Gratitude isn’t only the name of the last hill.

It’s the feeling you carry home.

One of the things I love about hiking is that no two people walk away with exactly the same experience. My friend and fellow hiker, Faiza, captured our adventure beautifully in her own words. With her permission, I’m delighted to share her reflections here:

Where Mountains Borrow Their Strength

There are places that humble you before you have taken the first step.

The Baviaanskloof is one of them.

Its mountains do not ask who you are. They are unmoved by credentials, age or ambition. They simply stand—vast, weathered and magnificent—waiting to discover what you will become by walking through them.

I arrived with a torn ankle ligament and more determination than good sense.

Every ascent became a negotiation.

Every descent, an act of faith.

Every river crossing asked the same quiet question: Will you trust the next step?

I soon learnt that courage is rarely a solitary act.

It is found in the people who quietly shorten the distance between where you are and where you long to be.

Annie and Butch met us like sunrise—full of movement, possibility and an eagerness that reminds us why we set out in the first place. They embraced each kilometre with open hearts, as though adventure itself had been waiting for them.

Rashaad, the legendary Snack-man, understood the sacred ministry of knowing exactly when someone needed a handful of trail mix, a word of encouragement or simply another round of Chinese dominoes. Some people steady a journey without ever asking for recognition. He was one of them.

Then there was Ellen. Every now and then you meet someone whose vocation spills naturally into every conversation.

Fellow teacher. Fellow believer in education as an act of justice and hope. She carried optimism as lightly as her backpack, and her smile seemed to rise effortlessly above the valleys, warming places untouched by the winter sun.

Old friendships have their own language.

Ganief spoke it fluently.

Doctor by profession, guide by instinct, storyteller by gift. With unhurried patience he coaxed Soraya and me over mountain passes, through narrow canyons and across rivers whose slippery stones seemed determined to test every weakened ankle.

Between careful instructions came stories gathered from years of travel—each one another reminder that the richest maps are written in people rather than places.

Always ahead of him walked Maimoena.

Quiet. Regal.

There is something almost lyrical about the way she moves across unforgiving ground. While the rest of us negotiated rocks, she seemed simply to belong among them, as though grace itself had laced up (her) hiking boots.

Soraya—beloved Pacha Mamma—shared more than a room. She shared the absurdity of shivering through nights that hovered around two degrees, the theatrical complaints, the uncontrollable laughter and those conversations that only happen when exhaustion has stripped away every unnecessary layer of oneself. Somehow the cold became one of our warmest memories.

When my ankle threatened mutiny, Maan quietly reached into his seemingly endless reserve of practical wisdom.

There is something profoundly comforting about people who never waste time admiring a problem.

They simply solve it.

A generous application of duct tape transformed ordinary hiking boots into what I proudly christened my “bionic feet.” Every step thereafter carried not only my weight, but also the ingenuity of someone who believes that almost anything can be fixed with enough patience—and enough tape.

Though Suad’s feet only travelled 500m of the trail, she somehow walked every kilometre with us.

An injured knee kept her from joining but her determined spirit refused to stay behind. While we chased summits, she lovingly transformed our chalets into welcoming sanctuaries. With characteristic precision—and just enough delightful fussiness to make us smile—she ensured that every return felt like coming home. Even absence can be an act of presence.

And then there was Dara.

Before the first trail and after the last, he carried us safely over hundreds of kilometres of road.

On the mountain he danced over rocks with the confidence of a klipspringer, every story delivered with impeccable timing and rewarded by laughter ricocheting off canyon walls.

Yet my favourite Dara moments arrived in silence.

At day’s end, when weary legs finally surrendered, he gathered us in prayer. No spectacle. No performance. Just gratitude rising quietly into the evening air while the mountains listened.

Those moments reminded me that wilderness has always been one of God’s oldest classrooms.

And finally…

Gabiba.

Some people organise logistics.

Gabiba creates ecosystems.

Long before anyone realised something would be needed, she had anticipated it. Meals appeared that belonged more naturally in distant cities than in remote mountain valleys—each one a celebration of flavours gathered from around the world.

She carried encyclopaedic knowledge of hiking, relentless energy and unwavering principles with such effortless competence that the impossible simply became another item quietly ticked off her list.

Powerhouses are often loud.

She needed no announcement.

Excellence spoke fluently enough.

Looking back now, I find that memory has blurred the gradients of the climbs.

The rivers no longer seem quite so cold.

The backpacks somehow lighter.

Even the pain has softened around the edges.

But the people…

The people remain brilliantly clear.

Hands reaching backwards without being asked.

Stories shared between breaths.

Laughter tumbling down valleys.

Prayer settling over tired shoulders.

Duct tape becoming hope.

Meals becoming hospitality.

Companionship becoming strength.

I thought I had gone to conquer a kloof.

Instead, the mountain quietly dismantled the illusion that strength belongs to individuals.

It belongs to communities.

To ordinary people who choose, over and over again, to walk at the pace of the slowest among them.

If the Baviaanskloof taught me anything, it is this:

Mountains are never climbed by legs alone.

They are climbed by generosity.

By patience.

By shared burdens.

By laughter that outlives discomfort.

By faith that steadies uncertain feet.

And by people whose kindness becomes the path beneath someone else’s boots.

To each of you—thank you.

For every careful step.

For every waiting pause.

For every story, every prayer, every meal, every joke, every helping hand. Long after the ache in my ankle has faded, long after the dust has been washed from our boots, it will not be the mountains that I remember first.

It will be the remarkable souls who taught me that the highest peaks are not found in landscapes.

They are found in people.

And I count myself immeasurably blessed to have walked among them.