this spot reminded someone of the biblical story of Noah’s Ark and Mount Ararat. I’m fairly sure floodwaters haven’t reached up here in thousands of years.
The river is way down at the bottom of the gorge; up here it’s dry… and very hot. It’s nearly winter and late in the afternoon, but it’s still easily 30ºC. Now I understand why the trail is closed from mid-October to the end of March.
One blessing is that the miggies have finally given up on us. We rest for a while, and when we return to the trail with about an hour’s hike left it’s a bit cooler. Fish Eagle Hut is a small stone building on the lip of the gorge, high above the Orange. We have it all to ourselves for the night. There’s fresh water, and if we’d known each hut had a Piet-fluit kettle (a whistling kettle), a potjie, a braai grid and firewood, we’d have left our gas stove at home and packed more fresh fruit instead.
With today’s frequent rest stops, it took us nine hours to get to the hut. We decide to start tomorrow’s hike before sunrise so we’ll have a few kilometres under our belts by 10am. We’ll rest during the hottest part of the day and complete the last stretch late in the afternoon.
We whip up a pasta and braai bananas over the coals for dessert. The cicadas have quietened down and we can hear the river rushing through the gorge.
By 9pm both Vanessa and I are in dreamland.

Temperatures in the Northern Cape skyrocket in the summer – so much so that the Klipspringer Trail is closed for six months of the year. Even when hiking during the cooler months, the water always provides welcome relief.

Before the sun is up we’re already on our way. First we hike over the lower slopes of the Swart Rante, a series of low black ridges, and then down towards the river.
For the next 8km we walk next to the Orange. Just before 11am we stop for brunch and a swim. While making coffee, Vanessa spots an otter crossing the river. Pied kingfishers hover above the water.
Walking along the great river, we slip into a timeless zone. It feels like ages, but it was only two days ago that the locals were singing along at the Augrabies Falls Lodge to celebrate the Stormers beating the Blue Bulls for a Super14 semifinal spot.
We continue along the bank of the river to a shady spot, where we spread our space blanket and unpack lunch. We spend the rest of the afternoon here, eating, swimming and sleeping.
By 3pm we’re ready to hitch our backpacks and hike further, past a troop of baboons resting in the shade. When it gets really hot, we take a dip in the river. This is the great thing about hiking next to water: You can cool down any time you like.
Eventually the trail turns south, away from the river, and meanders along a dry river bed into the hills.
It’s dusk and we still have an hour’s hike left, much more than we’d planned. It’s getting harder to see the trail markers in the fading light. I’m worried we won’t make it to the hut before dark, so I speed ahead.Just before the bottom finally drops out of the day around 6pm, I spot the hut and wait for Vanessa.
Unperturbed, she suggests we sleep out, like we often do. “Okay,” I say, and pretend I’m about to bunk down right there before adding, “The hut is just around the next corner.” The hut has all the basic amenities, but wouldn’t it be great if they served coffee and scones here?

Sociable weavers are still busy adding to this communal nest in a blooming quiver tree not far from Swart Rante.

On the last day we don’t hike along the river at all. Instead, we hurry across the dry plains like we’re on performance-enhancing drugs. By the time the sun spreads across the Kalahari like a veld fire, we’re done with the Swart Rante.
When you reach the dirt road, you know you’re on the home stretch. About 2km from the end of the trail we approach Moon Rock, which is more of a hill than a rock.
“I don’t have to climb this thing, do I?” I mumble through the heat, swatting at the inevitable miggies. But I should know Vanessa better. “Oh, come on,” she says.
Argh! We scramble up the rock to take in the plains of the Kalahari for the last time. The landscape around us is desolate – you’d have more success planting rocks than lucerne. But it’s also here that you can experience true wilderness and isolation.
The Klipspringer Trail is only an appetiser: Tomorrow we drive north to Riemvasmaak and its hot springs and then to the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park.
What do a few miggies matter when confronted with such prime wilderness?