But as with most things in Africa, this was not to be and one needs to remain flexible. On checking in at the plush Didima resort we discover that Mike’s Pass is apparently closed to vehicles because the road is too bad (although fresh tracks we see on the road later betray this and we wander if this is simply a ploy to get paying guests up the pass). Then, when signing the mountain register, a fellow hiker shows surprise when we share our planned route; “oh. i thought Didima was closed because it is still being used by Dagga smugglers”. We tell her we have no knowledge of this and laugh it off. We are also reassured by the lipstick smooth Ezemvelo lady who hastily takes our cash and shows no surprise at our planned route. We note later however, that she looks like she has never walked further than the parking lot and we fear has no idea what lies in the hills beyond.
Anyway, a hasty rearrangement sees me dropping off the girls half way up Mike’s Pass and then returning the car to the checkpoint at the bottom. I then ran up to join them and we continued on into the Didima Valley. It is a stunning walk with panoramic views of the Drakensberg from Cathedral to Giants and beyond and we wander along mesmerised by this magical sight as the sun slowly drifts behind the mountains. Thanks to all the delays, we are now a bit late and walk the last couple of kilometres in the dark with headlamps on. Eventually we realise that we won't make it down to the gorge so stop and set up camp. At about this stage my wife announces that we have forgotten matches, a lighter or anything to light anything! Supper is a crunchy affair of Two-minute noodles washed down with water and peanut butter on bread. Cold, raw Cup-a-soup didn’t work. We tried everything; smashing rocks together to get a spark, using my reading glasses as a magnifying glass, and even rubbed sticks together Bushman style (where we did get smoke but no fire) and finally tried to strike 2 matches I found, on a rock, but they aren't called ‘safety matches’ for nothing. Anyway, we became experts on preparing cold everything and amazingly ate pretty well and didn't go hungry!
The sunrise is beautiful beyond belief and a warm golden glow reflects off the “Barrier of Spears”. We devour cold one-minute porridge and are soon on our way dropping into the gorge below. It is as if there is not another human on earth but us, as we criss-cross the sparkling stream rock-hopping and occasionally stopping to take pictures of extraordinary rock formations and feisty bright coloured flowers. We must have been somewhat distracted as we end up being bluffed-out and have to make a very steep scramble out of the gorge to find the path high above us. The path is badly eroded and rough and clearly has had no maintenance for many years. We bypass the very overgrown track to Poacher’s cave and continue to the junction of Leopard cave where there is a perfect camping spot next to the main path and a lovely swimming stream. We explore up to Leopard cave and while away the afternoon swimming, reading, enjoying the sun and rubbing sticks together in a futile effort to make fire. Night falls and we cuddle up in thick down sleeping bags and are soothed to sleep by the surging stream. Little do we realise what the night will bring!
I sit bolt upright in my bag. It must be about two in the morning and I have been woken by a high pitched shout only metres from our camp on the main path and across the stream. I see that my wife is awake too and we look at each other in horror; dagga smugglers! Was the cry a threat or a warning? Did they know that we were there? How many were they? What were their intentions?Should we ignore them, pretend to sleep? Should we run and leave everything? We whisper to each other and my wife inadvertently illuminates her torch and shines on the rocks around us. That galvanises us into action. We awake our two daughters, who are incredibly calm, and pack up our entire camp in about five minutes. Of course it feels like an eternity and when the familiar odour of dagga smoke wafts over us, my fear is palpable. I feel an intense nausea and sweat drips down my face and chest. What if? What if?
We scramble up the track loaded with our packs and head in the direction of Leopard cave away from the main path, and familiar territory for us having been up there earlier in the day. My wife is up ahead with one torch, our daughters between us and me taking up the rear. In my anxious state I am blown away by the composure and maturity shown by my daughters; not a squeak out of them, no complaints and a dogged determination to move away from this perceived risk that their parents had woken them for at 02.00! We climb steadily for about forty minutes up a steep path and then veer away from the stream up onto a ridge high above the gorge below. We stop on a small flat area and listen intently for any sounds of pursuit but are reassured by a tranquil silence and decide to sleep there. Exhausted we snuggle up together and lie back on our grassy ledge to experience a star extravaganza like none other. The galaxies and signs of the Zodiac circle above us in a mystical dance and we are soon coaxed into a deep sleep far away from the stress that had besieged us only an hour earlier. An ochre moon crawls up over the round hill in front of us and we dig deeper into our bags to escape the pre dawn chill.
With dawn comes the realisation of what might have been. Was it all just an absurd over reaction? Where they just shepherds tending their flocks or were they indeed the dagga smugglers of Didima? We recount somewhat manically the events of the night before and giggle hysterically. Our overnight perch is poised perfectly above the gorge far below and as we feast for the last time on cold porridge an eagle glides silently by scanning the bush along the river in search of her prey.
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