After negotiating the Cape Town Friday evening rush hour and easing onto the N7, the creeping dusk snuffed out the watery West Coast sunset and with it, the stresses of another working week. Two and a half hours later we turned off the tar road onto the dirt road leading to Algeria and Sand Rivier, our two bases for the weekend. The deeply rutted, roughly corrugated, wildly winding, twisting, suddenly dipping, steeply climbing road served as an early warning - for the uninitiated among us - of things to come the next day. Of the Fish Hoekers in the intrepid team of trail runners, Jean-Paul van Belle and his family took up residence at Algeria, while Martin Mills, D J Price, David Langhan and Sandi Meredith - the only woman brave enough to face the challenge - went on to Sand Rivier. We arrived at the humble but comfortable cottage, organised for us by Martin, to the welcome sight of red braai coals glowing in the dark and our new Celtics companions-in-suffering to be, Tony Haupt and Doug Hey already comfortably settled in, and their 4 X 4. Needless to say, it didn't take long to unpack the food and beers and join them around the fire, and before long stories of previous trail runs were being shared by the more experienced among us with much enthusiasm. Tales of the pain and grit of the Sky Run, Die Hell, the Rhodes Ultra, and the Cedarberg Traverse; and exchanges about blisters, sleeplessness, running shoes, backpacks and much more, enthralled and terrified the novices among us, and kept us out of bed for much longer than should have been the case. Eventually we got down to packing our backpacks with the necessary survival equipment. Watching what went into each person's pack went a long way towards proving that what works for one person definitely doesn't work for another. Doug's pack for instance, included everything from two litres of mineral replacement drink, dried fruit to a high fibre muesli sort of mix (which looked to me like horse food) and energy bars. Sandi's essentials included sweets, sweets, a banana, more sweets and energy bars - also of the sweet kind. Consistent in most packs though, were the items Martin wisely insisted on: emergency blanket, torch, matches/lighter, rain jacket, at least one other warm item of clothing, and two litres of water. This done, plans were made for a very early departure and it was off to bed for a few hours sleep. At this stage one of the more experienced trail runners among us, Tony, discovered that he had forgotten to bring his sleeping bag. So after (a little sheepishly) accepting our generously donated bedspreads, we were able to settle down for a few hours sleep. Three thirty in the morning - Tony hasn't had much sleep, but that doesn't matter anymore. Running clothes are pulled on and the early morning breakfast preparations are underway. Being a non-breakfast eater, I am amazed at what my companions are able to consume at this time of the night/morning. While I brood sleepily over my one and only cup of coffee, they consume at least several cups of coffee or tea, bananas, strange, heavy-on-the-tummy concoctions of wheatbix and hot milk, muesli and hot milk, and various other seemingly unpalatables. Needless to say, it was only after necessarily ponderous visits to the toilet that they could move on to last minute additions to the food supplies in their packs and final adjustments to shoulder and chest straps. Then into my trusty Toyota Venture and off to Algeria to pick up Jean-Paul (and family - Eva had agreed to bring the vehicle back to the finishing point at Sand Rivier). After another breakfast- eaters's pitstop, we were on our way again. We plunged our way through the early morning dark and the dense valley mists, along the roller coaster dirt road to Clanwilliam, and from there up and over Pakhuis Pas to the start. There was much nervous chatter as we piled out of the vehicle just after daybreak and a few more of the breakfast-eaters hurried to find convenient bushes nearby. Breathing steam and shivering in the crisp, fresh mountain coldness, we set off slowly. The clear, unpolluted early morning light on the spectacular, craggy, rugged, barren moon-rock landscape left the group quiet and reflective for the first five kilometres or so. The rocky outcrops seemed at times to resemble meteoric spears punched into the barren clay-sand mountains; at others they seemed like alien lookout posts with hundreds of diminutive guards peering down on us, silently watching every move - as though they were in some way guarding something sacred. To reinforce this sense, there were several rock-like flying saucers perched high above us, ready to take off at a moments notice. I never discovered what the others were thinking at this stage of the run, but the shared silence suggested a deep sense of awe on entering this beautiful alien environment; together with an equally strong sense of being an integral part of the landscape. Somehow we shared a deep sense of reverence and connectedness with the land and the sky and the universe that we did not need to express to each other. Once the sun had risen, we had thawed out, and the first awesome impressions had sunk in, the landscape had changed equally spectacularly - as it would many more times. At this stage we were running along a jeep track with incredible mountainscapes towering above us, piercing a clear blue sky. Below us the mountainsides fell away for what seemed like kilometers and then disappeared into a rich cotton wool carpet of clouds that looked like the cloud scenes you only see when flying at many thousands of metres in a jet aircraft. Again, we struggled to find words to express our reactions to what we saw - spectacular, amazing, incredible, fantastic, awesome - are some that I recall. We wound our way along the jeep track for about four kilometres, down and down and down, and then up what seemed like a very steep incline before finally winding our way down onto what is the easiest part of the route. About ten kilometres of flat, sandy plains covered in a variety of grasses and hardy shrubs and the occasional clump of trees. This section was - when we did the route in May - crisscrossed by crystal clear running streams marked out clearly for us by bullrush type reeds. The water was so clear that you could see individual grains of the crisp white sand at the bottom. It also tasted pure and clean like water should. After about five kilometres of meandering across the sandy, tufty plains, we passed the first of the landmark stone hiking huts on the route, and paused for the first of a few map reading activities. Without looking at the map, D J pointed out the route he thought we should take; but to make doubly sure Martin, Jean-Paul and Tony checked it out on the map and after some deliberation, suggested another option. We followed this for a while before we realised D J had been right and back-tracked to find his route which took us across the plain and straight towards what looked like very unforgiving mountains - which we were to discover later is exactly what they are. When we reached the foothills of these ominous mountains, we lost the track completely. There were plenty of well worn paths around, but none that headed where we had to go, so after consulting the map again, Tony, D J, Martin and Jean-Paul bounded off in different directions to see if they could locate a path heading in the right direction. Eventually it was Jean-Paul, who had disappeared around a rocky outcrop like a mountain goat, who found the path and led us across several hundred metres of virgin grassland to get to it. (How anyone could have been really sure that it was the right path was a mystery to me, but my business was to run, not to navigate so I was happy to trust my more experienced friends and get moving again) . Over the next kilometre or two the landscape transformed itself from grassy plains into what resembled a wild west cowboy movie set. It wouldn't have been surprising if John Wayne and posse had come galloping around one of the huge rocky outcrops! However, it was not long before the gradient became very much more extreme and we were winding our way up the first of (if my memory serves me well) five or six demanding ascents, each followed by equally demanding descents. In layman's terms, we went up and over five or six huge mountains! While I didn't pay much attention to altitude and so on, it doesn't take an expert map reader to know that each successive climb was definitely longer, steeper and harder than the last. Unfortunately for Doug, it was not to be a good day for him. Not long after we had begun the mountainous section he was struck by serious cramps which forced him to walk. At one point the cramps got so bad that we considered sending him off to Algeria via Crystal Pools as we thought he would be able to walk that distance before dark. However, he was determined to continue along the route, and as he pressed on, seemed to overcome the cramps gradually, and managed to negotiate the mountains and valleys successfully, just a little behind us. This very mountainous section of the route accounts for between twenty five and thirty kilometres of the total distance. It takes you through the heart of the Cedarberg, and brings you close to its soul. It is here that the humility and awe felt at the beginning of the route reemerges and intensifies. The vast vistas stretching as far as the eye can see; the huge rock formations; the intricate cracks, crevices and caves; the incredible rock balancing feats that defy gravity; the deep valleys stretching out and unfolding far below; the sparse and sacred clumps of Cedar trees nestling between protective rocks; gurgling mountain streams and the occasional distant hiss of small waterfalls; the silent circling of a Black Eagle against the bright blue of an empty, silent sky; the dense, unspoilt foliage along valley streams - exotic river reeds and ancient ferns growing strong and majestic; the deep hollow dripping from behind and beneath rocks that conjures up imaginations about this being a place where the heavens, the earth and the underworld meet. Although the running was tough, the paths sometimes hard to find, and sometimes hard to negotiate (especially going down some of the steeper slopes), these were the kinds of details which keep one's attention off the physical act of running. By the time we had reached the top of the very last real climb up Engelsman's Kloof, much of which is making your own path by rock hopping and then leaning into (what seems like a near vertical) mud and reed slope. Fortunately for us, we found what looked like boot-kicked steps in the slope (thanks to the previous hikers and trail runners who did this to our advantage) and managed to complete the last part of the climb with relative ease. Once we had regrouped at the top of Engelsman's Kloof, we were faced with the last stretch home - an apparently comfortable, mostly downhill jeep track of about sixteen kilometres (according to Jean-Paul and Martin that is). Since Doug was still suffering from cramps, but bravely soldiering on, we agreed that the first bunch to get back to Sand Rivier would pick up his 4X4 and come back as far as was possible along the track to pick him up. Till then, he was happy to fight on. Believing that we had only about 16 kilometres to run, Martin and I set off at a brisk pace and were really enjoying the opportunity to stretch out a bit, that was until we were sure we had done almost 20 kilometres and there was still no sign of the end! Either we were more tired than we thought, the views were less inspiring than before, or the distance from the top of the pass is definitely more than 16 kilometres! One way or the other, be warned, this part of the route is easy, but not as easy as it at first seems. Eventually we got there as the sun was setting. In terms of the view, our timing was perfect - as we turned the corner into the valley of the Red Gods, the fading sunlight fell on the rock formations and brought the gods to life. Precisely as we passed the finish and entered the Sand Rivier grounds, Eva arrived - perfect timing again. We were grateful for a lift up to the cottage where we downed about a litre of coke each, quickly changed and set of with Martin driving the 4X4. Retracing the last part of the route we met Jean-Paul as he was about to finish, and DJ, Sandi and Tony about 4 kilometres out. They were all tired but strong and pressed on to finish. It was only possible to drive up the track for about 7 or 8 km which we did before settling in for what we thought would be a long wait for Doug. Incredibly, we were only there for about 10 minutes when we spotted his torch bobbing down the road. It was now too dark for him to continue and he had suffered enough, so just 7 or 8 kilometres from the end he had to stop. On arriving back at the cottage, a fire was burning warmly and everyone had already settled into the beers. While there was much elation at memories of the magnificent route and at the achievement of having completed it, the business of braaing, drinking and socialising was somewhat subdued and it wasn't long before most headed for bed - exhausted, contented, a little closer to nature than the day before, and convinced that the Cedarberg Traverse is definitely more than 60 kilometres long!

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