Lesoba Day 2 Hike: Early Morning Magic

On the very last day of my extraordinarily youthful age of 59, we set off at what can only be described as “sparrow’s fart o’clock” for Day 2 of our adventure.

Basil opted out, deciding the hike might be too much for Boris.

Neither Boris nor I were exactly celebrating this development, but truthfully, while I missed having them along, I can't say Basil made the wrong call.

We left ridiculously early. It was cold. It was glorious.

The reward was seeing the giant sandstone formation that has firmly established itself as the MVP of Lesoba glowing bright orange and yellow in the early morning light - nature is annoyingly talented like that.

The Trail

We were told there was a marked route. There was also a map.

The extent to which either of these things influenced our actual movements remains open to debate.

For over 1 km, the hike became surprisingly technical.

The long grass hid ankle-snapping ditches, requiring absolute focus.

Then we found "The Hole."

Yes. A hole. In a rock face.

And yes, we were unreasonably excited about it.

Now, I realise that "we found a hole fascinating" sounds like the sort of thing people say when absolutely nothing interesting happened on a hike but this was a "premium-grade geological hole."

Honestly, you probably had to be there.

Instead, you’ll just have to accept that it was objectively an excellent hole.

When the Leader Goes Quiet

Eventually, our usually confident Trusty Leader went quiet - this is never a reassuring development.

I noticed map-staring and hushed conversations with Sage.

I also noticed the rest of us were still emotionally committed to "The Hole" while our leader was quietly recalculating.

It turned out we might not actually have been on the correct trail - a minor detail.

Fortunately, he recovered the situation, located the actual route, and restored full leadership credibility.

The Gully

This correction involved a steep climb that led us toward what I was absolutely convinced would be the start to the mysterious gully Rule, the owner had mentioned.

Then came scrambling - excellent scrambling. The kind that makes you feel adventurous, capable and definitely not 59.999 years old.

For a brief, glorious period I was basically 38 - possibly 42 on the steeper bits.

Unfortunately, once we reached the final section, we realised we weren't going to be casually strolling through a scenic gap in the rocks.

Instead, we'd need to tackle even tougher technical climbing to get to the other side.

At that point, we stopped for a group discussion. The question was simple - were we all comfortable continuing, or should we turn around?

The group unanimously chose to head back.

This meant descending the same technical section we'd just climbed.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

With the kind of concentration usually reserved for defusing small explosive devices - the mountain, meanwhile, remained completely indifferent.

The Descent

The descent, it turns out, is not the easy part. That is a lie people tell themselves to feel better about going up things

.

For a brief moment I worried that I might suffer from severe FOMO for not making it over the top of the gully.

But the climb down demanded enough concentration to make the whole experience feel worthwhile anyway.

Blood Was Spilled

There were plenty of thorns along the scramble and we spent much of the way up warning each other about them.

Naturally, despite all these warnings, I still managed to get nicked by one.

The amount of blood involved was wildly disproportionate to what could generously be described as a scratch.

Sage’s mini-me immediately stepped in with full medical authority, cleaned it, and applied a plaster “so it wouldn’t get infected.”

For a brief moment, watching this level of nurturing competence, I wondered whether it was too late to exchange my Salt and Pepper sons for daughters.

I was informed this is not a recognized parenting policy.

Back at Camp

We made our way back to the lodge, retracing our steps with the quiet satisfaction of people who have definitely earned a sit-down.

Nobody knew how far we'd walked.

Nobody seemed remotely interested in statistics.

We'd climbed things.

We'd found things.

We'd got slightly lost.

That felt sufficient.

In other words - perfect.

Boris Had Opinions

Back at camp, we were greeted by a very excited Boris and a moderately interested Basil.

Boris then spent the rest of the day alternating between ignoring me completely and challenging me to what felt suspiciously like a duel - I'm not entirely sure which.

Either way, he was clearly unimpressed that he'd been left behind.

It wasn't me, Boris.

I promise.

Tomorrow we hike.

And, rather inconveniently, I turn 60.