Solo on the Baviaans Canyon Trail â five days slackâpacking

This story has significance for readers across Africa and beyond.

People will tell you that there is nothing quite like the Baviaans Canyon Trail. Theyâre right. But even more so â thereâs nothing quite like the Baviaans Canyon Trail after having oneâs first major argument with oneâs partner of five years, after visiting the concrete-encased mania of the Owl House in Nieu Bethesda, and leaving oneâs aforementioned partner in Graaff Reinet to avoid taking the argument to the canyons.

Taking an argument to the canyons feels a bit 1990s Meryl Streep, and I do not possess the calf or trap muscles for that kind of emotional endurance.

Thatâs how I ended up, alone, in my trusty Suzuki Ignis, rattling on a dirt road with no signal, into orange canyons, while my partner figured out the bus situation in Graaff Reinet.

Little couple context

Iâve read numerous articles about hikes, adventures, and other outdoorsy stuff â the type of stories where the copy is insignificant compared to the photographs of vistas and expanses. Colours are peppered around like the writer just discovered a box of Crayolas for the first time, and there is little context about the fresh-faced smiling couple traversing a mountain.

I want to know what the experience is actually like. Whether the smiling couple made it to the other side without impaling each other with hiking poles or suffering an unfortunate incident involving trail mix.

The Baviaans Canyon Trail is a brand spanking new five-day (six-night) +-76km slackpacking trail through the Baviaanskloof World Heritage Site â you only have to carry a day pack; a win in my books. The Baviaanskloof is one of the worldâs richest centres of plant diversity (proteas, fynbos, the works) as well as having sandstone slot canyons, crystal-clear pools and indigenous forest. In a nutshell, itâs a scenery centrefold bombshell.

We booked our spot at the beginning of the year and opted for July because we donât like hiking in scorching temperatures, and are too lazy to carry the extra water needed in the summer months.

The countdown was supposed to involve more rigorous training from my end. For context, I am a relatively fit 42-year-old who has done some hiking. I can run 5km fairly easily, and 10km successfully, provided my asthmatic lungs are up for it on the day.

Best intentions...

As so often happens, I did very little with my best intentions. And, if Iâm honest, I was a lot more focused on the food and snacks. To further assert my trustworthiness as your narrator, my lack of coordination and balance culminated in being asked to move to the back of a yoga class because my falling over was throwing off the seasoned âyogisâ.

After the bumpy, frenetic, albeit gorgeous, drive, I arrived at the Baviaanskloof Interpretive Centre and immediately requested one of their Baviaansbrew lagers to settle the nerves.

The first camp at the interpretive centre is what one might call âwell-appointedâ if Jane Austen is your thing. The amenities are excellent, the staff are friendly, and the showers are suitably scalding. I met up with my two friends, a couple, who immediately set to work making sure I wouldnât die or forget anything.

It turns out that if oneâs partner doesnât join, you get their crate as extra baggage â emotional or otherwise. This was outstanding news because I didnât have the wherewithal to decant the massive jar of gherkins Iâd panic-packed or to leave the hand blender I needed to make bougie hummus and guacamole along the way.

When you begin the Baviaans Canyon Trail, youâll be given various pamphlets with helpful diagrams that illustrate what to expect. During the briefing, in between nervous laughter, youâll also be told how hectic days four and five are.

I favour the ignorance is bliss, âhow hard can it be?â approach because whatâs the alternative, crying? Iâd done enough crying; it was time to lace up my Merrell boots, my Merrell Streeps, take the obligatory selfie, and head through the starting gate.

Day one: âwoefully unpreparedâ

Day one is best described as a beautiful unmitigated disaster. My lungs were screaming, I had no fuel in my tank, and I felt woefully unprepared. I was still getting used to my hiking boots, walking on loose rocks and stones, and I felt about as agile as a panda in bubble wrap.

It was a fever dream of steep ascents and descents, and it wasnât long until my right knee decided it was packing it in for the foreseeable future. I limped to the first of four spectacular overnight camps, greeted by 10 smiling group members, two of whom decided to swim in the pool I strategically used as an ice bath for my knee.

With me as the obvious exception, the group were all experienced hikers resplendent in various examples of trail running or walking footwear. Iâm still on the fence about whether my poor ankle genetics are better served by supportive hiking boots or agile trail shoes. One thing isnât: buy the merino wool socks.

I embarked on the second day with a serious amount of knee strapping and apprehension. I was also reassured by the premium hiking poles that my friend lent me. He seldom uses hiking poles because heâs one of those annoying chaps who runs up mountains like some sort of donkey-goat hybrid. If youâre like this friend, youâd rate the difficulty of the hike a five.

So whatâs with hiking poles? Iâll save you the Google rabbithole of endless debates. When I asked about hiking poles at an outdoor shop, the manager told me â in no uncertain terms â that unless I was 60, I didnât need them. As a disappointment to forty-somethings everywhere, Iâm here to tell you sheâs wrong. If, like me, you possess the balance of a toddler whoâs found the tequila, buy the sticks. They're not hiking poles â theyâre independence sticks.

If day one was a beautiful unmitigated disaster, day two was stupendous with a limp. The descents were brutal, but the scenery was like seven seasons in one day. This is a delightful term coined by a blonde I overheard while camping, and like all good blondes, the joke stuck.

âSpectactular things to dazzle oneâs eyeballsâ

The variety of spectacular things to dazzle oneâs eyeballs is absolutely immense. So, by the end of the day things werenât looking so bad, even if the â2km to campâ signs are a ludicrous act of trolling.

Touted as a rest day, day three begins at the best of all the camps, and from there you spend the day exploring Paradyskloof slot canyons. While it was somewhat restful in terms of step count, down from 38km to a mere 16k, the balancing on rocks made it fairly hard going. As you need to get your shoes wet, most of the group did it in Crocs, but neither my narrow feet nor sensibility is built for such footwear. I wore my trusty running shoes.

While it is no doubt pristine majesty, I would argue that Paradyskloof is more of a warm weather highlight. Itâs somewhat challenging to appreciate the full extent of everything, while fighting icy water, shade, wind and wet shoes, especially if youâre a ninny like me.

After day three, I seriously considered opting out of day four and getting on the back of the bakkie to the next camp. However, I discovered that with enough painkillers and a can-do disposition, anything is possible.

To take the pressure off, I set off early, so I was completely solo for most of the day. Buoyed by my blister plasters, blister socks, and newfound fitness (acclimatising really is a magical superpower), I trotted over mountains and down canyons like a woman possessed.

Humming the theme of Gondor, I imagined decapitating orcs, and was occasionally joined or passed by a fleet-footed member of our fellowship. Things I thought would be scary, like ladders, bridges and sheer edges, became small problems to be solved.

And, where Iâd usually reach for a hand, I had my independence sticks and left quad that was brilliantly compensating for the lack of support from my right knee. One superquad to rule them all.

When people describe day four as âSouth Africaâs best one-day hikeâ, this isnât hyperbole. Canyons. They really are a helluva thing.

Day five is a high-octane trail mix of nearly-home-time depression and climbing terror. Like bitcoin, AI and CrossFit, everyone talks about how tough day fiveâs climbs are. My overactive imagination was genuinely thinking Iâd be up a sheer cliff with ice picks a la John Snow in Game of Thrones.

You will get to the top

I am pleased to report that despite a fair amount of climbing, I found that putting one foot in front of the other becomes a meditative state punctuated by incomparable views and boatloads of endorphins. You will get to the top.

I finished as I started, with my two friends who had supported me and given me the space to enjoy the space. We rang the finish bell, we took selfies, we clapped and cheered for the rest of our group.

My superquad delighted in the massage gun, and the only thing that gave up the ghost was my hand blender that couldnât cope with my overzealous measures of sticky biscuit spread and vanilla ice cream. No matter, with my newly fine-tuned can-do attitude, making milkshakes with a fork was childâs play.

In a relentlessly loud, overstimulating, tech-driven world, where loneliness is an epidemic, itâs reassuring to know that there are spaces that can guide and tether us to whatâs important.

Being alone in a canyon is where loneliness morphs into simply being alone. There is immense freedom in leaning into solitude, rather than fleeing from it. And itâs comforting to know that our country is abundant with these places that inspire toughness and strength.

We can retreat into spaces where arguments lose their acerbic potency, problems dissolve into the landscape, and one foot goes in front of the next until youâre done and want to start all over again. DM

Reporting originally appeared via Daily Maverick. Read the full source for additional context.