The Ifidi Solo Hike

The story of a Solo hike I did a couple years ago

It's dusk, and the last glimmers of the day begin to fade on the western horizon. I find myself walking fast up to the chain ladder, trying to get as much mileage before the moonless night. It's stunningly beautiful, cold and windstill. The night cries out to be photographed, but I have no time for such luxuries. Even with my hurried pace, nightfall catches me long before the ladder. My pace slows with the fading light, and I almost feel my way for the last kilometre to the ladder. The ladder is less daunting by night, and I lose myself in the surreal dark vertical world. I'm already tired after the earlier effort, and my pack weighs heavily on my shoulders. Too soon I'm up and crawl along the final rocky section before the welcoming plateau. Many pairs of boots, probably too many, have worn an indelible highway to the camping area below the hut. I relax now, and let my feet find their way to the site. It's a weekday night, and a single tent glows in the distance as I approach. The light is poor so I pitch my tent close to theirs to ensure flat ground. Human beings are strange things. Given almost endless space, the only two parties pitch less than ten metres apart. I think of this and other things whilst preparing for the night. I think of what I plan to do, and a route for tomorrow. I know I need the solitude of the berg to myself, but feel an almost overpowering sense of fear. I think of camping just over the rise for a few days. It will give the solitude I need, without the risk. It seems like a comfortable idea, and as I drift off, it becomes more and more enticing. I decide to leave the decision till morning. The night is dark and cold, and no time to make such decisions.

Morning comes, cold and windy. My new tent is well iced, and I shake off the "snow" with a sense of pride in the purchase. Packing takes a while. Hiking alone one tends to carry excessive amounts, and this, combine with the fact its winter and my photography fetish, results in a stuffed and heavy bag. Eventually everything is in or dangling from the pack, and I strike out. The fears of the previous night have left without a trace, and soon I'm on the frozen marshes of the Biljin river. Ice crunches beneath my feet and the distance slowly rolls back. I can't go much quicker than 4 km an hour, but time seems to lose meaning, and the distance behind me grows rapidly. I'm awed by the sense of space, belittled and exhilarated by the solitude. As I head deeper into Lesotho, the feeling of isolation and freedom grows. I feel like the only man alive, and for all the vast plains I can survey, I am. I'm surprised how close to the edge of the escarpment the Basotho settlements are starting to push. The first is no more than 5 km from the hut. As I cross beneath the river flowing from the top of Icidi pass, I start to feel uncomfortable with the silent presence of these deserted summer settlements. By all rights they should be vacant and the nearest local should be another 10 to 15km away. But that was the reasoning we had on an icy night in a white landscape where we were confronted with rogue tribesmen. That night is indelibly imprinted on my mind, and the same fear I could share with my companion at the time, I must face alone now.

Eventually the presence of people, unspoken and unseen, breaks my nerve, and I turn for the edge of the escarpment earlier than planned. The route I now take is in fact shorter, but I find myself reluctant to leave the comprehensive route that I left with friends. Earlier in the hike the danger of a broken ankle is greater, because of the lag from injury to rescue is so much greater. Around noon I stop walking for the first time. Four hours of consistent effort have tired my body and released my spirit. My only company has been a young Lammergier, that scoured the ridge that I have just ascended. Effortlessly the bird drifted along in the howling wind, often no more than 20 metres from me. I feel a deep kinship with this young creature. We both are visitors here, two lonely drifting souls in this place of peace. Lunch is a simple affair. My boots have begun a conspiracy against the abuse I am dishing out, and I spend most of my break duct taping the soles back onto the uppers. Then it's up over the back of Stimela peak, and down past Mbudini pass to the plains behind fangs. Here I planned to spend the night, in the hollow tube of Fangs cave. It's still early as I unpack and begin to prepare for the night. I lie in bliss at the entrance of the cave, watching a troop of baboons atop the buttress and absorbing the suns' rays in this windstill enclave.

At three I hear the voices. I'll never know if they were real or imagined. Perhaps fear fabricated them, although the edginess of the baboons point to real humans. They may well have been another party, but I cannot see them. Fear jumps in at the opportunity. It reminds me of all the Basotho and burglaries I have survived, of all I have to lose, and how little to gain. Fear is an interesting adversary. He has many forms and faces. Some are weak and easily conquered, while others require superhuman nerves just to confront. I have met him in at many levels, and our contests are fairly equal. Here he plays his trump card, the fear of death. That is a torment. Lying in a cave listening to every sound, analysing every odour, I know how the fear of confrontation and death can prey deeply on the mind. It's still light outside, and the pass of Fangs is close. Rather than face the possible torment of another night expecting a party to storm the cave, I bundle all I have back into the pack and head for the pass. I've never walked Fangs, and it seems a shame to rush such a beautiful pass. Quickly I descend, and with every step lower, the fear dissipates, and I slow to enjoy the late afternoon sun on the many turrets and spires that are Fangs pass. Fangs turns out to be on of those idyllic passes that one sometimes thinks exist only in the mind. It seems shorter than it is, and is amongst the most breathtaking in the entire berg. Although no path can be found, it's an easy pass to navigate, and quickly I'm clear of any danger of wandering Basothos.

Passes are amongst the very best that the berg has to offer. They form this magical transitionary zone between the comfort of the little berg, and the windswept desolation of the escarpment. I could spend months lost in the secret places that passes provide. This time I get to sleep deep in the throat of Fangs. I clear the grassy slopes and navigate the river bed for 20 minutes before finding a spot level enough to pitch my tent. Here I feel utterly safe. The dying rays of the passing day light my final efforts to make the tent relatively stable. I crawl into my home and think of supper. It is now that I make one of those discoveries that give you the most stomach turning of feelings. I have left my pasta supply behind. Not all of it, but the main ration that was to form the basis of my diet. A quick inventory tells me I still have ample food for 5 days, but that now includes my emergency ration. Normally I have enough emergency pasta for three large meals, and extra pronutro. This forms the basis of my supplies, that in an emergency could stretch for an extra week. Now I must include this with my normal food. I have done far more than I planned today, and a look at the map tells me that I could maybe cut one, or even two days off my schedule. It will be seriously hard walking, but its winter, and high cirrus indicate another cold front is on its way. I cannot risk getting onto the escarpment with only one or two days supply of food. I ration out food as best I can, counting every kilojoule of energy I can derive. Supper is downgraded from a huge pasta feast to soup, some provitas and chocolate. Fortunately there is no need to downscale breakfast, and I doze off thinking of the lode of pronutro I can gulp down come morning. And morning comes. But it's still dark, and the wind is sweeping down the valley, buffeting my poorly pitched tent. I pack and eat, so that by the time there is sufficient light to walk, I'm almost ready to depart. The day's itinerary is less than yesterdays, but the first section is fairly strenuous. The river bed forms the most navigable path to the intersection with the path up Mbudini, which I know. So I embark on the leaping from boulder to boulder. This activity we have come to call bouldering, although in no way related to climbing rocks. I enjoy it immensely, and often with friends we race along at ridiculous speed, each trying to outdo each other in feats of speed and daring. Alone in a remote valley, I must control myself. The morning is cold but clear. The incessant wind of yesterday funnels down the valley and chills the sweat on my body. The first section to the meeting of the two passes seems to take forever. Eventually I'm back on familiar territory. It's still a long way to the Mnweni river, but from here on the path becomes easier and more familiar. I find myself excessively wary of meeting locals. Although in my many trips into Mnweni I have yet to have an unpleasant episode, I've never hiked alone here, and feel that a lone hiker presents almost too much of a temptation to some of the more worldly young men. For this reason, and in an attempt to shortcut into the next valley, I find myself meandering up away from the Mnweni river after crossing the Icidi tributary. The path is relatively distinct, and two locals greet me near the top. We pass our separate ways and I finally look into the Ifidi valley.

I've been here before, but due to circumstances beyond my control, we aborted the hike 5 km from the summit. Now I'm back. It's a stunning view up the pass. All seems to rise into vertical cliffs, with a narrow jagged gully weaving into the wall. I've seen the pass from above, and walked down the first 50m. Up to 50m it looks easy from the top, but from then the gradient takes a sickening turn. I remember thinking at the time what sick person would crawl up that. A lot has happened since then, and my personal adventures have become more and more daring. This is by far the most adventurous I've attempted so far, and seated on my pack, munching on an energy bar, the wall of the escarpment before me, a certain sense of foreboding lurks in my stomach. I am of character an over practical person, which means I can focus now on the problem of reconciling my "shortcut" with the proper path in. This takes quite a while of scrambling down cliffs and through bramble thickets. It's a good thing I've been here before, because there is little in the way of clear indicators of a path should you not know of the existence of one. Soon I'm headed uphill again. I pass a number of locals, which sets my nerves on edge. I try to reason out that there has not been a nasty incident here for forty odd years. This does not seem to help. For the counter reason persuades me that there could only have been a handful of solo hikers in that time.

It's a strange thing, solo hiking in the berg. Friends I have who have hiked the berg well are cautious of the whole idea, and generally avoid it. Yet they are infinitely more experienced than the travelling friends I have who go hiking alone at the drop of a hat. I often think it's more a case of circumstance than safety that makes people hike in groups. Admittedly one of the greatest pleasures of hiking is the companionship. But beyond that there are other reasons to go to untouched places and see wondrous things. This needn't be done in company, but in this country always seems to be. I know on other solo hikes the Parks Board officials have been wary of letting me hike a route alone that I could walk blindfolded. Whereas the same persons will let a group of inexperienced amateurs walk treacherous routes poorly equipped as long as there are lots of them. I'm not saying that there is no truth in the maxim that safety can be found in numbers. Rather to me the true criteria should be competence. I distinctly remember a number of surreal meetings with poorly equipped people far from Drakensberg resorts. Two Germans, with no warm weather gear, and a poorly Photostatted map asking directions to Mlambonja pass on a deeply cloudy day sticks fast in my mind. I recall querying in my mind what the risk associated with that adventurous pairing was. No doubt more than that I presently find myself facing. To reduce risk further I keep heading into the throat of the pass, trying to clear the last of the dagga plantations. My reasoning is that there would be very little reason then for any merry bunch of locals to stumble across my sleeping place during the night. By the time I have reached a plausible (or be it barely so) campsite, the sun has long since dipped behind the escarpment, and the incessant wind is beginning to settle. I'm a little further up the pass than I've previously been, and the knowledge that I have of what lies ahead is not comforting. I know the gully will be narrow and I know it will be steep. What I don't know is how much ice will be on it, or how passable it is alone. Such thought prey on my mind as I brew up some pasta in the tent, intoxicating myself on the fumes of my stove. It's a cool and relatively still night for winter. I'm physically exhausted, but my mind is very active. It takes some hours before eventually my mind slows enough to fall beneath the coming sleep.

Dawn brings howling winds, rushing down the pass. I drop the tent and pack as quickly as my numbing fingers can. I can see the precious warming rays of the sun farther down the valley, but reluctantly must turn and leave them, heading into the heart of the darkness ahead. Ifidi pass has no obvious path. On my previous trip here, we spent quiet a while looking at how to tackle the route with the minimum risk, but still as directly as possible. The route I chose then seems the best, and I elect to stay on the boulder bed for as long as possible. The going is slow and very tiresome. I'm sweating heavily beneath my clothes, but air temperature must still be in the negatives. Every so often I have to back up or traverse around sections of unstable or unscalable boulders. Eventually the boulder bed gets quite difficult. The rocks are now the size of cars, and each one takes a fair deal to surmount. I thus elect for the grass slopes to my left. A steep slippery bank leads me onto the grassy spurs, and I make good time until there is no way up but back onto the rocks. Yet here the rocks are not as large or as rounded, but appear more like scree. Snow still lurks in the gaps, and even with my exaggerated caution, my feet find holes that my eyes did not see.

Finally I call a rest, just before the gully itself. I'm feeling drained, but the view up is almost as inspiration as that down. The pass seems clear of heavy ice, and relatively easy as far as I can make out. Unfortunately I cannot see the top, and the last obstacle that I can see looks icy and menacing. Yet it seems close to the top, and knowing the top as I do, I am hoping that once clear of this things will level off. I traverse across the eastern slopes of the pass to avoid the first couple of obstacles. Its snowy and steep, but tufts of grass ensure reasonable footing. When this avenue runs out I find myself at the crux of my entire trip. Above me two sheer walls, hundreds of metres high flank a 5 to 10 metre wide gully of shattered rock and ice. From the relatively easy gradient of 30 odd degrees where I now stand, it rears aggressively towards the top. Two sections look distinctly tricky, and another questionable at best. Until the first section its fairly straight forward. No sun leaks into the pass this time of year, and everything is coated in steely ice. At this stage the more jagged rocks protrude through their coating, and the footing is still safe. Above I can hear the surflike roar of the wind tearing off the escarpment, echoing down the crack. Yet inside this icy corridor, little wind stirs the chilly air. The first problem is that of about 3 metres of frozen vertical water. I have no equipment to tackle such a hazard. A sloping ledge to the right is too iced to risk, and the rock to the left comes off in great chunks as I climb it. Timidly I descend again, and discover a little chimney against the ice. On the third attempt my pack does not slide back down, but stays precariously on the ledge I have thrown it to. I shimmy up to join it and make an unpleasant discovery. There is nothing but ice up here. The jumble of rocks is no longer visible beneath the armour of ice, and I tread very warily up this frozen staircase. The next hazard almost breaks my spirit. For I while I just sit beneath it, barely thinking. It seems so secure, so impenetrable, that it takes half an hour before my practical side takes over again. I check my equipment. The guys from my tent, when bound together make a passable rope. The pegs from my tent assist in cutting the ice, and occasionally drive home deep enough to put a little weight on them. The obstacle itself is embarrassingly small. 2 to 3 metres of vertical icy in a 4 metre wide gully. Half the gully forms an overhanging rock, the only surface without a slippery winter coat. The ice wall itself has a weakness, in that it is formed out of two icicles that have joined. Smashing this weakness I find a way to crawl between the two, and smash a hole further up, Eventually, I pull my pack up after climbing through the wall. From here to the top is very steep and I seem to slither down as far as I go up with each step. The thought of having to descend this again brews on my mind, and I hope and pray that there is not an insurmountable wall ahead. There isn't. After another toss of the pack and big heave I feel the wind on my face. The gradient lessens, and the ice gives way to grass. I walk the last 50 metres up the escarpment in a surreal daze.