Nightmare on Slanghoek     Failing daylight, a fading torch, and grim thoughts kept me company while navigating down the same precarious terrain that had just trapped my friend. Following the most direct route, I hopped, slid and tripped down the watercourse. Raindrops strobed persistently through my headlamp beam, reducing my view to a five-foot disco-ball. Most landmarks from our big carry up, a day and a half before, slipped past unnoticed. Yesterday seemed a world away. Mark Cowen, Stephen Simpson and I started our lug up to the Slanghoek amphitheatre at dawn, 27 December 2008, kitted out for three to four days. By midday we had forged through thick, mostly untouched vegetation, a series of sketchy scrambles, and had laboriously picked our way across the steeply angled scree floor of the amphitheatre. The narrow bowl of rock soared up more than 500 metres, completely shutting us off from the rest of the world. The first 100 metres were draped in lush luminous greenery. The next 400 metres of bright orange rock leaned ominously in towards the middle of the bowl. At the base of the wall our world was totally secluded, and intensely beautiful. Indeed a Private Universe. The way out for us now was straight up David and Hilton Davies' aptly named route, following an intimidating line for just over half a kilometre, up mostly good, hard, clean overhanging rock. By late afternoon we were onto the good rock, but had only gained a hundred metres; fighting the haul bags over every snagging centimetre of the first few pitches. Darkness was not far off and clouds started drifting down the face. As we debated whether or not to push on into the impending gloom, lightning illuminated the sudden appearance of much thicker cloud and heavy raindrops started pelting down. The decision was made. Steve started a hasty abseil back down to Mark, and I turned my headlamp off to keep an eye on the lightshow above. It was new moon, and with the cloud overhead we were soon shrouded in the thick stickiness of night. Steve's headlamp waltzed down, and below him the darkness was alight with a million green stars. The amphitheatre was filled with fireflies, some reaching us nearly two hundred metres up. Around midnight, tired and humbled, we had found a safe and relatively dry bivvy spot. By the time we calmed our nerves with some rooibos tea and filled our stomachs, the amphitheatre was so thickly filled with mist that the world stopped at the lip of our ledge. As we lay staring into nothingness, the cloud suddenly cleared, revealing a glowing quilt of stars hemmed by a big black rim of rock. Ensconced under that cosmic comforter, Mark sleepily cheered that we'd have another gap tomorrow. I groaned a groggy affirmative, but lay awake for an age, listening to the distant rumble of thunder and the much closer rumble of rockfall, willing the stars to stay. Dawn conducted a chorus of frogs from the great grey orchestra pit below, but it was a muted melody that reached us. More mist had settled through the night and the anemic morning light was dimming even further. Over a damp meal, copious cups of coffee and much contemplation, we decided not to test our precipitous luck any further. All that was left was to climb the next two pitches, collect the gear left up there, complete some long abseils, hike down the gorge for a few hours, and be on our merry way home. Mother Nature, however, thought this far too mundane. Very happy to be off the wall after a few wet abseils, we found ourselves back on semi-solid ground. Shouldering our heavy packs, we carefully made our way down the treacherously slippery scree. The amphitheatre pinched off at its lowest end, and with the amount of water flowing down the constricted gully, it was impossible to get lower without rigging another abseil. It was close to mid-afternoon, and we figured it would be safest to descend slowly and endure another bivvy rather than rush it. A little way on, approaching another tricky section, Steve stood peering over a dripping edge, trying to pick a path. Mark, joining him, stepped on a large, solid looking block wedged between two substantial boulders. The chock shot out of place. Mark's foot filled the gap, and one of the boulders ground down like a vault door, slamming a stony grip around its fleshy victim. He pitched forward, supported only by his... Read more>> IMAGE: Mark all trussed up and ready to be hoisted into the waiting chopper. Photo ANDREW LEWIS