I have done some very pleasant and even educational walks lately, but none was particularly taxing and they lacked the elevation to provide real views. There is something about clambering up a mountain that is both physically demanding and emotionally rewarding at the same time.
For one thing the goal is simple: get to the summit. This provides a degree of focus lacking in simpler strolls, plus the tops of mountains provide a different perspective on things, unobtainable in any other way – short of perhaps a helicopter flight.
So I decided once again to set my sights on the Helderberg, which dominates the skyline of Somerset West. Rising as it does to a height of some 1 137m, higher in fact than Table Mountain, it undoubtedly offers a reasonable physical challenge – and anyway I had unfinished business with this particular summit.
My previous hike on what is in English “Clear Mountain” proved to be anything but clear and apart from becoming lost in the clouds and struggling to find the path back down, I never got my just reward of the spectacular views. All that effort wasted for the chance to stagger about in white-out conditions.
The weather was due to be clear at least and apparently not overly hot, a good thing if one is planning this sort of jaunt. But by the time I had arrived at the Helderberg Nature Reserve, the starting point of my journey, it was apparent that the forecasters were a little off, and the temperatures were already five to 10 degrees hotter than they had predicted. Still, I was committed now: not only had I coughed up my 15 bucks entry fee but my deadline was looming and there was little to be done but to press on.
The mountain was really rather imposing from the bottom and the sun beat down with vengeance. There wasn’t a breath of wind to offer respite either, but I wasn't going to be put off.
Now it should be pointed out that I don’t mind climbing – scramble routes are my favourite in exactly the same way that wide jeep tracks aren’t. The start was quite delightful really, meandering single track paths through the bush, offering a little shade although lacking in direction. These paths are not even marked on the map and I zig-zagged to and fro, knowing that I had to at least keep gaining elevation. The mountain was a long way off and it wasn’t getting any closer with me aimlessly traversing, no matter how pleasant the shade.
Then came the wide jeep tracks, optimistically referred to in the reference material as the Blue, Green, Black and Red routes with not a signboard in view.
The paths are apparently an interlocking series of slightly squiggly Olympic rings, all colour coded for your convenience, but it doesn’t quite work out like that. There are dozens of unmarked paths and no hint of difference on the map between one that is a mile wide and a single foot meander. One isn’t going to get lost and die here, but it is certainly possible to waste an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to fathom out the vagaries of the map. But I had done this before and headed on, somewhat painfully gaining height all the time in the baking heat.
The front face of the Helderberg is very steep and casts its shadow over the foothills well into the late morning. After an hour’s toil I was desperate to reach that shade before it disappeared with the noon sun. The cool darkness tauntingly receded before me as I battled up increasingly steep paths. It was as though gravity was sucking me back down at every turn, and I think that I got some insight into what it must be like to be a light particle desperately trying to avoid the pull of a black hole. Although in this case I was being dragged down into the baking heat and trying to reach the blessed shade.
Finally I got there, the rocks on the path still chill from the night. Walking was easier and far more pleasant. I was able to enjoy the views as I headed around the upper buttress, admiring the constantly changing panoramas of the Lourens River Valley, False Bay and the Atlantic. One of the great joys of this hike is that at some point you look in almost every direction, viewing Cape Point at one moment and Table Mountain the next, just rewards for the earlier struggles.
At the top I took in the views for a while and discovered a message in a bottle, a scribbled note written on a sandwich packet stating that its authors had summited back in 1995.
From here on it was all downhill, jarringly downhill, but at least with the clear conditions it wasn’t too tricky to find the path. I arrived back at the car after five hours of near constant effort, tired but pleased with myself for all that.
This hike deserves more attention than it gets. It is certainly strenuous, but the rewards are there in terms of spectacular views. Just take care on the lower slopes – the path markers are woefully inadequate, and if not dangerous at least terribly frustrating. - Sunday Argus