Anniversaries, Altitude, and the Ukhahlamba Drakensberg Mountains
Some couples mark anniversaries with jewelry. We prefer altitude sickness. Kris and I don’t climb a mountain every year, but every five years we try to mark the milestone with a summit. Somewhere steep enough to make us question both our sanity and our vows. In between, if there are mountains around, we’ll find them.
The Drakensberg had been on our list since we landed in southern Africa, and this year (our 22nd!) it finally called us in. I set off with the boys, not knowing Kris would show up to keep the tradition alive.
Living in the southern hemisphere means my kids don’t get the long American summer. Instead, they have three term breaks scattered through the year - short, intense pauses that require creative planning if I don’t want them permanently attached to screens. Hiking the Drakensberg became the plan. What better way to channel two bundles of restless energy than into mountains?
Our base was Cathedral Peak Lodge, a little time capsule of South African holiday tradition. It has everything a nature-inclined family could want. Each morning, a dozen guided hikes were on offer, from gentle rambles to strenuous climbs. Afterward, a buffet so generous even teenagers had no reason to mutter their standard complaint: “Mooooooom, there’s no food!”
Behind it towered Cathedral Peak itself, part of the jagged range the Zulu called uKhahlamba, “Barrier of Spears”, and Dutch settlers named the Drakensberg, “Dragon’s Mountains.” Both names fit: imposing cliffs of basalt and sandstone, stretching for hundreds of miles, spearing into the sky.
Halfway through our stay, Kris appeared, after ten hours of dodging potholes, goats, chickens, and the occasional pedestrian on remote Botswana-to-South Africa roads.
The next morning, we joined a guided climb up Cathedral Peak. Officially, it’s a 22-kilometer trek open only to those 16 and older. I pretended not to notice that my companions were 11 and 14, promising they’d out-hike us all. Which, of course, they did.
The trail shot up steep and fast: loose rock, narrow ledges, sections better described as climbing than hiking. Emory bounded ahead, doubling back often just to ask who needed help carrying their pack. Ben found his rhythm in silence, head down, steady, one foot in front of the other.
Thirty minutes from the summit, snow and ice glazed the last stretch. The guide called it, and for once I felt relief instead of defeat. We had already gone far enough to know what we were made of.
Mountains have a way of stripping out the noise and leaving only what matters, whether that’s endurance, compromise, or just the relief of finally sitting down at the end of a long climb.
I think the boys are catching on.
Whether out of habit or their own budding taste for it, they seem to be learning the strange satisfaction of these outdoor, semi-masochistic pursuits we keep putting them through. The kind of struggle you sign up for on purpose, and then look back on with a mix of pride and “why did we do that again?” Maybe that’s the real tradition we’ve passed on. And honestly, I’ll take it.
