WALKING ON CLOUDS ON TOP OF A MOUNTAIN

While power walking mid-morning one Sunday I passed by a church, catching the tail end of a service where the fervent throng were in full song. A man standing outside commented courteously as I powered past him.

“Why don’t you come inside and join…?”.

A car roared past and I didn’t catch the rest of his sentence.

It was most likely “our congregation”.

I replied without thinking, “Closer to nature, closer to God”, smiled… and powered on. I remember being quietly embarrassed, saying to myself, “what a cliché!”

It was at the very beginning of my walk and I still had some smile in me.

I was still relatively fresh.

Actually, I was unfit: flabby, way out of shape, suffering bouts of depression, anxiety and stress. But this Sunday morning, I was on a mission to change my life.

It was my third “power” walk and I felt invigorated. For me walking was the easy means of getting fit. I hate running and besides, running hurts my knees. In the past I had often observed power-walkers and took note of the various techniques: heel, toe; heel toe...move the mid drift, swing the arms... shift the butt from side to side. It appealed to me. It was, after all, one of the best cardiovascular exercises one could do I was told.

As I sweated along I thought about my comment to the man standing outside the church. He was a middle-aged man with a nice smile too.

I had Table Mountain, and all the mountains left and right of it, more or less in full panoramic view before me. And I took real notice of all of them for the first time.

It was a beautiful morning, late July, surprisingly with no rain.

“That must be God’s altar, yes! ”, I mused as I considered the possible adventures – even revelations - that may await me should I ever go up there.

I found myself wandering on top of the mountain. I walked the slopes and contours. I walked on clouds. I sweated and pained. It was altogether a good feeling.

As my walk (the real one, the pounding of tar) progressed though, with me sweating profusely and struggling to maintain an already flagging pace, other thoughts of cold beer and smokes, and, even invigorating sex, crept into my mind.

I drank a beer and smoked a smoke within minutes on arriving home.

A few weeks later I was ensconced at the bar of a newly acquired “local” with newly acquired friends. They were planning a five day, new-year (late January) hike which had already been booked and paid for. It was now nearing the end of August and spring was a couple of days away.

I suggested they begin training soon, by going up the mountain.

And could I join them?

We discussed the idea of a few training hikes and also, especially, about none of us being in any shape to speak of.

We agreed on a walk that coming Sunday.

But there was more debate about the time we would meet, than around the route we would take.

We partied hard that Friday night!

We arrived, all six of us, at our agreed meeting place at more-or-less 7am that Sunday.

Our hike leader, the only one with any real hiking, climbing, mountain experience had already decided on the route. That Friday night, when he mentioned “First Waterfall Ravine” we had enthusiastically - and ignorantly - agreed. None of us, excepting him, had done the hike before.

First Waterfall it was. And it was a hike! A scramble, scary at times, with loose rocks and even looser boulders.

Six hours later, a little bruised, battered and exhausted, I returned with the others to our car. I chucked my back pack into the boot.

(It was only later I learned that this particular hike was not recommended, even for the experienced. But it got me hooked on the mountain; hooked on hiking).

The next Sunday, we hiked up the Jeep Track – Constantia Neck - over the mountain, past the dams and back down.

It was along the way that I saw the old man. He had a walking/hiking stick in both hands. I estimated that he was at least 85 years old.

I remarked to the guys, “****, this old guy, he’s about 85 in the shade, he didn’t come up here by helicopter. He came up on his own and he is going back down on his own!”

The guys had already tagged me the “senior citizen” on our first hike. Although I didn’t consider 52 to be that old! But the old man was old!

(I was to discover later that he would turn 92 the following year: June 4, 2003).

He was small, thin, weather-beaten and dressed for the worst weather, although it was a warm day. That’s age, I suppose. And experience, I was later to learn.

I couldn’t get the sight – and inspiration – of the old man out of my mind.

The annual FNB/Cape Times Big Walk takes place in Cape Town every October. This year it was on Sunday the 13^th. That was roughly three weeks from the day I first enquired about the Big Walk. The press was awash with pre-publicity and so I was aware of the event. I toyed with the idea of giving it a go. Light-heartedly at first.

Since I had started power walking, and with the image and inspiration of the old man on the mountain taking a firm foothold in my mind, I decided, impulsively, to enter the walk. Not the 32k stretch, nor the 80k (that would have been suicide) but the “middle-of-the-road”, 50k, from Kalk Bay harbour, around a point some way past Simonstown - I think it was Miller's Point - and back to Hartleyvale.

I didn’t expect the walk to be a breeze. But I never guessed how I would suffer.

And if it han't been for the old man on the mountain, I would never have achieved, nor even attempted this feat.

It’s strange how it takes certain people and certain things to change a life.

The race kicked off at 7,15 am at Kalk Bay Harbour that Sunday. The inexperienced amongst the three hundred or so walkers in the 50km section, sped enthusiastically ahead. I was one of them and must have been one of the least experienced of the bunch. It was my first real physical feat since the youth of my army days and within hours of the walk I was to reflect on that.

“A route march with full pack has got f**all on this!”

At one stage, somewhere between Fish Hoek and St.James I found myself staggering from side to side; my steps slurring, dragging me along. Sweat blinded me. Sun tan lotion mingled with the sweat and burned my eyes. I grabbed hold of the railing on the side of the pavement. I had slowed down to a pace slightly faster than standstill, a sort of wobbling, painful shuffle, barely lifting my feet to the “heel, toe, heel, toe” rhythm.

My chest imploded. My head pounded. And the beating sun didn't help. Even my nipples bled from the chaffing of the safety pins attaching my race number to my vest.

Around about this time, by now at least three hours into the race, I heard the voice of a walker, coming up from behind. As she came abreast of me she slowed down and, without mincing her words, remarked:

“You're in bad shape my friend, you should quit”.

“I'm going to Hartleyvale”. I just managed a mutter.

“You can't in your condition”

I nodded as vigorously as I could, meaning I can and I will.

“Ok then, here... share my energy bar and drink some of this”.

I did, and muttered my thanks.

She picked up her pace, waved good bye and powered on.

“She's a guardian angel”, I thought.

The chocolate (swallowed, not chewed) and the orange juice (gulped down) gave me that extra ounce of energy, that little boost that somehow got me to the next water point where a few enthusiastic first-aiders quickly surrounded me and iced me down all over, from scalp to shins; front and back. They also suggested I quit. I thanked them and continued; a little more refreshed and encouraged.

The image of the old man toiling on top of the mountain was firmly entrenched in my mind. It were as if he were coaxing me along; beckoning me to follow in his footsteps.

At one stage, only briefly though, the image of the old man was temporarily replaced by a few sequences of Rocky being pummeled in the ring, going down and getting up again. Down, up, down, up, hanging in, for a glorious victory. In my desperation I was using Rocky to trick my mind into getting my body to... just hang in there!

But it was the magnetism of the old man that coerced, coaxed and literally dragged me to Hartleyvale.

Seven hours, nine minutes and forty seven seconds later - an eternity under the circumstances - having given my last and final thrust of energy (and everything my mind could muster), I crossed the finishing line, passing through a channel of cheering spectators. For the first time I knew the feeling “sportsmen” felt when bathed in that very special glow of achievement.

I also really, really believed without any doubt whatsoever what we all hear so often and which most of us take so lightly: Mind over Matter. For the first time in my life the truth of it rang loud and clear.

A marshall, manning the checkpoint through which I passed congratulated me on my efforts and handed me a gold medal. I stared at her in genuine disbelief. I had thought I was way past the cut-off time for any medal, let alone gold.

“What's this for?”

“You did very, very well”.

“Is this for my age category?”

She shook her head.

She placed the ribbon with medal around my neck.

“Can I smoke?” I asked her sheepishly.

“Are you crazy!!”

I lit one anyway and painfully inched my way to the closest beer tent. My feet ached, every limb in my body cried out; my legs barely held me.

But my mind was in a state of pure elation.

That Tuesday's Cape Times carried a special supplement with all the race results.

To my astonishment I saw that I had been placed 74 out of 262 finishers in the 50km walk.

I silently thanked the old man and gave him full credit.

I was to thank him personally a few Sundays later.

As I had hoped, he was on the mountain. We were approaching the big pine tree by Woodhead dam when I saw him, off the path, a stick in each hand, slowly working his way through the fynbos and over some rocks.

I broke from the group and headed in his direction. I did not want to alarm him by suddenly descending upon him, so I moved cautiously toward him.

A couple of metres away from him - his head was lowered, obviously focusing on the uneven surface of stones, shrub and rocks - I called out to him, quite softly.

“Hello!” He did not appear to hear me.

“Hello, hello”, I called again, a lot louder this time. I had clearly distracted him because, next thing, I saw him tilt backwards, sticks flying in the air, and fall on his back.

“Oh my God”, I got a fright and dashed to his aid.

“I'm sorry, so sorry”, I said, bending down to take a hold of his hand to help him up.

“Don't worry, it was just a little tumble” He had a strong voice and a wide grin.

I gripped his hand - it was firm and wiry - and pulled him to his feet.

“I'm sorry to have done this to you but I just wanted to thank you”.

“For what?”

“For helping me through the Big Walk, in fact...”.

“Big Walk? I didn't do a thing.” And then, as if he knew well what I was on about, he asked: “How did you do?”

“I took a gold, and I want to thank you because it was your example that made me enter. You were the inspiration, believe me”. And then, lost for words, overwhelmed

and a little embarrassed, I quickly said “ciao”as I moved on and away to catch up with my friends.

I heard him call after me: “Thank you young man, you're an inspiration!”.

I felt the goose bumps.

I turned to wave and saw his knowing smile as he gave me the thumbs up.

I was elated by this experience. So elated, I hadn't noticed the fast-gathering cloud cover enveloping us. The crisp, biting freshness; the tingling of mist on skin.

It was exhilarating.

There and then I composed and forwarded this SMS to my daughter:

“I'm walking on clouds on top of the mountain.

If love's a spring, then life's a fountain.”

First published in The Cape Times ‘Review”.

Re-published in The Mountaineer