Seven Days Alone in the Drakensberg (And Other Poor Life Choices)

 ‘Those who walk alone are likely to find themselves in places no one has ever been before.’

(Unknown)

 

 

Seven Days Alone in the Drakensberg

(And Other Poor Life Choices)

Because the mountains don’t care… but they will kill you politely.

Day One:
I set off like every overconfident hiker in history: hydrated, motivated, and utterly convinced the mountain would admire my fitness and reward me with seven smooth days.
The mountain responded by greeting me with a climb so steep I nearly met Jesus before lunchtime.
Lesson #1: The Berg doesn’t care about your gym selfie strength. It cares about your quads. Deeply. Personally. Violently.

Day Two:
Fog rolled in — the thick “you-may-or-may-not-be-walking-off-a-cliff” type.
I checked my GPS every 12 seconds like a nervous squirrel. At one point I thought I heard bells… turned out it was just my heartbeat panicking.
Lesson #2: Visibility can go from HD to Nokia-3310 in four minutes. Carry a map, compass, and brain.

Day Three:
I explored a river that looked calm and innocent — like a toddler holding scissors.
Slipped once. Slipped twice. Nearly baptised myself the third time.
Lesson #3: Wet rocks are the devil’s dice. Step carefully or start practicing your mermaid skills.

Day Four:
Wind. Not normal wind.
Biblical wind.
Wind that tried to unzip my tent from sheer disrespect.
Wind that made me rethink all my life choices, including the sandwich I packed.
Lesson #4: If you hear the wind whisper “are you sure?” the answer is NO. Pitch low. Anchor everything. Including your ego.

Day Five:
Saw baboons.
They saw me.
We exchanged a long, meaningful stare across the valley where both sides understood:
they could steal my food, my dignity, and probably win in a fight.
Lesson #5: Wildlife is not Disney. They don’t sing. They plot. Protect your snacks.

Day Six:
By now my legs were on strike.
I was fuelled entirely by dried fruit, rage, and the promise of a hot shower.
Then — a cliff edge appeared out of nowhere. The world just stopped. Boom. No more ground.
I stopped so fast I nearly left my soul behind me.
Lesson #6: The Berg has unmarked edges, unmarked drops, and zero sympathy for daydreamers. Stay focused.

Day Seven:
The final descent… glorious… triumphant… emotional…
Until I misjudged one small step and nearly rolled down the hill like a possessed cheese wheel.
Saved myself with a move that can only be described as “panicked yoga.”

Lesson #7: You’re not down until you’re down. The Berg will take you out in the last 400 metres just for the punchline.

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Final Wisdom (The Hard Truth):

The mountains are funny.
The mountains are beautiful.
The mountains are healing.
But the mountains will ruin your day if you arrive with arrogance instead of preparation.

Go prepared.
Go humble.
Go with a plan.
And for the love of all things holy — tie down your tent.

 

We as hikers, explorers, and adventurers have the absolute duty to respect and protect our Wildernesses.
Nobody else will do it for us. Take ownership!

 

The End.

Safe Hiking.

References and Acknowledgements

Photos – Willem Pelser

 Written and Compiled by Willem Pelser

 

Between Stones and Silence - A Walk Into The Berg

'Great things are experienced when men, mountains and a wilderness meet.’

(Unknown)

 

 

Between Stones and Silence

A Walk Into The Berg 

Dawn came soft, pale grey light spilling slowly across the valley, as though the mountains were exhaling sleep. My boots whispered on damp grass, the world still hushed — no birdsong, only the distant sigh of a cold wind brushing against the granite ribs of the hills.

I walked then not for triumph, but to vanish. To feel my thoughts shrink, one by one, until only the mountain remained.

The path wound uphill, each step deliberate, measured. My breath came in puffs — mist from my lungs, dissolving in the cold morning air. My pack, heavy with water and dried food, pressed against my spine like an old burden begging release. I welcomed the weight. In that steady resistance, I found calm.

As I climbed, the valley opened like a wound in the earth — exposed slopes, ancient cliffs, stones that had squatted since time before memory. The sky threatened with low-hanging clouds; thunder might come, might not. I felt no hurry: I had nowhere to be but here.

I paused at a rocky ledge and looked down into green gloom, the world far smaller than the ache in my chest. The wind rose, carrying the scent of wet earth and old rock, a scent that smelled like truth. There, I heard the mountain’s song. Not a melody, but a whisper — slow, unending, ancient.

For a long moment I stood. No ambition, no deadlines, no blame, no debt. Just me. My thoughts, like wary guests, stood by the door. I did not invite them yet. I poured a sip of water, tasted cold clarity.

When night came, I pitched my tent under a boulder’s lean-to, wind cutting teeth through the thin fabric. The world darkened, stars glimmering faintly beyond the ridgeline, as if the sky itself leaned down to listen. I wrapped in a windbreaker, pulled socks tight, lit a small stove. The hiss of boiling water sounded too loud, defying the stillness around me.

I ate — plain pasta, salty, unremarkable. The food was fuel, but the silence was feast. My thoughts came then, creeping, curious — the guilt, the exhaustion, the heavy weight of old days. But under the vastness of rock and sky, they felt small. Manageable. Human.

I fell asleep counting nothing but wind-shakes on stone. Dreams came empty. No cities, no voices, only slow drifting clouds. For once, I was not running. I was resting.

In the morning I woke to a world washed clean. Light brushed every surface; the boulder, the grass, the distant peaks seemed to gleam with a secret they would never tell. I packed slowly, each movement careful, respectful — this place had given me clarity. It demanded nothing in return but quiet gratitude.

I descended then, not with haste or urgency, but with something soft and stretched: a calm born of distance from old storms. The trek back to the car was long, but empty. I walked as though I carried nothing — no resentments, no debt, no unfinished echoes.

When I finally reached the gravel road, the outside world crept close again — the smell of petrol, the distant hum of tires, the chatter of radios. For a moment the red dust on my boots felt wrong, foreign. I paused, looked back at the mountains, their ridges broken by light and cloud, and carried their silence in me.

I drove away, but the mountain did not leave. Its song stayed, soft in my bones, a memory I’d revisit on sleepless nights. And I knew: whenever the world got too loud, I could always walk back to the silence.

Because some of us don’t hike for the destination. We hike to listen.

We as hikers, explorers, and adventurers have the absolute duty to respect and protect our Wildernesses.
Nobody else will do it for us. Take ownership!

 

The End.

Safe Hiking.

 

 

 

 

 

References and Acknowledgements

Photos – Willem Pelser

 Written and Compiled by Willem Pelser