Up and To The Right: A Table Mountain Hiking Story

February 7, 2014 - The First Conquest

It started on a Thursday night—February 7, 2014. We'd just reunited after summer break, and as always, we followed Andile's motto: "When we part, there is a party. When we meet, there is meat." But after the meat, there was always another party.

That night, as we sang our way home, someone added a remix to whatever song we were belting out: "Tomorrow, we shall conquer Table Mountain!" The line got louder with each repetition. By the time we collapsed into bed, we had one plan—conquer Table Mountain. That was as far as the planning went.

When we woke up the next morning, we had to follow through. Getting ready meant getting dressed, brushing our teeth, splashing water on our faces. We were out the door. Three warriors set out: myself, Biggie, and Andile. We didn't know anyone who'd done this before, but we knew of Table Mountain. We'd hiked to Rhodes Memorial, so Table Mountain had to be just above it. We just didn't know how much above.

The hike to Rhodes Memorial wasn't bad. We knew what to expect. But two issues we hadn't considered hit us hard: hangover and water.

Just past Rhodes Memorial, there's a restaurant. We desperately needed water, and the hangover wasn't helping. We told them we were hiking to Table Mountain. They laughed. We didn't understand why then. Now we do. They handed us a full 5-liter bottle. We didn't understand that either. Now we do—we finished it before we even started the actual climb.

We only knew the direction of Table Mountain. We didn't know the trails, but we knew we needed to stick right. Our coordinates were simple: up and to the right. What could be tricky about that?

Back in 2014, technology wasn't what it is today. Now I can check my smartphone and have Maps guide me while I hike. But you also lose that bit of adventure.

After the restaurant, we continued. We started seeing people heading in different directions, but it didn't matter—we had our coordinates. Then the journey became lonely. The numbers dropped significantly in our direction.

That right turn made all the difference. There's a small two-part stretch just after turning right while most people turn back or veer left. Shortly after, you see why not many people come this way. This is where your ego gets shattered completely.

The first climb looks steep—no rocks, just fine soil and dust so slippery you're breathing it while the sun fries your back and neck. When you're balancing with everything you've got, the dust is in your face by default. When you finally reach the top, that climb alone cures 45% of your hangover.

Just when you think that was bad, there's another hill. This one is worse—longer and trickier. Your feet have to stay on the edges because the dust pushes you back down. You're climbing with your legs apart, holding onto grass, with the unforgiving sun on your back. This climb cures the remaining 55% of your hangover. After this, your mind becomes sharp. What are you doing? Is this even possible?

This is when you decide to work together. Speed is no longer a priority. At this point, you face the possibility that this might be impossible. But you also catch a glimpse of the Blockhouse—looking old and full of secrets.

We decided to take it easy and enjoy the views. By this point, they were spectacular. When we arrived at the Blockhouse, it looked like an ancient military base—something Jan van Riebeeck might have used. But we didn't have all day. We still had a long journey ahead.

After the Blockhouse, the trail problem became serious. The obvious trail went left, toward Woodstock Cave. That's when we left everyone else and figured out our own way right. At some point, we got stuck. Andile tried googling hiking trails—no network. We had to guess. We took anything that looked like a trail, followed it until it seemed wrong, then ditched it and looked for something else.

Finally, we got closer to the actual Table Mountain hiking trail—where everyone was. But we were exhausted. We'd been hiking for half a day already.

We reached the main trail around 1 p.m. We considered going back, but we'd already suffered so much—what would be the point? So we continued.

Now we were back to climbing. Rocks everywhere. February Cape Town sun. The rocks were burning—you couldn't even sit and rest. No trees, just the smell of sun-scorched rocks.

We'd run out of water. At least now we were hiking with other people, though most were coming back down since we'd only started the main ascent in the afternoon.

Getting to the top was the toughest stage because you keep thinking, "Just a few more steps." We entered the clouds, so even the view we'd hoped for was gone. It was freezing now—from crazy hot to freezing cold. But at least this eliminated the heat problem. We were only left with weak bodies, beaten-down minds, and shaking legs.

Finally, we arrived. We couldn't see far—maybe 100 meters at most. But it was so cold we didn't want to stay long. We arrived around 4:30 p.m.

We decided to head back. Going down was quicker. Gravitational force pulled you down; what mattered was precision. The cold helped too—we needed to move faster to generate heat.

We reached the bottom around 5:30 p.m. and walked across valleys back to UCT Upper Campus, racing against time—we didn't want to be in the mountains after dark.

We arrived at UCT Upper Campus around 6:30 p.m. My feet were so sore I was in pain the entire week.

And that’s the thing about decisions — they never reveal their difficulty at the start. You only see that later, when every step feels heavier than the last.

February 20, 2021 - The Ancestor Bird and the Leap of Faith

Seven years later, Andile and I decided to conquer it again. This time, we were older and unfit—especially me. But we thought we had an advantage: we knew the trails. Or we thought we did.

On Saturday, February 20, 2021, we started our journey. The early part went well. Rhodes Memorial. The steep climbs. The Blockhouse. But seven years changes memory. Somewhere after that, we got lost.

Finding a way from the Blockhouse to the bottom of Table Mountain (India Venster trail) is tricky. There's no direct trail. You take any trail you see. When it goes too far up, you ditch it and walk where there's no trail. When it goes down too much, you readjust.

There was a sign: "Danger. Do Not Enter." But we'd gone too far up. So we entered.

Probably why we missed India Venster trail completely.

We'd almost gone around Table Mountain, looking over Camps Bay, when we saw a couple. The gentleman confirmed we'd missed India Venster. He said we could walk back—30 minutes—then hike up—7 hours. Or, he said, "You guys are fit and young. You could just rock climb up. Two hours, you're at the top."

We took the shorter option. The numbers made sense. He showed us where to start.

From the get-go, we had huge rocks to climb. But we figured suffering for two hours instead of 7.5 was better. We were already tired. Just like last time, we thought of going back, but our ego didn't approve.

We saw the warnings: "only professional rock climbers." But again, the numbers made sense.

We started climbing around 11 am. The sun was blazing. We quickly realized we'd made a mistake after climbing just two or three rocks, but it was harder to go back down than continue up. Those three rocks alone took 15 minutes. That's when we started thinking about this "two hours" thing. Are we even going to make it? But we couldn't go back down. The regrets flooded in.

For the longest time, there were no creatures. We felt forsaken. Just us and the sun, getting burnt. Our skin was peeling off. We didn't even bring sunscreen—we never needed it last time. But this time? Suicide.

I made a wrong move—a climb too long for my height. I overstretched, hurt my leg, and cracked my phone's screen as I struggled to pull myself up. Every move was a single shot. No second chances. The leg really hurt, and we weren't even halfway through. We had to improvise.

Then Andile saw a black bird. He said it was our ancestor come to save us. And it did. We didn't have a trail, so we followed this bird. You'd climb rocks not knowing what was on top, and every time, it was disappointment. Discouraging. If we die out here, no one will find us.

At some point, a helicopter flew over. I wished I could yell for help, but it was too far.

After an hour or two, we discovered painted rocks—markers about 50 meters apart. Not easy to locate because they're not in a straight line. But they marked the only climbable parts.

The black bird helped a lot. There were no trees for shade—just small shrubs, far and in between. Seeing that bird was a miracle. We didn't feel alone. It would fly a little, we'd follow, and it led us out of hell.

We finally saw a view of Table Mountain after hours of climbing blind. We saw a guy climbing on a rope going up from the Cable Car station—going up on a rope for God knows how long. I told Andile straight: we're not doing that. We're finding another way.

We found a trail going around the mountain. Longer, but we'd learned our lesson about shortcuts. But this was terrible for me because of my height issues. We were walking across the cliff. I couldn't look down—it felt like gravity was pulling me.

Then back to rock climbing. This time completely beaten down. Andile wasn't making it easy. My leg was sore, everything was sore. He called me weak, and I was angry, but he was telling the truth. I was trying to pull this body together, and it wasn't working.

Then Andile got his chance with the unknown. We were guessing with direction and trail. You grab rocks, but you have no idea what's at the top.

This time Andile went first. I helped him climb up. The fact that we were helping each other meant no option for coming back. That's how we'd been climbing—you can't jump back down.

When Andile got to the top of his route, it wasn't looking good. He couldn't go farther. Full of shrubs and rocks. I couldn't see what he was seeing, so I tried another route. This one had a way.

When I got to the top, I saw where Andile was stuck. He only had one choice, which was deadly. If it had been me, I don't think I would've taken it. He basically couldn't go back, but there was another option: jump to my side. Deadly. He'd have to fly.

And Mfoka Skungwini flew. He landed at the bottom of my shaking legs.

I thanked him for taking that jump because I definitely would not have. The problem now was that whatever you did was no longer just about you. You must not die, because if you die, you're leaving the other person with all of this to deal with. One person can't do this alone.

I felt a little better afterward because he'd gotten a taste of what I'd been feeling while he called me weaker than my grandmother. This was our last toughest hurdle.

Now our problem was speed and time. It couldn't get dark while we were out there, or we'd be dinner for wild animals.

We started seeing people. Started seeing where we might enter. But when you're hiking Table Mountain, you keep thinking you're getting closer, until you're actually at the top. Any other step is just another torture. That's when you're completely beaten down. You just want it to end so you can go to church, trying to make a last-minute deal with God.

Those few steps as you're getting closer are the most painful. You can kind of see where you're going, and you're still getting lost. You start seeing people at the top, dressed nicely in white and clean, taking pictures—maybe even of you. You're feeling and smelling like some unknown wild animal. Maybe a hyena.

But then you get closer. Only, if I'd had the spirit to enjoy it. They've built the entrance like how I pictured heaven when I read the Bible as a kid. The best entrance ever.

Just like always, freezing cold, but this time clear—no clouds. We were on top of the clouds. They'd given us peace. We arrived around 3 p.m.

This time we weren't hiking down. I didn't even want to do the normal hike. I wanted out of that place and back to a warm shower. We were still going out later to meet our other friends. I could smell my burnt skin. I hated every part of it.

Then we took the Cable Car. My fear of heights is worse in the Cable Car. I can't look at any views because I feel like I'm being pulled toward the ground.

The Uber driver laughed at me the whole way home.

But the interesting thing? Once we got home, stretched, and applied Deep Heat rub, we were able to go out. We still had a great time, danced, and everything.