Bakkies, Blisters & Boesmans
Gifberg Easter Hike
It started, as all good adventures do, with a sense of misdirection that wasn’t misdirection at all.
We left Cape Town early on Friday, 18 April, Good Friday, spirits high and boots still clean.
After a stop in Vredendal for Jumuah prayers, we set off again, winding our way toward Gifberg Holiday Farm.
A turn here, a detour there — what some might call getting lost, we rebranded as taking the scenic route: “Lig My Koek,” a name that raised eyebrows and laughter in equal measure.
Afrikaans, layered and mischievous, set the tone for a weekend of inside jokes and unexpected turns — both literal and metaphorical.
We arrived at the farm around 3 PM, dust-covered and disoriented but delighted.
The red rock walls of the plateau loomed around us, ancient and silent. There was still time to explore before nightfall.
Cast Of Crazies
Day 1 – Spoelgat Roete - The Prologue
After a late lunch, unpacking and claiming beds, we hit the Spoelgat trail. The 2-hour route was done in under an hour.
We explored the magnificent rock formations – ancient potholes created over millennia by the swirling action of river water and sediment – and wandered through a cave with Bushman rock art.
A sacred hush fell over us inside the cave, broken only by camera clicks and quiet murmurs of awe…
And then we had to get out of those caves!
It felt… too easy. Sandals. No water. No real gear. The markers said 2 hours, but we laughed that off. If this was hiking at Gifberg, we were more than ready.
We were not.
In the meantime, we had a beautiful night sky to lull us into a false sense of security.
Day 2 – The Epic: Boesmans Roete
We started at first light to take advantage of the cool air. The first 5km along the escarpment were gorgeous – leisurely walking, wide views, caves filled with ochre Bushman paintings.
Everyone was buzzing, taking photos, laughing, marvelling how good we were at this.
White painted footprints marked the route. Easy.
At 5km, we reached the famed Fertility Cave.
A few had planned to turn back here, but it was all too pleasant to stop.
Except for the boys, we all descended into the ravine, laughing, joking, helping one another down the steep rocks. It took nearly 45 minutes to get everyone into the canyon.
And that’s when things began to shift.
We hit a rope section—wet, slippery rock, and a sharp descent that made things tricky. We were still in good spirits, but the canyon floor changed everything. By 11 am the heat was heating.
The path became uneven. The trail was overgrown. We took an hour to cover one kilometre.
Once in the canyon, Bashe-No-Soles’ boots gave up. The soles came off. We had no duct tape, so we tied them together with shoelaces and she pulled her socks over the boots to keep the sole and upper from separating.
It kind of worked. Kind of.
The group began splitting into pace groups, stopping often to regroup.
Some pushed ahead, some slowed down due to exhaustion, dehydration, beaten down by a relentless sun. The trail was losing its clarity.
We lost a marker and had to backtrack.
Luckily Her Sereness found the marker we had missed. At the 6km mark, I would later find, according to the map.
We crossed to the other side of the canyon and followed a contour path parallel to the river. But we had lost a lot of time, even with lunch.
At 3pm we finally reached the 10km mark: the river. Only halfway.
We took a long break—ate, drank, rested in the shade. But at 4pm we had to move. The trail looped along the river and then climbed again.
The terrain shifted from canyon floor to mountainside. There were boulders, sharp ridges, dry fynbos, and no mercy. Daylight was dying.
Bashe-No-Soles and I pushed ahead. The group behind us was fading. We debated turning around to join them but decided to push through while we could still see the markers and get help for the people struggling in the back.
This hike was a lot tougher than I anticipated. At least our Drakensberg hike, at altitude, had conditioned us to push on.
At 6:30 pm, as the sun set, Bashe and I reached the 15km mark. After 2.5 hours we managed to cover just 5 soul crushing kilometres.
And just over the ridge we found Jansu, the farm manager waiting.
Apparently, people get caught on this mountain in the dark all the time. In fact, that same night, there was another group out on the trail in the dark. We didn’t feel so bad then.
We told Jansu about the others—still out there, heat-struck and in fading light. Jansu trotted down the path in shorts and flip-flops to check on them.
Relieved, we walked the last 5km to the farm. In the dark. Only to get ourselves lost on the property itself. Classic.
Eventually, we found the house, washed up, got dinner started, and waited.
30 mins later, Chucky, Die Jong, and half the group arrived: exhausted and relieved.
They had split from the backmarkers, meeting Jansu shortly before they got to the 15km mark and opted for the bakkie ride, leaving Jansu to retrieve the stragglers.
Knee-Sha had kept up with them and greeted me with a hug. Not bad for someone who had a complete knee replacement just 6 months ago! Legend.
Everyone was convinced the trail was longer than 20km.
According to Basheerah’s watch, she walked 42 000 steps. Who knows? You can’t measure a hike as the crow flies and we did get a bit lost both in the canyon and at the farm house. We need to go back if only just to measure that trail.
In Chucky’s group, once again, Her Sereness came to the rescue by spotting a faded footprint, which led them in the right direction to get off the mountain a mere hour after sunset.
We should call her ‘Eagle Eyes’ or ‘Foot Spotter’!
Much later, the rest of the group came home—falling out of the back of the bakkie — laughing, filthy, sunburned, and high on life. And did they have a story to tell.
The Night We Discovered Shirley Bassey & the Universe
By Shamila, Wasielah et al
By all accounts, our final group of 12 hikers were 3km from the 15 km mark when Jansu found them on the trail.
Jansu improvised an escape route to get them off the mountain quicker. They were exhausted.
Much body-slamming of bush and bouldering over rocks was done in the dark. Mostly by Ms Rambo. When night fell, she had conjoured a second wind. Nightwalker.
Once on the jeep track, however, they found themselves sort of stranded – miles from basecamp. No signal. No light. Just each other. And the stars.
For two hours they lay on the jeep track. Tired. Sore. Waiting for the bakkie.
Watching the sky reveal it’s treasures. Stars — like diamonds on black velvet, winked and nodded.
They laughed. They were exhausted. But they were so alive.
Then Signwriter broke out some Shirley Bassey tunes on his phone – who knew he was such a romantic?
Eventually, the bakkie arrived—Mrs Jansu to the rescue. They piled in. All 12 of them.
Elbows and knees everywhere. Someone said it felt like “carnival meets chaos at Ratanga.”
Every bump was a test of friendship. Every laugh a release.
By the time they rolled into basecamp, they were no longer a hiking group. They were veterans of the Boesmans War.
Would they do it again? Of course. (We are already planning a return trip.) Would they remember this one forever? Absolutely!
Unsung Heroes
They had staggered back into camp in stages, like survivors returning from different fronts of the same quiet war.
No one complained. There was only laughter, blisters, and salt-dried shirts.
That night everyone played their part. Some provided light—literally, with phone torches and headlamps. Others passed around their last drops of water.
Others kept their cool and walked and waited, alone, for the rest to catch up. While others provided comfort with their calm quiet presence.
Some took the lead bushwhacking through an overgrown escape route.
Ms Gadget had everyone convinced she had everything, including a satellite dish in her backpack.
Pacha Mama kept the spirits high with laughter.
And then there were the Shirley Bassey tunes!
And I’ll forever be annoyed I wasnt there for it!
Because those are the moments that make a hike unforgettable. The tales that will echo around future campfires. The stories that start with, “Remember that time on Gifberg…”
That night, as we shared stories and warm food, the theme became clear: the heroes were not the ones who went the furthest or fastest. The heroes were the ones who stayed, supported, laughed, carried, taped, redirected, and never left anyone behind.
Day 3 – The Return, the Gifboom Trail & the Great Waterfall Letdown
We woke on Easter Sunday feeling every kilometre in our bones. Slower, stiffer, but deeply grateful—for soft beds, hot water, and still-functional limbs.
After the Boesmans Odyssey of Day 2, the plan for Easter Sunday was simple: rest, recover, and take on something light. By now, the group was divided into two clear camps: The Limping Survivors and The Unreasonably Perky.
Somehow, some were still game for one more trail—because how could you come all the way to Gifberg and not do the Gifboom Trail?
We started the morning with a communal breakfast and a slow shuffle around the house, swapping battle stories from the day before. Bashe-No-Soles donned her back up shoes and the Gellow Girls donned their war paint: red lipstick.
We started the morning with a communal breakfast and a slow shuffle around the house, swapping battle stories from the day before. Bashe-No-Soles donned her back up shoes and the Gellow Girls donned their war paint: red lipstick.
The Gifboom Trail promised a short, scenic loop.
We headed out mid-morning under cooler skies and with fresher legs. The trail meandered across red-rock ridges, lush fynbos, and open views of the Olifants River Valley. It was relatively easy, filled with laughter and exaggerated retellings of who almost died (spoiler: no one) and how (spoiler: from laughter).
Compared to Boesmans Roete, the Gifboom Trail was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. A shorter loop, starting just behind the farm, with sandstone ridges, dry fynbos paths, and the kind of open sky that makes you feel small in the best way.
It was the hike we didn’t know we needed. The terrain was forgiving. The pace, conversational. Laughter returned. We took our time, noticed the flowers, pointed out shapes in rocks, and walked not to complete—but to decompress.
We shared stories from the day before—about heroic plakkie-wearing farm managers, boobies on bakkies, and how none of us would ever look at a “15 km” trail marker the same way again.
We were still sore, but the sting was softened by shared memory. It wasn’t just a hike anymore. It was a story. A badge.
But Day 3 wasn’t done yet.
There was still the much-anticipated waterfall on the Hamerkop Roete. According to the map, there was a waterfall, natural pools and cliffside cascades that sounded like the perfect reward for a weekend of type-2 fun.
In reality? The waterfalls were more of a concept.
After a warm walk down the dry overgrown river, we did find a series of trickling streams and rocky ledges where water had clearly flowed once. Maybe last week. Maybe last year. But on that day, we were greeted by… dry rock. Rock pools. Puddles.
But we still had the dogs for company. The Yorkie, Amy, who we clandestinely over-fed sausages, and the Yellow Lab, Lara, and the chocolate Lab, Pieter… those dogs stayed with us for the entirety of day 2 and we are so grateful to them! They kept Bashe and I on the trail for our entire journey and even showed us some short-cuts! Trust the dogs, people!
I would like to take a special moment to thank the dogs for their companionship on the trails and at basecamp. Dogs are people too!
Still, the area where the waterfall would be if there was water, was beautiful and tranquil, tucked between sheer cliffs and thick bush. We enjoyed the scramble, the quiet and the closeness.
There was no great waterfall to jump into. No Instagram-perfect moment. But it didn’t matter. Because we had been through it. Together.
As we hiked back to the farm, there was a noticeable shift—less chatter, more contented silence. Everyone knew the adventure was winding down.
Back at the house, we had one our final supper together followed by a game of Chinese dominoes, the details of which will never leave that kitchen table.
It was a perfect climax to the weekend.
We had bonded out here in the wild Cederberg mountains. No signal. No deadlines. Just people and stories and the kind of camaraderie you only earn after three days of hiking, heat, hijinks, and heroic efforts.
We left Gifberg the next morning with stiff legs, sunburned smiles, and enough memories to last until the next long weekend.
Takeaways, Trail Names & Campfire Tales
We came to Gifberg for the trails, but left with much more. Unity. Endurance. Ridiculous inside jokes. And new trail names:
Bashe-No-Soles, whose boots didn’t make it but whose spirit did.
Ms Gadget, rumoured to have a full rescue kit and a satellite dish in her backpack.
Curly Sue, who reminded us that sometimes the smartest move is to stand still.
Her Sereness, whose quiet marker-spotting saved us hours—because yes, heroes wear hijab.
Die Jong, who owes us a waterfall
Mr Shirley Bassey, who I would not trust anywhere near a set of dominoes
And everyone else—light bearers, joke tellers, water sharers, route-finders. We all showed up when it counted.
These are the stories that come out on future trails. Around campfires. In voice notes and photo memories.
“Remember that time on Gifberg…”
Would We Do It Again?
Definitely.
With better boots. More water bottles. A satellite dish or two. And perhaps, a little less cockiness at the start.
Oh yes, and the map! Don’t let me forget the map next time!
But every single step was worth it.
Thanks
For the generous use of their photos and videos:
Annalene
Basheerah
Ellen
Farzana
Meenakshi
Rashaad
Sharifa
Wasielah
For contributing to this blog with your stories, EVERYONE, especially Shamila, Wasielah & Butch
Stay tuned for Part 2: ‘Ultimate Guide to Hiking Gifberg’
Absolutely on point…relived all those moments. We’ll done everyone.
Well done everyone 👏