Mosamane Guest Farm: A Weekend of Trails, Treats, and Tiny Triumphs

Let’s begin with a confession: I am fully aware that I am the architect of my own chaos. Truly.

I design the disaster, install the windows, add the throw pillows - and then stand back in awe, wondering why everything is suddenly on fire.

If you read about my Wonderboom Hike, you’ll remember that I "slightly" (read fairly violently) turned my ankle last week. 

I immediately unleashed every expletive I know and then declared, loudly, that it better be healed by the following weekend.

Was it healed by Friday?

Not totally.

Did I go anyway?

Obviously.

But because I consider myself an athlete of mythical proportions, I did what all elite athletes do: popped an anti-inflammatory, something I never take because… well, drugs, masked the pain, and charged forward like the heroic idiot I insist on being.

The weekend’s destination? Mosamane Guest Farm. Booked ages ago, back when I was young, hopeful, and still believed my bank account could sustain my compulsive habit of booking every hiking weekend that pops up in the WhatsApp group.

And there I was, staring at another pre-paid “adventure,” wondering why I keep doing this to myself.

Another Group Hike

Much like my last group hike, I made the fatal mistake of checking the distance after committing.

Four hours away.

Slightly better than last time, which is not so much a compliment as it is geography.

Instead of finally accepting adulthood and driving alone, I once again begged for a travel companion.

And one poor, unsuspecting soul agreed.

Again.

The Late Start That Set the Tone

For those not yet acquainted with my chaos, I do not sleep. I binge Netflix, toss and turn, and behave like a disruptive puppy.

Which is why, out of pure consideration (yes, you read that correctly), I always try to arrive early and score first dibs on sleeping arrangements.

No double beds where my poor bed mate will be catapulted every time I twitch.

No top bunks, because… midnight toilet trips + ladders + me = broken something.

Obviously, because the universe hates me, we left two hours late. Two. Hours.

Apparently the G20 Summit decided to happen on the exact same weekend.

Rude.

My travel buddy was trapped in ridiculous highway traffic on the way to me, and so the countdown to my meltdown began.

By this point, I passionately declared that I would never again insist on a travel buddy. “Next time I’ll go alone!” I proclaimed, meaning it wholeheartedly… for about 6–8 minutes.

The Route From Hell

My travel partner - bless his deeply unprepared heart - chose an alternate route. Why? Because men will literally do anything besides follow the GPS like normal people.

This “route” consisted of:

closed roads

half-roads

phantom roads, and roads that existed solely to personally offend me

Every detour added time. Every turn felt like a

personal attack on me.

By then I was starving, irritated and mentally preparing a dramatic exit from the moving car.

When Waze confidently announced, “Turn right,” and we saw yet another closed road, the detour adding thirty more minutes, I stated calmly, yet with the energy of molten lava - that I was ready to turn around and go home.

And please know: I meant it.

My travel companion, who had begun the day bright eyed and talkative, now sat in cautious silence. He had accurately assessed the danger levels.

Smart man.

Arrival: The Universe Did Me a Solid

And then, finally, we arrived.

We were first.

This soothed me by approximately 7%, which is significant.

We then had to wait for someone to spray the car for foot-and-mouth disease.

By then I was ready to start gnawing on my travel companion’s arm, but his terrified calmness somehow kept me from initiating cannibalism.

But......I got to choose my room.

A single bed.

Ground floor.

Only two people in the room.

In hiking weekend standards, this is basically a five-star, luxury suite.

It was fully equipped with kitchens for the different sections and an amazing communal area to natter and chill.

After I neutralized the "hangry" and while we waited for the others, we wandered around this exquisite farm.

Peace. Tranquility. The only thing missing was Bambi prancing through the “meadows” of yellow flowers to complete the cinematic perfection.

And once my blood sugar finally returned from the dead, the rage evaporated and I morphed back into my serene, grounded forest-nymph self - the version of me that only exists after food, nature, and a brief emotional reboot.

At that point, I’m fairly certain my hiking buddy was quietly texting the group to find out who he could hitch a ride home with.

Note To Self

Next time I’m driving alone.

For real.

Probably.