“If you’re looking for sympathy, you can find it in the dictionary; between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’,” says Gavin Raubenheimer to the group of hikers, after one shows him a splinter embedded in his index finger.
The 45-year-old head of Mountain Rescue in KwaZulu-Natal is a man of few words, but when he speaks, he tellsit like it is.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you can find it in the dictionary; between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’,” says Gavin Raubenheimer to the group of hikers, after one shows him a splinter embedded in his index finger.
The 45-year-old head of Mountain Rescue in KwaZulu-Natal is a man of few words, but when he speaks, he tellsit like it is.
He is about to lead 15 student hikers up three mountains known as the Hogsback, named for their resemblance to the bristles on a bushpig’s back. Almost immediately Raubenhemier earns the name “Mountain Man”.
We are asked to sign an indemnity form which reads, “Mountaineering and hiking is a high risk activity.
You undertake this course at your own risk.” We begin our education at the break of dawn at the Away with the Fairies backpackers base camp, discussing what gear is best suited for the outdoors.
Raubenheimer dons lightweight and water-resistant clothing what he calls “modern technical
wear.” He’s still an advocate of good old wool though, as “it keeps you warm even when it’s wet”.
He wears a wind-proof soft shell and his raincoat is lined with osmosis chemicals that extract moisture while you perspire. Normal rain jackets don’t breathe, he says, leaving you damp from your own sweat.
His Salomon-brand boots are webbed with Gortex a membrane of material with microscopic holes like a one-way valve, designed to breathe air in but keep water out.
Most of his equipment and clothing is treated with Durable Water Repellent (DWR), which causes water to roll off the surface in little beads.
Raubenheimer says a backpack should be packed “heavy high, light low,” putting most of the weight onto your hips.
He recommends putting your sleeping bag and clothing at the bottom and food at the top. A backpack is also designed to function as a sleeping bag, a practice he has had to use in emergencies.
The first of day hiking is filled with rolling hills, muddy water crossings (leaving water-logged and dirty boots), and dense, dappled forests.
Crossing the ridge of the first ‘hog’, we catch a glimpse of where we are going to pitch camp tonight next to a river on a flat section in what looks like a sheltered valley.
We pitch our tents, light our gas stoves and cook dinner, but the joy of warm food in our bellies isn’t accompanied by a good night’s sleep.
The wind tears through the trees, roaring like a low-flying jumbo jet. The tent constantly bucks and eventually one of the posts snaps.
Jono, a British exchange student, braves the cold and goes outside to fix the damaged pole. The remainder of the night holds brief bursts of shallow sleep, as violent gusts threaten to tear our tent's fabric.
Finally, we wake up to find the nylon tent collapsed, resting on our faces. Of course, when you sleep in a tent you wake up with the sun.
The picturesque landscape is tarnished by everyone’s belongings scattered by the wind along the river banks. Efforts to shelter the stove and make breakfast prove near by impossible in the harassing gales.
We pack up and Raubenheimer begins explaining triangulation – using visible landmarks to calculate where you are on a map. “Reading a compass is like Standard 6 Geography,” he says. This is a valuable skill when your GPS loses power.
Back on the hike, we follow the river for several kilometres. Eventually, the group reaches a waterfall and some decide to swim.
The water is ice-cold and the boys squeal as they get in. Those who do brave the stream quickly emerge to bask in the sun.
Raubenheimer doesn’t swim. In a beige, military-style brimmed hat and polarised sunglasses that reflect the sun, he sits coolly at the edge of a waterfall, resting against a rock. Back on the hike we walk through a smoky forest with embers of a recent fire still smouldering.
The path is difficult to locate and the group’s breathing becomes laboured. Scrambling through brush and steep slopes, we regroup and maps are taken out to locate our position. Deep in the heart of the forest we eventually reach the hut.
Warm food and good humour ensues. The following morning we are briefed about the difference between hypo- and hyperthermia -both of which can be fatal. Ironically, we all shiver as we listen to the lecture in the biting cold.
We cover rescue procedures in emergency situations and Raubenheimer explains that the traditional SOS distress signal for help has been replaced by six blasts on a whistle followed by a pause of one minute and then repeated. The response to this is three whistles, which means that help is on the way.
Flashlights can also be used. Back on the hike again, we stumble upon an old jeep-track. Some decide to take the bypass dirt road back to our rendezvous point, the white minibus.
The three-day slog was starting to take its toll. Soon on a plateau, hog number three looms above us. Excitement spreads through the group as someone exclaims there is snow on the berg.
We zig-zag up the leeward side of the mountain at a slow pace, shielding ourselves from the wind.
As we ascend, the air becomes harder to breath. Frost covers the grass and soon this becomes snow.
“We are about to approach the windward side of the mountain. Dress warm and eat something,” says Raubenheimer.
We put on every t-shirt, jacket, and pair of socks we have as we make our way over the saddle and onto the windward side of the mountain. We clutch onto snow-capped boulders for support as winds reach speeds of over 60km/hour.
Our socks absorb the snow’s moisture through our leather boots like a sponge in a sink. Eyes are constantly squinting as the unforgiving wind whips across our faces.
Our ears and noses burn. Battling our way across the front of the berg, we reach the saddle on the other side.
The wind dips just enough to light a match and we stop and cook lunch. We combine the remainder of our food – ostrich sausage, a can of creamed corn, cheese sauce and pasta into a pot.
The pasta is taking too long to cook and the sun is setting. Ravenously, we spoon the half-cooked pasta jumble into our mouths.
With an almost empty backpack, we scurry down the naked ridge and into the sheltered forest. As we make our way toward the bus, specks of snow dust our faces. Yesterday we were swimming.
