5. Bushman's River Mouth to Woody Cape

5. Bushmans River Mouth to Woody Cape

 

17 November 2009 - 18 November 2009

 

how is one found

unless one is first lost

Time had passed. Nearly a whole decade. Time brings perspective and perspective brings clarity. My boys were now much bigger, and I was still meandering through life as best as I could manage. Love came back to me in the form of Cathy - a childhood sweetheart from Umtata. We had been living together in Durban for a time, before making our way back to the Eastern Cape - the place where my heart had always felt was home.

 

Cathy was a very talented golfer, and while she was up in Johannesburg for the National Championships at Sun City after winning the Sanlam Regional Golf Championships, I decided to say yes to my own adventure—a hike from Bushman's River Mouth all the way along the coastline back to Port Elizabeth. It was a plan born of both opportunity and wanderlust, and with tides carefully checked, I packed my oversized rucksack. It was so full I had to tie my sleeping bag and my late dad’s war-era multi-use ground sail to the outside.

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Darryl was working at Addo Elephant National Park at the time, and I picked up a visiting friend of his in my red Opel Monza on my way to Bushman's River. The friend was to drop me off and then drive the car back to Addo. We arrived at the parking area around 10:30 a.m. and he snapped a photo of me and my rucksack before I set off.

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I followed the river to the beach and was greeted by an endless stretch of pristine, empty shoreline ahead. Excited and fit, I set a steady pace along the water’s edge, pausing only once to take my first photo of the day, unaware of what lay ahead.

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As the landscape shifted, I came upon smaller beaches, rocky outcrops, and formations reminiscent of Hole in the Wall on the Transkei coastline. Without GPS, every step of this hike was a venture into the unknown - I had no idea of the distance or the terrain that awaited me.

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By midday, I reached Diaz Cross, climbed the monument, and rested briefly before continuing toward Boknes. I had brought two empty two-liter bottles to fill with water there, but a local convinced me to wait until Cannon Rocks, saying it wasn’t far and I didn’t need to carry the extra weight. However, the beach soon gave way to a rocky terrain of loose boulders that slowed my progress. The name “Cannon Rocks” now made perfect sense. Houses remained visible in the distance, but the difficulty of navigating the rocks kept me from refilling my bottles. Thirsty and determined, I pushed on. 

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At one point, I encountered a local woman walking her dog. She asked where I planned to overnight, and when I mentioned the Woody Cape hut, she warned me it was still very far. It was nearly 5 pm, and I was back on a stretch of sand with the sun setting fast.

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With exhaustion setting in, I stumbled upon a small double-track path leading to what appeared to be a waterworks facility: three cement reservoirs hidden among the dunes. Hungry, I ate a tin of tuna with some Provita biscuits that could no longer be ignored. The dams were sealed, with no accessible water, and the surrounding area offered no wood for a fire. As the wind picked up, I sought shelter in the dunes, far above the high-water mark. Using my dad’s ground sail as cover over my sleeping bag, I lay down for the night. The wind whipped sand across my face, and although the night wasn’t cold, I woke frequently.

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Day 2: A Lesson in Humility

18 November 2009

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At first light, I packed up, leaving behind the two (still empty) bottles to make space in my rucksack. The sand stretched endlessly ahead, and the rising sun painted the sky in stunning colors. I paused to photograph my footprints in the foreground, framed by the misty dunes where I had spent the night. It was a moment of reflection—a sense of isolation and insignificance in the vastness of nature. That photo, and the thought of the Irish Prayer, stayed with me; it remains my desktop wallpaper to this day.

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The cool morning allowed for quick progress, but the rising sun soon brought intense heat and humidity. I realized, too late, the folly of discarding my water bottles—I was already drinking more than I anticipated. Looking at the towering dunes to my right, I knew farmlands lay beyond, but scaling the 10-story-high ridges would sap my energy with no guarantee of finding help.

As panic set in, I spotted a ladder in the distance, tucked between the dunes. Abandoning my rucksack on the beach, I climbed up and discovered a rope to help pull myself up the steep sand. The ladder led to an empty campsite where I found a water tank.

 

Grateful beyond words, I drank deeply, rested, and decided to retrieve my rucksack and refill all my bottles.

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That decision saved me.

 

Woody Cape was still 12 blistering kilometers away, and the combination of soft sand and heat sapped my strength steadily as I tried to make steady progress.

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Reaching Woody Cape

At mid-morning, the tide forced me into shallow rock pools along the base of a steep cliff. Another rope ladder appeared, leading up to a footpath that wound high above the sea. The views were breathtaking—dolphins danced in the waves, and Bird Island loomed in the distance.

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Finally, hidden among the bushes, I spotted Woody Cape Hut. Exhausted, I sat on the wooden deck and prepared a meal of 2-minute noodles. As I rested, a Parks Board ranger and three staff members arrived to clean the hut for weekend hikers.

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The ranger asked for my permit. Of course, I hadn’t thought about getting one. He sternly informed me that continuing toward PE would mean navigating even harsher dune fields. Without a permit, I had no choice but to leave with the group.

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A Bumpy Ride to Safety

The ranger drove us through the dune fields in a 4x4. Riding in the back of the vehicle, I struggled to keep my balance as we descended steep dunes and climbed the next. At one point, the vehicle hit a sandbank, and I slammed into the roll bar, cracking two ribs.

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At some point, we reached the Sanparks office, where the ranger waived my permit fee but told me that I had to move on. From there, I hitched a ride to Alexandria and called Darryl to pick me up. Covered in dirt and sweat, I waited at a petrol station, asking passing trucks for a ride, but no one stopped.

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Darryl was there by 6pm and we drove back to Addo to collect my car. I returned to PE, where a long shower and my bed awaited. The next day, a doctor confirmed that indeed my ribs had been cracked.

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Cath, blissfully unaware of my ordeal, returned from Sun City that afternoon. I struggled to lift her golf bags into the car, but we were all safely reunited. My dream of completing the hike to PE would have to wait for another day. That day would not have to wait too long, but that is a long story which I will be sure to tell soon. That was an epic adventure, and one of only a handful of times when a safe return was not guaranteed. But I was leaving footprints. I was getting this done. Slowly. I had yet to make it to any part of the Transkei - but soon there would be footprints even there...

 

Reflections

As I think back on that journey, I’m reminded of an Irish prayer:

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May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
The rain fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

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For me, that journey was also a lesson in humility, courage, and God’s grace:

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May the road rise up to meet you.
May the beauty around feed your soul.
And may you experience the mercy and grace of God
When He carries you in the palm of His hand.