Winter waterfall walk

It is always preferable to hike up to a waterfall when it is in spate, so after the week's rains we set off on a gorgeous sunny winter's day to scale the heights of Cecilia Ravine. In summer there is a barely perceptible trickle of droplets, but the effort of the climb is well worth the sighting of the Disa Uniflora which dots the fern bedecked cliff face.
Today we toiled up alongside a tumbling brook, where blobs of white foam lay trapped against fallen branches and rocky pools, too fresh to have taken on the amber hues of the fallen detritus, and frogs croaked throatily in the deep recesses of moss-covered cascades. A thick carpet of damp leaves covered the steep path and prevented mud from forming, making for a very pleasant climb. We passed many others taking advantage of  the perfect weather to relieve the stresses of the world we find ourselves in, accompanied by dogs from the tiniest Yorkie to the shaggiest German Shepherd, reveling in the opportunity to play in the water then charge about madly to dry off. A group of youngsters shed their shirts to stand under the waterfall. They said it was great but they were really just showing off for the girls! We've all been there, I'm sure.
With no wind, sunshine and an ascent of around 350m, we were soon perspiring and almost shed our shirts, too, but after a pleasant coffee break, it was time to tackle the other side of the ravine (perhaps a little more daunting than the previous stretch, and in deep shade for much of the way. At the top of the uphill, we were treated to another reason for our fondness for this strenuous hike - a panoramic view across the Cape Flats, Tygerberg and the rolling hills of the Cape winelands, with mountain ranges melting away in the distance. Oh, to be out in them thar hills again!
Just over 5km and 3.75 hours later, we were back at the cars, well exercised and ready for a lazy afternoon with a good book. No lunches yet, but that too shall come to pass.

Just for the view

The view says it all  Some hikes need to have a good reason to be undertaken, and Eagle's Nest (a not particularly awe-inspiring koppie casting a winter shadow over the crest of Constantia Nek, is just one of these. A very steep initial climb from the car park (packed with cars bearing eager hikers who probably seldom exercised before lockdown and have now discovered what really matters in life) takes you up to the top of the forest line on the jeep track that meanders towards Kirstenbosch. Being not quite up to our usual standards of fitness yet, a few breathers were taken on this short stretch, ostensibly to allow the stragglers to catch up - that's our excuse and we're sticking to it.
A little chill in the air brought over the nek with the northwester soon eased as we turned sharply up the track which leads to the dams on top of Table Mountain, with Eagle's Nest being the 'nursery slopes' as it were. We alternated between warm sunshine and damp overhangs as we wound our way along, taking in the views every so often and catching our breath. Groups of early risers (or perhaps just fast walkers) were already on their way down from the dams, a considerable way away, but I didn't feel any regret that I wasn't headed that way. It's more of a six hour hike and a little out of my range right now.
And then came the reason why my heart always sinks when we do this hike. An extended scramble from foothold to foothold and sometimes a helping hand from a branch up to the beacon - in the damp shade the sand from previous boots clings to the rocks, ready to unsteady the unwary and remind me that what goes up must come down. At times you need all fours to scale a large boulder and coming down on the seat of your pants carries the danger of a split! I always mean to take a little hand broom on winter hikes for the purpose of sweeping the slippery sand away, but so far I have never remembered. Although I don't find it at all strenuous to do these steep ascents, and in fact prefer them to a level track, there is always the possibility of a twisted ankle or sideways slip into the undergrowth. Not everyone made it to the top, preferring to warm themselves like dassies in the sun while enjoying coffee and a rusk.
The rest of us soldiered on to our reward - expansive views in all directions, cloud formations constantly rearranging themselves over the peaks, and the satisfaction of having conquered this special little outcrop standing sentinel between the valleys.

Last gasp of Autumn

Tomorrow at 23h43 (Cape Town) is the Winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and officially ushering in the winter season in the southern hemisphere. Autumn has been late this year, with some leaves still clinging to their twigs as if in competition to see which will be the last to fall. A fresh north-easterly blowing from inland helped a few to spiral down and settle onto the forest floor, to become part of the cycle of life and nurture new growth in Spring. A generous downpour from last week's cold front has soaked the ground, with mushrooms burgeoning through the humus between the roots - much discussion about edibility, but no takers.
After a coolish start to the walk through the Spaanschemat River trail in Constantia, the sun and wind combined to make us shed our layers of clothing by the time we got to the mandala. This thoughtfully set out fynbos garden with its information boards is well worth a visit (each season has its own blooms) and is very well tended, as is the entire trail, making for the ideal walking space for those who don't want to head for the mountains but still enjoy the beauty the valley has to offer.
I have always preferred a leafless tree as it enables me to appreciate the intricate branchwork that typifies each species. A towering stone pine can be admired for its trunk covered in an endless mosaic of red, brown and grey 'tiles', and the cork oaks just beg to be stroked for their knobbly texture, but the deciduous trees that shade us in summer are more beauteous when bare.
The final stretch of the walk took us through the vineyards of Groot Constantia, now stripped of their 2020 vintage - the results may become collector's items simply because of their association with the year! Tiny bunches of shrivelled shiraz clung unwanted to the vines, to be clipped in pruning season and added to the mulch for next season, and the last gasp of autumn fluttered red and gold under the midday sun.

 

 

 

Mountain magic

June is the month when we have magical days of windless sunshine here in the Cape (interspersed with severe north-west gales and slashing rain!) and it is possible to forget that winter is upon us. Yesterday was just such a day, with a gentle breeze wafting across the Peninsula from the south east, bringing a clarity of light that enabled us to see the furthest mountains to the north and east, in descending shades of blue that gave us perspective on the distance. The track from the parking area at the top of Black Hill going over to Glencairn takes you past fantastically weathered outcrops of sandstone, stimulating the imagination to identify all sorts of animals in various poses, or simply allowing us to wonder at the power of wind and water to shape a landscape over millenia. Puddles remained after the weekend's substantial rain and the dogs took full advantage of the chance to do what dogs do in water - accumulating mud, mud, glorious mud!
An easy hike took us over the plateau that snakes down the Peninsula, where thickets of shiny pale pink sugarbushes are blooming in profusion, and the low fynbos covers every inch of the ground as it recovers from wildfires. In the distance, the low peak of Rooikrantz loomed, not a difficult climb but still needing a few breathing breaks along the way, as three months of lockdown did nothing for our fitness levels. The opportunity for longed-for conversation was fully taken advantage of and confirmed that social media is no substitute for reality.
As we perched on our rocks overlooking the valley, drinking coffee and munching, we could admire the now finished roadworks at Sun Valley. The vast boulevards and intersections reminded me of the roads in the Northern Suburbs, where town planning allowed for good infrastructure in the latter part of the 20th century, while here in the Southern Suburbs we had to make do with the inheritance of a single road winding around the coast since the first tracks were established between Cape Town and Simon's Town. The frustrating traffic problems of the area are hopefully solved for the foreseeable future.
The snow on the other side of False Bay has melted and rushed down the watercourses into the catchment dams of the Western Cape, fulfilling our hopes for a good rainy season to replenish the water supply. The recent drought is still hovering in the background to remind us that nothing in life is certain, and every winter's storm should be considered a blessing.
Of course now we are anxiously looking at the weather forecast in the hopes that it won't rain on hiking days!

 

Calm before the storm

A good old-fashioned winter storm is due to hit the Cape of Storms tonight. Today was the calm before the storm, and a light easterly breeze allowed the forerunner of darkly thunderous cloud to drift overhead as we took a well spread out walk up to the blockhouse on top of Slangkop. Although only a few drops fell on us, out to sea the sun illuminated the odd shower through a brilliant arc of rainbow just to let us know what was coming. The humidity was high and by the time we reached the summit, jackets were shed and brows were wiped. Below us was a vista of contrasting dark and light cast by the intermittent sunshine, and on the other side of the bay, the mountain slopes were bathed in gold and green hues. Reflections on the mirror-smooth sea made it hard to believe that just a few days ago the reefs were pounded by massive breakers as far as the eye could see, or that we were expecting a storm later.

Ships slid smoothly by, seeking the safety of a harbour or at least to round the Cape before the swells came in. A coastline littered with more than 2000 shipwrecks over the centuries is testimony to the perils of these seas, and many a modern-day ship has ground ashore before our eyes. There will be more.

A dassie (rock hyrax) was heard and seen by some on the climb up, something I have not seen here for decades, and a reminder that lockdown has seen the return of wildlife in an unprecedented way, with caracals and otters, not to mention baboons, in seeming abundance. Domestic pets are being kept in at night whenever possible.

A few bright ericas were found among the greenery - the north-facing slopes favoured for warmth and sunshine - but otherwise looking forward to spring and once again roaming freely in the fynbos.

A little less of lockdown

It's all about the birds and the bees right now!
Now that I have your attention...
Literally, the birds and the bees. Over the last few weeks, we have seen a proliferation of birdlife around the two sugar water bottles, with avian visitors never seen before in the garden. Among the most exciting have been the Cape Batis which came inside for a visit and had to be caught and released before the cats pounced, the Sombre Greenbul (coming to a particular bush that has grown from a bird dropping and yet to be identified), a flock of mousebirds, an Amethyst sunbird (twice but very skittish and not easy to capture on camera) and a host of Malachite sunbirds in various stages of maturity, the ultimate being the brilliantly iridescent male putting on his spectacular courtship display. Of note have been a pair of Karoo prinias who seem keen to stay in the area. Among this visual overload was a constant flitting to and fro of the usual suspects - Cape white eyes, weavers, grey-headed and Cape sparrows, the irrepressibly cheerful Southern double-collared sunbirds, robins, Southern boubous, Common fiscal and currently a pair of Fiscal flycatchers. Let me not forget the raptors - Black sparrowhawks and a rock kestrel - and those pesky Pied crows ever on the lookout for a nestling to snatch from a treetop. Not all of these birds are interested in the sugar feeder, and in particular the Black sparrowhawks are attracted by the large flock of Speckled pigeons we feed, and the sunbirds are very happy to be sipping at the lips of the aloes at present.
And BAM!!! A bee arrived. Took one sip and called the swarm. Within hours every bird had disappeared, while the number of bees soared to levels never seen before. Great to know they are still around, but my interest lies in the birdlife. After a mass drowning in one bottle, we put a sponge in the feeder so that the bees couldn't get into the bottle, which resulted in a frenzy of apian (?) activity rather than avian, but still the birds didn't return. The feeders have been packed away and all is quiet in the garden. It will have to be the suet balls again to entice the seed eaters and omnivores, and the birds with a sweet tooth will have to go back to nature, hopefully nearby.

Living with Lockdown - 30

How marvellous to wander freely in the mountains again! The hills were alive with hikers, joggers, dogs, cyclists and others who had been longing for wide open spaces since 27 March. We ambled along the jeep track in a disorganised fashion - no organised groups allowed - and kept a general distance of one arm and a hiking pole's length for social distancing. Obligatory masks made for questionable identification, as those who normally wear glasses had discarded them due to misting up and not being able to see. Hairstyles among the women were more casual (i.e. hadn't seen a haircut in a while) and growing old gracefully was the order of the day.
The weather was balmy and beautiful, the scenery sublime, and the moderate uphills and downhills made for a perfect reintroduction to the healthy outdoors. For some, two hours was enough, and others carried on at a faster pace for more exercise once the much-enjoyed coffee and cake break was over and it was time to retrace our steps. It was heartening to pass so many familiar albeit masked faces along the way, and to know that a small semblance of normality has returned to bring pleasure into our lives.
The birds were remarkably absent, perhaps because of the sudden re-invasion of their private paradise, and one can only hope that they come back out of hiding soon. There were no flowers to speak of, being very much the beginning of winter, but spring is never far away in the Cape, where winters can be very short, and the thought of the slopes bursting into life with our magnificent fynbos in just a few months is almost as exciting as being up there again!

Living with Lockdown - 29

Life under lockdown is now at a level where it is pretty much the same as my life without lockdown. I've never been much of a social animal and so have not missed any dinner parties, weekends away, coffee mornings and such. I travel alone and have continued to do so on the odd occasion that I have been shopping - seeking the smallest shopping centres and avoiding big supermarkets. Driving is a bit of a novelty again, having to concentrate on other drivers and negotiating the huge new intersection at Sun Valley that has finally been completed. We still have to have normal traffic to test its efficacy, but signs are that it is going to be a huge success and a fantastic job was done by the contractors under very difficult circumstances.
Having had life return to relative normality, I now have to discipline myself into a routine of working on my novel/s, trying to paint decent paintings and planning a new project. The most exciting thing on the horizon is the imminent return to the mountains this Friday. The absence of hiking has taken its toll on many people, not least of all me, as it is one of the most effective antidotes to stress, depression and general anxiety, and it will be no surprise to see more hikers than usual in the times ahead. Nature is the cure and we had better make sure we look after it.
Here in Kommetjie the sea is a constant source of restoration of the soul, and yesterday was particularly so, with massive swells sweeping up from the South Atlantic and breaking along the shore in fantastic displays of power. Colours were of deep bottle green as each crest collapsed into a froth of spume and foam, spreading rapidly across the rocky ledges below the lighthouse and receding just as quickly in an almost tsunami-like ebbing before the next onslaught.
Banks of brilliant red and orange aloes line the path along the bay, and are currently reaching their peak of winter beauty. Myriad sunbirds are visiting them, creating a buzz of activity to rival the sugar water bottles now in almost every garden. Hopefully they will prefer the natural nectar!