Kgaswane Day 2: Insomnia, Sunrise Shenanigans, and Thigh-High Decisions

So yes, I did not get much sleep on the ground..... in the tent......in winter. Shock. Horror. I was cranky and undercaffeinated.

Yes, it was winter camping, but to be fair, the real bone-rattling cold only showed up a few days later — so hypothermia? Probably not. Just mild, character-building suffering.

Estie being annoyingly chirpy...me not!!

Although, Estie and 2 others slept with stretchers. Under the open winter sky. I mean... what kind of Bear Grylls level wizardry is that?

Personally, I require at least the illusion of shelter. Something flimsy enough to flap in the wind but substantial enough to convince my anxious brain that it’ll stop a lightning bolt or wild animal.

Estie's boho chic linen

Anyway — after a long, emotionally complicated night with my tent, my sleeping bag, and the comforting glow of Netflix (bless my old phone and its offline downloads), I can’t say I woke up bright-eyed or bushy-tailed.

But the night was finally over.

Coffee....ASAP!!

The morning involved panic-packing and praying to the caffeine gods. Slowly, things started to look better.

We were gearing up for another hike at Kgaswane.

But first, the sunrise. Apparently, we would not see it from camp, so a short drive deeper into the reserve was required.

Not far, just far enough to make me mutter, “You know what would’ve been great? Just unzipping my tent, sipping some instant coffee, and watching the sky do its thing like a relaxed, emotionally stable human.”

But no. We chase sunrises now. Like poetic lunatics.

But...for the third time that weekend (and counting), I’d confidently assumed something would be disappointing… only for it to utterly exceed anything my jaded little brain had imagined.

Turns out, I might not be the visionary I thought I was.

Me THINKING I am watching the sun rise🙄🙈

But that wasn’t even the most brutal lesson of the weekend. No, that would be the crushing truth that I am — shockingly — not nature’s brightest bulb.

So, to me, a sunrise has always been that glorious moment when the sky shifts from “murdery black” to a full-blown kaleidoscope of colours. And then, bam, you whip out your phone, snap some artsy pics and move on with your life.

So when we arrived and the sky was already… well… not dark — yes, colourful, but definitely leaning “daytime adjacent” — I thought, “Damn, we’re late. Missed the main event. Dammit. Guess we’ll just enjoy the ass end of the sunrise and lie about it later.”

Except… apparently, it hadn’t even started.

Turns out — and yes, I’m publicly airing my shame— the sky being not dark does not mean the sun has risen. No, apparently, the sun has risen only once the actual flaming ball of gas physically appears.

And honestly? Writing this, I’m still in awe of what i witnessed. The slow tease, the suspense, the grand “ta-da” moment.

What blows my mind even more? That it took me nearly 60 years to figure this out. Sixty. Freaking. Years.

Clearly, a lifetime of hiding in my comfort zone and dodging anything vaguely challenging...or anything resembling actual wisdom, for that matter… did me no favours.

The ACTUAL Sunrise

Anyhoo, onward to the second Kgaswane trail — and let me just say, they don’t recycle routes here. This was an entirely different beast.

Think gorges, waterfalls and streams.

There was a moment where I genuinely felt like I was clinging to a rock face, teetering on the edge and thinking, “Yup. This is it. This is how I go.

Me "clinging"....I swear, the drop was more intense than it looks 😱😨

Me taking a photo of someone else taking a photo of someone else.....

But thanks to group momentum — and the ancient drug known as peer pressure — I kept going.

And then… we reached it. The End. Or so it seemed.

We were faced with a stream of ice water. Not a gentle puddle — we’re talking potentially thigh-deep, hypothermia kind of water.

There was immediate group deliberation, during which I helpfully (read: desperately) pointed out a small arrow pointing away from the stream, trying to convince everyone that maybe, just maybe, the crossing was optional.

Then I saw them. The enormous, unmissable arrows on the other side of the stream — blazing like nature's version of a neon “NOPE, THIS WAY” sign. I slowly lowered my frantic finger, hoping no one had seen that I was attempting to reroute us like the coward that I was.

Estie — who, at this point, I’ve concluded is either a cyborg, a heavily disguised Navy Seal, or both, waded in without hesitation to test the water. And of course, it turned out to be shallower than it looked. Theoretically crossable. Possibly even fine....Dammit.

Unfortunately, I had already mentally noped out. I’d zipped myself into an emotional sleeping bag of defeat, pulled the drawstring tight, and accepted my role as Designated Trail Coward

Am I ashamed? Slightly. Do I want a do-over to reclaim my dignity? Possibly. But let’s pencil that in for summer, when the water isn’t threatening to amputate my legs via frostbite.

Some of the squad braved it and lived to tell the tale — damp, victorious, and slightly smug. The rest of us stayed behind, soaking in the beauty, swapping wisdom like rugged philosophers. It’s okay I didn’t go, I tell myself. Repeatedly. Still.

When the aquatic adventurers returned, we made our way back.

So, the rating? Yes… definitely not beginner-friendly. Some seriously technical bits as we descended into the gorge — and, surprise surprise, what goes down must eventually haul itself back up. Hello, ascents.

But if you’re a regular hiker with a decent sense of balance and a questionable relationship with your comfort zone? Totally doable.

All in all? A ridiculously beautiful, completely exhausting weekend.

Three hikes. Loads of laughs. A few personal lessons— the difference between dusk, dawn, and the actual mechanics of a sunrise. An awesome group. Maximum memories.

Really — what more could you ask for? (Aside from upgraded camping gear, a mattress that isn’t basically a yoga mat, and maybe a small miracle.)