In the cold,
early hours of a Saturday morning, the last of June 2014, we headed off to
rendezvous with the rest of our ragtag ‘fellowship’, and to complete a journey
that was years in the making. A journey that for some would be part tribute,
for others part bucket list, but for all, pure adventure.
Although the
first day of our adventure into Namibia’s foremost tourist attraction was
kicking off on a typical Cape Winter’s morning, the real origins of this
adventure go back about 2 years (and perhaps even further) to a conversation
with my late friend, Grant. At one point in the conversation Grant told me he was
really keen to hike the Fish River Canyon. While Grant continued waxing lyrical
about the potential awesomeness of this hike, my mind had been doing Olympic-quality
summersaults back to my teenage years and the National Geographic magazines I
had read, filled with the promise of adventure. Flashbacks to dusty images of
the great rifts in the Earth’s surface and my sadly forgotten plans to explore
them. Now, while Grant will always be remembered for his wisdom, kindness, and
sense of adventure, the one thing he will not be canonised for, and he would be
the first to agree with me about this, were his organisational skills. A few days
later I made a reservation for 6 people to hike the Fish River Canyon in the
June school holidays of 2013.
Unfortunately,
it turned out that that the 13th year of the 21st century
would prove somewhat unlucky as Mother Nature reminded us that even with all
our good intentions, our meticulous planning and our enthusiastic preparations,
we are still at her unpredictable mercy. Due to insufficient rain, and a
subsequent shortage of water in the canyon, the hiking trail was closed for the
2013 season.
We took some
solace in the fact that we were able to roll over our hike booking to the June
holidays of 2014 which in some ways was fitting as Grant and I would then be
able to check off this bucket list item as a way of celebrating our 40th
birthdays. Tragically, however, Grant passed away in January leaving a big hole
in our lives. Grant’s passing provided us with another reason to make sure
we would be fit enough and strong enough to complete the hike, as now we would
be hiking it in memory of him.
So there we
were, 6 against 1000… kilometres to Ai-Ais, Namibia that is. After a brief
coffee break, and, for some, a not so brief bathroom break, we drove out of Piketberg.
With homemade crunchies in hand we headed north up the N7. Spirits were high,
music was playing and not even the ‘stop/go’ road works were able to curb our
enthusiasm. ‘Shoptalk,’ having been dealt with, and then banished, our trusty
iron steeds were able to eat up the kilometres to Springbok in relatively quick
time. With a quick stop to spot the rare “Northern Ape” and a slightly longer
stop to refuel at the legendary Springbok Lodge we headed off to cross the
border at Vioolsdrif.
Having made
such good time, you can only imagine our despair at seeing the ridiculous queue
to go through immigration. Especially after I had convinced everyone that the
border crossing would be relatively painless. As it turned out though, compared
to getting into Namibia, leaving SA was in fact painless. After the South
African customs officials had satisfied themselves that we didn't have any
illegal substances hidden in the small cooler box on our back seat, and us having
‘declared’ that we were “fabulous, doll”, we drove over the bridge to enter
Namibia. With a stern slap of reality we were reminded that we were still most
definitely in Africa. Hours later with passports stamped, cross border
transport permit in hand, and darkness having descended, we drove out of the
border post compound. Ironically, nobody even checked the small receipt that
had cost us 3 hours of our lives. One mediocre Wimpy meal later, we steeled
ourselves for the final 120 kilometers of sand road to Ai-Ais.
Rolling into
Ai-Ais bleary-eyed and with one warm Tafel beer to share, we picked a remote
campsite away from the noise of the campers energetically frolicking at the
warm, outdoor swimming pool, and bedded down for the night. While it was a really
chilly night, it was bearable and on the upside, would be the coldest we would
have to endure on our adventure.
The
next morning, after the obligatory ablutions and a quick breakfast, we packed
up our campsite. With the deftness of Tetris masters we squeezed 6 people and 6
fully laden hiking packs into one car and headed off to sign in, 70 uncomfortable
kilometers further down the road, at Hobas.
The term ‘fellowship of the canyon’ came about in the weeks
preceding the hike, when one of the guys likened me to Gandalf, saying, “You’re
like the Gandalf of our group as this hike would not have happened without
you!” This then lead to back and forth email banter and jokes about walking, or
not just walking, into Mordor/Namibia
(Not that Namibia is in anyway as deathly depressing as Mordor, it is in fact
an incredibly beautiful country that no photo can do justice) and the eventual
assignation of Lord of the Rings characters to each of the hikers. Our
‘fellowship’ comprised 5 teachers and an accountant and the first test of the
‘fellowship’ happened at Hobas.
One of the prerequisites for hiking the canyon is a
completed medical form from your GP. So what does one do when you arrive at the
check-in only to find that one of your party has left his medical form in the
other car… at Ai-Ais? You could, A, drive the 70 km back and fetch it, or B, baffle
the official at the check-in desk by all talking at once, pressing different
amounts of money in his face to pay for the entrance fee and repeatedly change
the number of people in our group from 6 to 5 to 6 and then back to 5 again.
While this was admittedly dishonest and I am not proud of our deception, I can
say without doubt that the hiker in question who had forgotten his medical
form, had suitably ‘soiled’ himself while hiding in the bushes at the bottom of
the car park, and he bought the first round of beers at the trails end.
There are two commonly suggested ways of going about the
descent into the canyon. The first is to descend late in the afternoon before
your official first day of hiking, and to then camp on the beach at the bottom
in order to start walking early the next day. The second is to descend as early
as possible on the first day, as the descent is for most people quite literally
the most taxing part of the hike. We ended up doing neither! With the car
safely parked, packs comfortably adjusted, the prerequisite pre-hike photos
taken, and some tourists chuckling at our declaration of “One does not simply
walk into the Fish River Canyon!!” we only began our decent at about 11am.
The first few hundred meters of the descent are near
vertical, and without the chains anchored into the rocks, the path would be
quite treacherous. However, the path is well worn and the exhilarating descent
simply set the tone for the next 5 days. Let it not be mistaken, your quads
will take a pounding on the descent. No amount of “Huba squats” can prepare
you, but what does make it easier is the singing of old campfire songs like “Oh
you can’t go to heaven”, “The quartermaster’s store” and a few other more bawdy
ditties. It took us a steady 2 hours to get to the bottom where we found a
shady spot and stopped for lunch.
All the write-ups will tell you that the first two days of
the trail are tough going and that if you can cover around 10km on each of
these days, you will have done well. By about 16:30 that afternoon, and a
difficult 4km under our belts, despite being “two gunsie in the canyon” we
decided we had had enough for one day. We scouted a section of river-view
property with all the amenities needed for a nights camping, i.e. flat, close
to water, out of the wind, suitable rocks for unpacking gear onto, and if
possible, a healthy supply of twigs and branches for the storm kettles. General
consensus decided upon such a property and we claimed our ‘home’ for the night.
The above mentioned storm kettles and their presence in
among our camping gear actually deserve a blog entry all of their own, but it
will suffice to say that these little contraptions of wonder are amazing, and
supplied the vast majority of our boiled water during the hike. They were also
responsible for cooking a few prime cuts of Kessler chops and the reheating of
the odd pork sausage. Most importantly though, they helped keep some of the
more ADHD members of our party productively entertained for long periods of
time.
That night we had the first real taste of unspoiled skies.
The stars were unbelievable magnificent, and after pointing out one or two
satellites to one of the guys, apparently the first time he had ever seen them,
with whisky filled hip flasks in hand we delved into the mysteries surrounding
the beginnings of our universe. Having put the still unsolved
creation-evolution debate to bed, we soon followed.
The next morning, day 2 of our hike, began the same way most
of our mornings would, with the coppery orange canyon-tops being brought to
life by the rising sun. The first night had not been cold and we had all
managed to sleep quite soundly. This was probably a good thing because had we
been awake to witness what was evidently a rather large water monitor laying
down its tracks next to our sleeping bags at some point in the night, I imagine
all manner of pandemonium may have broken loose.
Breakfasts of digestive biscuits, rusks, oatso-easys and
coffee got us going with our morning routines and before long we were back on
the trail. The second day had two major goals on the agenda. The first was
making sure we sighted the infamous Vespa, a sad remnant of a once ambitious
attempt to ride the Fish River Canyon Trail on scooters in 1968. The second was
a potential swim in the hot sulphur springs. In between we were privileged and
humbled to meet an 80 year old man, pimped out in a bowler hat, feather boa and
neon yellow socks, who was doing his 20th hike in the canyon.
General consensus was that if this man twice our age could do this, we had
nothing to complain about. Sadly, we found out a few days later that this
inspirational old man had had a fall and been forced to take one of the
emergency routes out of the canyon.
Having had the delight of spotting the Vespa, and the disappointment
of not being able to swim in the hot sulphur springs, and notching up a
respectable 14 km, we eventually found a suitable spot to set up camp for the
night. While we were pretty chuffed with ourselves for choosing a sweet piece
of beach, with adjoining rock pools for having a comfortable wash, and plenty
of fire wood for a campfire, Mother Nature once again reminded us who is
actually in charge. At about 11 that night she whipped up a wind storm of note.
Despite all our best efforts to create barriers with back packs, angle
ourselves away from the wind, and tuck ourselves up well, the sand that was
blown around for the rest of the night literally found its way in, EVERYWHERE!
The only upside was that the wind was in fact a warm one and kept off the
winter’s chill.
Day three dawned crusty-eyed and blustery, and as we watched
the first light creep over the canyon’s edge, most of us were filled with a
sense of contentment. We had survived the night, a new day had dawned and we
were all feeling strong and healthy, if a little sandblasted. Two of the guys had developed
blisters and were having to do constant maintenance on their feet as they
walked. To their credit though, they never complained and never slowed the
group down. They did however work their way through a fair amount of blister
plasters, band aids, gauze, Vaseline and Myprodols.
The third day of the hike was witness to a monumental effort
on everyone’s part to notch up some serious mileage. There’s a reason why you
need to be relatively fit to complete this hike. The terrain you traverse
changes every few kilometers forcing you to adjust your rhythm and pace
accordingly. At times you are trudging through thick river sand for kilometers,
at others you are focusing on keeping your pack balanced as you boulder hop
over large expanses of scree. And in between you are doing your best not to
turn an ankle as you hobble over stretches of cobble-like pathways. 24 km later,
after long continuous discussions about the ‘Aristotle Ergo’, and some ‘snide’
remarks about being on the ‘cusp’ of manhood, we eventually passed the 40 km
mark and made our camp for the night.
The long day’s walk left most of us with that tired-yet-content
feeling of having accomplished something special, and not even the usually
witty, dinner time, “LCHF, what would Noakes say?” conversation could keep us
from crashing out early. Our campsite for the night had all the prerequisites
and the little breeze that came up in the night didn't deter our
rest.
Day four provided us with another of the highlights of the
trail. Not long after breaking camp, just as we were making our first river
crossing for the day, we spotted two of the legendary wild horses that live in
the canyon. Apparently these peaceful animals can be quite elusive, so we felt
quite fortunate to have witnessed them.
Before long we came upon the 50 km mark and the presentation
of the first big, group decision. Some of our party felt we should stay true to
the course of the trail and follow the river as it meandered south. Others felt
we would not finish in our allocated time if we didn't take the short cut that
skulked off just behind the distance marker. After much debate, relative logic (very
much a head decision and not a heart one) won out. We shouldered our packs and
climbed up the side of the canyon. Climbing out of the canyon sounds much more
dramatic than it actually was. Towards the end of day 3 already though, the
canyon had started slowly widening and becoming progressively shallower. The
climb was still a good workout though and did provide a different view of the
Namibian landscape for us to appreciate.
The second of the two short cuts we took on day four took us
past the grave of the brave German soldier Lieutenant Thilo Van Trotha, who was
shot down, aged 28, in the relative prime of his life. The somber moment we
spent reading his story left many of us in a contemplative mood, thinking about
close friends we had lost. Some of our hiking party were about the same age as
poor Thilo, and I think for them his early demise perhaps struck home a little
harder.
Having paid our tributes to the fallen soldier, and having
had another close brush with a surprisingly quick water monitor, we set course
for ‘the causeway’, another landmark on the trail. Looking back at the trail
from the vantage point of ‘the causeway’ we were awed, once again, at the
magnificence of the Fish River Canyon and its ever-changing landscapes. We
passed the disappointingly well-locked up ‘tuck shop’, whose presence at this
point of the hike is mind-boggling, and made us wonder if it is ever in fact
open. By mid-to-late afternoon we were feeling the 20-odd kilometers we had
covered that day and found ourselves a good spot to set up camp for what would turn
out to be an eventful night.
With the promise of a hot shower less than 24 hours away, we
settled for a quick wipe down and rinse at the river’s edge instead of our
usual end-of-day soak. As we dried off and filled our water bottles, upstream
from our wash spot of course, we noticed a troop of baboons scampering along
the ridge of the canyon on the opposite side of the river. This lead to a
couple verses of ‘Bobejaan klim die berg’ and a few hikers’ tales (not too
unlike fishermen’s tales when you think about it) regarding narrow escapes from
baboons and other wild creatures. Having wiped off the day’s dust and grime we
went through our dinner time routines for the last time. The last of our supper
provisions were washed down with the remaining mouthfuls of whatever had graced
our hip flasks, and any remaining after-dinner treats were dealt with around
the campfire. One by one we bid the campfire circle goodnight and crept into
our sleeping bags.
At around 4 the next morning we were all jolted awake by the
fiercest baboon’s bark ever heard by man. (Hikers’ tales remember?!) Seriously
though, it was loud. Loud enough that we suspected the bark, and its ensuing
replies, were emanating from somewhere a little too close for comfort. What
followed was a veritable comedy of events. One of the guys, who had been
sleeping on the periphery of our campsite, moved his bedding and gear, all at
understandably frantic speed, in the near pitch dark, to in-between the rest of
us. Another one decided that all that was needed was to reply to the baboons, and
so began to bark repeatedly at the top of his voice. Other guys decided that
simply bashing some pots and pans together would create enough of a cacophony
to make the baboons think twice about coming nearer. And still another guy
decided the best course of action was to fire up the storm kettle and make a
cup of tea. Somewhere between the tea, the human barking, the musical pots, and
the hasty sleeping spot evacuation, the baboons moved away and we all slunk
back into our sleeping bags. Whether or not they had even been that close we’ll
never really know. Sounds and distance in an eerily silent canyon can be
dangerously deceptive at night. Most of us managed a little more sleep,
although, to be honest, I think we were all keeping an ear open for any repeat
intrusions.
Dawn broke with not a baboon to be heard or seen. As we lay
in our sleeping bags watching the reds and oranges of the sunrise melt into the
great deep blue African sky, my heart saddened a little knowing that this was
the final day of our epic (in the true sense of the word) adventure. Dinner
pots and breakfast pans were scoured and packed away, water bottles filled and
final layers of blister plasters and Vaseline applied. One last search for the
elusive purification tablets still produced no results, although we had not
actually been very diligent about using them anyway. None of the hiking group
had experienced any ill effects from drinking the river water.
Day five presented a mixed terrain trail again, with a fair
amount of bouldering, trudging through sand, and the ever annoying
cobble-hopping. Fortunately there was enough firm ground in between that made
the going bearable and we made good time towards the end point. We debated on
one logical short cut to make the distance manageable and after a few false
starts found the path we wanted. The path did disappear from time to time, but
we trusted in our sense of direction, and the Google Earth printouts to keep us
going in the right direction. We stopped one last time to lunch on biltong, tuna,
pro-vitas and cheese wedges, all washed down with sachets of Game. Then, with
energy replenished and the renewed vigour that comes from knowing the end is
not that far off, and more importantly that real food awaited us, we tackled
the final kilometers of the hike.
I can honestly say that it all ended too soon for me. The
signs of civilisation started to appear, and before we knew it we were climbing
up the stairs from the river bed that lead to the campsite. Ai-Ais is still
inside the Fish River Canyon, although at this point the walls have lost most
of their height, but retain enough to make you feel you are still walking
inside the Earth.
At the backpack hitching post, across the road from the bar,
we ‘tied up’ our bags, took the all-important ‘trails-end’ photos, and proceeded
to share broad smiles, handshakes, congratulatory back-slaps and hugs to
celebrate our triumph over the 80 kms of Fish River Canyon trail. There is
something in a shared triumph that cannot be convincingly expressed in words, but
that bonds people for many a year. The elation we felt at having conquered this
trail was matched only by the perfect temperature of the beers served at the
bar. Raising our glasses and toasting Grant, without whom this hike may never
have happened, we made short work of our beers. Behind my dusty sunglasses I
shed a quiet tear and choked back the lump in my throat, knowing that Grant
would have been in his absolute element in this canyon.
We checked in at the hotel, received our room keys, and
while some set off in search of the hot springs to soak their weary muscles, I
set off to fetch the car parked at the starting point of the hike. The drive
back to Hobas was decorated with gemsbok, springbuck, rusted old cars and amazing
vistas and gave me opportunity to reflect on what was truly an unforgettable experience. A hike that will easily go down as the best trail I have ever
had the privilege of hiking, with a 'fellowship' forged in comeradic adventure. One does not simply walk into the Fish River
Canyon, but if you ever get the chance, take hold of it with both hands.
