There are certain experiences in life that help define you as person. In fact it is the collection of all those experiences, I believe, that ultimately make up who you are. Deep stuff, I know, but it is a theory which helps explain to me how I have somehow changed from being the chubby little boy with a lisp that was always the last to be picked for any team sport, into the skinny adult with a lisp that has a reputation among his family and some of his friends as being a bit of an adventurer. I'm not implying for one minute that I am any sort of Kingsley Holgate. I'm not. I don't have the build, the bushy grey beard or the sponsorship. I do have the hat, but don't look as impressive wearing it. That said, I have done some things in my life thus far that I think are pretty wild. I've hunted fish in shark infested waters; sailed from Madagascar to Durban in a yacht, straight through a cyclone; run ultra-marathons at high altitude in sub zero temperatures, dived wrecks on several continents, run raging rivers in flood and once even ate crayfish that had been in my freezer for six months! Not all those experiences provided life defining moments though. The Mnweni trip somehow did.
The idea to ride our bikes somewhere different to the forests we were used to was spawned, in what I am sure is reckless adventurer tradition, over a couple beers while I was still living in Scotland. The idea I had was to ride and hike to the top of Kilimanjaro with my bike, and then ride all the way down again. It would be a world first, I was sure! Genius plan; except that, on researching it, I discovered that not only was the whole trip going to cost me the GDP of a first world country but, even in the unlikely event I was able to raise the loot, the Kenyan, Malawian and other significant authorities had unfairly placed all sorts of prohibitions in the way of me achieving my vision; prohibitions such as taking a mountainbike onto the mountain. The drive dissipated, but the seed of the idea never really left me during the next five years or so.
Enter Kevin; a friend of mine who had only recently returned to SA via the back roads through Europe, the Middle East and Africa on motorcycle and, in the process, singlehandedly finding his way across the Sahara with a compass, escaping bandits and surviving cerebral malaria. Long story short, we both had four days off, he had a new mountain bike and, thanks to a recent hike along the escarpment I had a venue for an epic mountain bike ride. The Mnweni area of the Drakensburg.
We tested the idea with a couple of mates during the summer months, sticking to the foothills and checking to see whether the plan was viable and whether the gear we had was going to cut it. It was and it did, and although the riding was hard and the other initial participants elected not to join us for the real deal, we proceeded with our plan to return in winter and complete the ride.
The long drive to the police post which was to be the start of the ride and where we would fill in the mountain register was silent and tense. The weather had been particularly bitter and the cold front that was hitting KZN had dumped snow on the full length of the berg. Several people had tried to talk us out of proceeding with our plan as a result, and we had been “reminded” several times that hiking in a snowy berg was hard and dangerous enough, even without a bicycle. Brushing off the well intended advice like annoying flies, we had stuck to our guns and now, as we scanned the white peaks and black clouds we were approaching, the possible consequences of what we were doing began to sink in.
By the time we had unpacked bikes and gear the sky had cleared, and although it was quite chilly, we were feeling in much better spirits. The front had passed and knew we could do this. The bemused policemen at the desk watched us fill in the mountain register and then questioned us for some time in an effort to try and make us see the error of our thinking that we could ride the route we had written we were going to follow. He just couldn”t get through to us that there was no ridable track were we were going. Poor chap. Eventually we managed to extricate ourselves, now motivated by the polices comments that if we managed to complete the route it was sure to be a first in this area.
The red clay dirt road leading into the mountains is in good nick and is fast. A few river crossings will get your shoes wet; more if you fail to stay upright across the 15 meters of cobbled river bed. We bombed our way along the downhills, overtaking taxis full of locals and struggled up the uphills with the additional weight of our backpacks, which were lightly packed but still substantially heavier than the usual simple hydration systems, having sleeping bags, stoves, food and foul weather gear loaded onto our bikes and in backpacks.. In no time at all we were onto single track and we began seeing the last houses and shacks of the small village. Eventually the road deteriorated into 4x4 track and finally into eroded single track. A mere ten meters into the rough stuff I had my first wipe-out as I plunged down a path which abruptly ended in a 60 degree angled boulder garden. The front wheel stopped, I carried on. Somehow I manged to get my feet over the handlebars, backpack and all and landed on my feet on a large rock two meters below, unscathed. Unbelievable! Wobbly kneed and feeling foolish, I collected my bike from the gully, hoisted my pack, and wading through the river below, bike on shoulder, reflecting that losing it so soon into the ride didn't bode well. Despite my doubts the next few hours of riding and hiking was relatively straight forward to technical fun, and although increasingly steep we managed well with our added loads. Below us the river we were tracking was crystal clear, clear enough to see trout resting in the stiller shady pools. Around us the peaks began to rise and the scenery became more and more dramatic. There is something special about riding ones bike in the mountains, which is, I suppose, why so many people are drawn to doing races like the Giants Cup Challenge every year. The Giants however, sticks to the Drakensberg foothills. We were heading to the escarpment!
The Mnewni Pools, or Marble Baths as they are sometimes known, were en route to our first overnight stop. Reminiscent of a smaller Bourke's Luck Potholes on the Blyde Rivier, these natural water-made formations are absolute bliss for a hot, weary traveler. Stripping off our gear under the wary eyes of a handful of dassies, we literally leaped into the water; and promptly leaped straight out. Although the day was hot, we had plunged headlong into snow melt from the gully above. The water, although flowing fast, was full of ice shards! Sufficiently cooled, we lay on the hot rocks and concocted a 'brew' of coffee and condensed milk, standard fare on our adventures, while recovering for the final push to the cave where we were to spend the night a few clicks on.
Shepherds Cave, as I knew it, was no more than a collection of three boulders huddled together on the riverbank forming a few small sheltered overhangs, and this is where we set up for the night. I was only to discover much later that the actual Shepherds Cave is at the base of the cliffs a mere twenty meters away. I had never seen it because the tall grass on the bank always screened the cave from view. Consequently we unfurled our sleeping bags in the lee of one of the more protective boulders and watched camp fires create small pinpricks of light in the valley below as the 'farmers' settled down for the night. I cooked my dinner on my small gas cooker and Kevin struggled to get his infamously temperamental fuel stove to stay alight as we reflected on the day. It had been difficult but not too tough thus far. There had been plenty of technical riding and more than a fair amount of portaging. I was glad for the aluminium frame of my Specialized A1 Comp and knew that Kev's heavier Trek frame was going to make him suffer more the next day where we would have to carry our bikes up the near vertical Mnweni Pass. We spoke at length about the best way of getting up before turning in. The last thoughts we shared before drifting off were hopes that the well armed gentlemen down below didn't decide they needed a bike or two. Even big boys are a little scared of the dark I guess.There are few feelings as great as waking up in the chill of a Berg morning with the sun streaming down on you after a restless night in a sleepingbag. Frost carpeted the floor and my waterbottle was frozen solid. Fortunately we had slept with our camelbacks and as such had water ready for a quick brew before breakfast and a quick bike inspection. From here on out the going was going to get tough. In this context, tough means all carrying, no riding and straight up. The climb to the base of the pass alone is 'interesting'. The path, when it is there to follow, criss-crosses the Mnweni riverbed, a boulder strewn ravine which is tricky to traverse with a bike on your back, in cycling shoes and in icy conditions. I was exhausted before we even entered the pass!
The Mnweni pass itself, overlooking part of the Mnweni Cutback and Mnweni Pinnacles, is indescribably beautiful. 360 degrees of cliff faces, freestanding rock towers, vast clefts, the bright green of grass contrasting with the bright white snow and ice and the stark black rock, and everywhere the sound of water. We sat on an outcrop and admired the view while eating our trailmix. Before us a panorama, behind us, the crack that was to lead us to the top. Before we started this next section I removed the wheels from my bike and strapped the frame, and the back wheel to my backpack. We would need our hands for this section and I was unwilling to climb dragging a bike the whole way. The decision was a double edged sword. Carrying the bike on my back conserved energy, but it also made negotiating ice encrusted ledges difficult, the handlebars catching on things and threatening to thrust me off into space. By the top however, I was glad I had elected to do it that way. The climb seems endless, as do the zigzags. The journey upward is broken only by stops to see your progress, to look back at where you have come from; with pauses to peer up at the monoliths of stone that close in on you and take take photos at opportune points. One of these points is the very spot that has featured on the cover of the book “Barrier of Spears” by Reg Pearse for decades . A spot where it should be regulation to have your picture taken. We of course did, although the buffeting wind made standing up straight on the outcrop, with exhausted limbs, a bit of a vertigo inspiring challenge. Shortly after, exhausted but victorious, we gradually crested the top of the pass. By now we were ankle deep in snow at times, and feeling a massive drop in temperature. Thunder rumbled somewhere over the Lesotho highlands, and for the first time I realised that were about to cross a lot of very high altitude open ground holding onto what amount to very effective lightning conductors. We assembled our bikes and took photos of each other with our bikes held cheesily above our heads like the heroes we imagined we were, before donning our fleeces and jackets and crunching our way over ice and snow onto the escarpment.
The snow on top was so deep that the main landmarks were hard to distinguish, and any cairns were well covered. Before commencing our search for Mponjwana Cave, our chosen lodgings for the night, we decided to take a peek at Ledges Cave, a wonderful cave to stay in in good weather as it is literally on a ledge and situated partway down a monstrous cliff overlooking the Northern berg. Unfortunately one has to go down a small ice choked gully and then take a short walk across a very exposed ledge to get there. The ice on the ledge was thick, and there was no way in hell I was going to risk a few hundred meter drop to stay there. Kevin however, had no objections to taking risks, and brazenly walked out on several ledges in now waist deep to take photos, peer down into crevasses and other senseless life threatening activities, stressing me out in the process. There was of course no riding at all and we literally had to push and drag our bikes over the snow to Mponjwana cave, overlooking the massive thumb that juts out over the landscape.
Mponjwana Cave is normally a bit of a difficult choice as far as accommodation goes. On one hand it has plenty of space, is well protected and is dry. On the other hand, the dryness is a consequence of their usually being no water anywhere near the cave, and so one usually has to make sure one takes water with. We were not to have that problem. Snow and ice was thick everywhere, we would have plenty of water!
The wind had tapped off and the stillness that snowfalls bring made the experience of sitting outside our cave next to our bikes looking at the view over KZN a surreal experience. A quick snowbath, which for the record is very bracing, but not very intelligent; a cellphone call home to gloat; a mandatory brew and a pasta and sauce dinner later and we were ready for bed. As we watched the sun go down the wind picked up and the temperature plummeted. Even in my cowled and usually very warm sleeping bag I was freezing. Eventually I hauled out my space blanket and the additional cover made difference enough for me to get a uncharacteristically good nights sleep. We woke as the sun began to peer over the horizon and sat silently wrapped in our own thoughts, brew in hand, as the sun stained the ice and snow around us rose pink. Today was descent day. Later we would make our way down Rockeries pass.
After a leisurely, if spartan breakfast, we made our way around the cliffs perimeter to view the Mnweni Needles, and then to the top of the basin that feeds down to the top of Rockeries, and also spawns the source of the orange, as a matter of interest. We were me with a pleasant surprise. The extreme temperatures of the night before had created a layer of ice over the deep snow of the day before, and joy of joy, the crust was strong enough to support the weight of the bike ... mostly. We climbed onto our bikes and, keeping our weight over the back wheel to stop the front wheel sinking in and bogging down, began hurtling down the slope in spurts. Brakes were a no go in the ice, which made things interesting, and the only things that slowed our decent were the occasional spills as we lost either traction or fell through soft spots, or skiing next to the bike. In no time at all we reached the top or the pass and began to make our way down the rocky, icy pass, having no path to follow and keeping our eyes peeled for possible snow covered crevasses. On the steeper bits we found the bikes to be quite effective ice axes, bedding down quite nicely to provide additional purchase with pedals and bars pushing through the crust.
The freeze receded as we descended and eventually we were able to start tracking the path again. We took time to marvel at the sun filtering through the spires, and then at how clean the components on our bikes were, having been scoured clean by the ice crystals. My bike has never been that clean! After the initial pure rock, we began to encounter sections that were ridable, and began to enjoy what is still the longest and most exciting downhill session of my life! There were of course areas that were unridable; a slippery waterfall crossing, a washout where we had to lower bikes, packs and each other by rope and the numerous boulder sections, but more and more long unbroken stretches become ridable. Our rims were literally steaming from the friction! Before we exited the pass we had a forced stop for a brew and our last meal in the mountains, cleaned up in the river and after distributing our remaining provisions to the young cattle herders that had come to watch the spectacle of these strangely dressed men with bikes, we began the last section of the router. Although we were technically in the lowlands now, the route was faster. The paths were well traveled on easier to negotiate at speed, and we were still descending enough for the downhills to be long and steep. I would never have thought myself capable of getting air with a fully loaded rucksack on my back, but we did, a lot. There was everything a mountain biker could hope for on this section of the trip. Jumps; technical twisties; fast earth single-track; thick mud; river crossings; rock sections; drop-off; you name it, it's there! In far too short a time we found ourselves back in 'civilisation' and on the dirt road to the police post. We stopped at the small trading store at the entrance to the police compound and each flattened a liter of coke before coasting down to sign our way back in, huge victorious grins on our faces.Poetic justice had it's way, and the policeman that had seen us off was not on duty at the desk. The surly gentleman that was there didn't even know where the mountain register was in the office. There was not going to be any acknowledgment that we had succeeded to do what his colleague had told us would not be possible. We didn't let it rain on our parade, and went back to our car still feeling like conquering heroes, our swollen heads unaffected.
The longish drive back to Hillcrest was extended, only in part due to the exhaustion we were feeling after days of adrenaline and hard work. We listened to the radio, stopped for a beer and eisbein at Nottingham road and generally dawdled home, in no hurry for the holiday mood to end or for the adventure to be over. I felt elated, but at the same time introspective, convinced that as people we not only need, but thrive on these type of experiences. There is no question that this wasn't a particularly remarkable feat. Any one with a bicycle, time, a bit of common sense and a map could do it! It wasn't going to change the world or be noted in the history books; but it had made a difference in my life, somehow. The anticipation of the adventure during the lead up, the feeling of doing something different and special, and now the memories which pop into my head from time to time all translate to an enriched existence. By the time we had reached home I had resolved in my head to do as many of these kind of adventures as possible before I shuffle my mortal coil. The only question left unanswered, would we do this particular trip again? We already have!
