OTTER-LY EXTRAORDINARY
- O&A Team
- February 17, 2025
- Features
- Garden route, Hiking, Hiking in the Western Cape, Otter Trail, Tsitsikamma coast
- 0 Comments
You’ve heard about ‘a walk on the wild side’. It’s not just a song title.
Niki Moore follows in the footsteps of the otters
“Seriously? You mean, people actually PAY to suffer?” asked my urbanite friend Pinky.
“Um. Yes. I think that’s, um, sort of, um, the general idea,” I said.
We were talking about the Otter Trail, the famously rugged 45km hiking trail that skirts the Tsitsikamma coast of the Garden Route, which I had booked to do and was about to embark on. It’s regarded as the best multi-day hiking trail in the world.
Was it as tough as people said? And was it as exceptional? Myself and my companions were about to find out for ourselves.
First off, getting onto the Otter Trail is no picnic. It is almost impossible to book it directly. It is sold out a year in advance. The best bet is to haunt social media for available dates or cancellations. I had booked eleven months ahead and I kept wondering, as the date approached, if my companions would still be available. In the event, they were (Alex and Camilla), and we were joined by a group of seven friends from Cape Town with Ella and Nico from Rustenburg to make up the trail limit of 12.
Secondly, the trail itself might be inexpensive, but the costs mount up as you factor in travel, accommodation, gear, food, conservation fees and other random expenses. So, it is not a casual cheap holiday, it requires budgeting and a lot of planning.
And thirdly… is it as tough as they say? Make no mistake, the Otter Trail is not for sissies. It is not so much a hike as a benign obstacle and endurance course. It’s aggressively vertical with very little flat walking. The path is either disappearing into the rocks and forests above you or vanishing into rocks and scrub below you. Your thighs, ankles, knees and toes will very quickly realise that life has taken a turn for the hellacious.
Looking back, there are some things I would have done differently. So, before I begin our trail diary, allow me to let you learn from my mistakes:
Do your research. As a hiker, I was Harry-casual when it came to preparations as I had done so many trails before. This was dumb. The Otter Trail is not like other hikes. Read all the many instructive articles online; take note of advice from others; pay attention to the instructions from your hiking company; listen to the guides at SANParks. Fortunately, for me, nothing went wrong, but there were a few things that would have been a lot more comfortable if I had been better prepared.
Get fit. The Trail is described as ‘Moderately Challenging’ and it says that you need to be ‘Reasonably Fit’. Hah. Don’t believe that for a minute. This trail is going to test you to your limit. Even if you’re one of those irritating people who sprint up Table Mountain before breakfast, the Otter will find and punish bits of you that those activities had not even thought of.
Choose your companions wisely. The Otter Trail is not the place to test a new relationship. Family members or close friends are the best options. And don’t go on your own. 80% of the enjoyment of the trip is sharing it with someone close.
We took too much food. We planned to cater for three meals a day and trail snacks in between. We only used around two-thirds of our meals. Two-minute noodles, tinned tuna, instant cup-a-soup, cereal, coffee and milk powder, dried fruit, nuts and biltong – that’s what we ate. The fancy freeze-dried meals were given away.
A walking stick is crucial. Not even so much to help you walk, but to help you keep your balance on the rocks and roots. And, whatever you do, do not skimp on the footwear. You will thank me later.
The trail is exceptionally well marked and well maintained (big ups to SANParks rangers). It is almost impossible to get lost or to not complete the day’s hike in time. There are also a number of ‘Escape Routes’ out of the trail if you should get into trouble. Despite all the warnings, there is little real danger to life and limb, unless you are reckless or ill-prepared.
There is very limited cell phone reception. Sometimes there is signal at the huts, but don’t count on it. Also, on occasion we would reach the top of a hill and everyone’s phone would suddenly start bleating which meant that a stray signal had somehow found us for a minute or so.
One of the toughest aspects of the Trail is carrying everything with you. It does not have to be that way. A magic genie called Vernon offers a bag-carrying service which seasoned hikers call ‘slackpacking’ with a faintly derisive air, but that they secretly envy. After Day One, I was baying for Vernon’s services and quickly made a deal. We packed all our heavy stuff into one bag, which we left to be collected every day to be delivered to the next hut, while we were able to frolic with lighter day bags. It made all the difference. Vernon even has a shopping list and can deliver end-of-day fresh food and luxuries on request.
“I am just so grateful that someone had the vision to preserve this piece of land and ocean for future generations like us to appreciate.” Mike
OUR TRAIL DIARY
DAY 1
The legendary status of the Otter Trail means that you arrive at the Storm’s River starting point with a heightened sense of anticipation. But when we got there, almost gibbering with excitement, it all seemed so ordinary. We parked, checked in, paid our fees, filled in a lot of forms, signed many pieces of paper that promised our families that we had undertaken this trek of our own free will and nothing that happened to us was anyone’s fault but our own. We spent some time meeting our fellow traillists, making good natured small talk, going to the orientation hut to see a video and look at charts. Then there was nothing left to do but start walking.
The beginning of the trail is just a wooden gateway for the obligatory starting photo. Disappointingly, there was no flourish of trumpets, no crowd to wave us off…. just us and the trail leading off between the trees. So, feeling a bit like Gandalf with my wide-brimmed hat and walking staff, I set foot on the path and started to walk.
The first few kilometres were nothing special. A wide easy path through trees. We came out onto a sun-baked boulder-strewn beach with a wooden stepladder on the other side of the bay, with a waterfall and a rock pool. There were day trippers swimming in the water and sunning themselves on the rocks like seals. We stopped for lunch, had a swim, and then rather self-consciously picked up our packs and started to climb out of the bay. The signpost told the day-trippers that they were not allowed past this point…. because we were now on the Trail, for real. We were the Otter Traillists, the Chosen Ones.
Almost immediately, as if the trail had now abandoned all pretence, the walking became steep. We were scrambling up rocks, reaching over boulders and pulling ourselves up with tree branches. To be honest, the day sort of faded into a conversation between my brain and my limbs, that went something like this:
“OK, now lift the foot onto the rock. Higher. Wedge the toe. Pull up gracefully with the thigh.”
“Gracefully?”
“Ok. Forget gracefully. Just pull up.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Stop whining.”
“But it’s sore!”
“Heh heh. You think you’re sore now? Just wait!”
“How much more of this is there?”
“Look up there. See that? That’s where you’re going.”
“Whimper…”
“It was tougher than I expected. But you quickly forget the effort, and you only remember the amazing experience.” Nadia
And so it went on. Despite some training and general fitness, my legs were not used to the constant climbing and stretching and jumping. It required frequent stops to pretend to admire the flowers and birds while trying not to gasp embarrassingly for breath.
After a few hours of this the final sight of our overnight huts down below us – with a picturesque rocky little bay and tidal pools – was like a sip of water in the desert. We went down, dumped our packs, stripped off shoes and socks to release our poor bruised toes and went paddling. To our eternal surprise we had been walking for a mere 2 hours. It was only early afternoon!
We were drawn like magnets to the tidal pools and the first thing that struck me was the richness of the life in this little bay. The pools were heaving with tiny little fish, hundreds of them, all the colours of the rainbow. There were starfish and urchins and seaweed and crabs. I put my weary feet in the water (the surface sizzled when they went in) and within minutes they were being nibbled by dozens of fairy prawns and polka-dotted fish. A juvenile lionfish lurked coyly under some rocks. A shriek from Camilla nearby indicated that an octopus had stretched out a tentacle.
Eventually the incoming tide forced us to abandon the pools, and we set about gathering up kindling to make a fire from the wood under the huts. Our first dinner on the trail was a braai with Smash and a Heath Robinson-esque gravy made with instant soup, potato chips and dried onion flakes, with fresh mangoes for dessert. Tummies full, there was little left to do after desultory chat but unroll the sleeping bags and find out which one of our party was the snorer (the process was quick and unanimous).
DAY 2
Day 2 started as all the subsequent days would start: we re-kindled the fire in pre-dawn light, boiled water for coffee and condensed milk, and watched the strengthening light gild the rocks and the tips of the waves. The rush and roar of the water would be an ever-present companion for the entire hike, with the occasional WHOOMPH of a massive wave smashing against the cliffs and the pattering of the surf back into the sea.
It was roundabout noon, an hour or so after we had waded across the Kleinbos River, when we arrived at Blue Bay, signalled by glimpses of the turquoise-blue water through the trees. The bay is a halfmoon of perfect soft golden sand with a rind of impossibly blue waves and red cliffs on either side.
But just like paradise, there was a serpent lurking…. from Blue Bay the path that goes from the seaside to the top of the cliff is called the Crossroads of Hell. And they are not exaggerating. This was not hiking – this was a training course for Navy Seals.
After an hour of searing ankles, burning knees, flaming thighs and incandescent lungs, it was just as well we were streaming with enough sweat to put the fires out again. The reward of the view at the top, however, almost immediately finished the job of extinguishing the blaze. It was … just extraordinary.
Way down below, the black ribs of the mountain had been fashioned by the tireless waves into fantastical shapes. Fairy castles, submerged shipwrecks, the teeth of dragons and the spines of dinosaurs – the frills of the blue water eddied and surged around the dark rocks and dashed themselves against the cliffs, throwing up spray in a vain effort to reach us. It was bewildering and awe-inspiring, all at once.
After that climb, the descent should have been scary but by comparison it was a walk in the park, and so we reached the pebbly beach and wide bay of our camp.
The weather up till now had been fine and cool – ideal walking weather. But as we began to build the fire for our evening meal, the clouds pulled over and it started to rain. The wind was brisk from the sea and drove the fine rain inland. Like vampires we hunched over the little fire to keep it dry until our food was cooked. We gobbled our dinner quickly and – being too wet and cold to play card games or chat – we all climbed into our sleeping bags and were out like lights before 7 o’clock.
DAY 3
I woke up at 2am. I usually don’t sleep much anyway and the early night had already given me all the sleep I needed. I stepped outside. The wind was still brisk, but the rain had stopped and the clouds had cleared. There was no moon and the stars were bright. The ceaseless shush of the sea was the opposite of noise, it was the ever-present absence of silence.
I gathered up some of the wood I had stored under the hut and coaxed a little flame back to life. For a while I just stared into the flames, watched the florescence in the waves, gazed up at the stars, and thought of absolutely nothing. Then, as the first light made streaks in the sky, I boiled some water, made some coffee, and greeted the slow slide of warm sunlight across the rocks, the river, and the bay.
By the time we had breakfasted, packed our bags and set off up the mountain, my muscles were resigned to their fate. My legs put up only a limp and weak protest as we passed a lonely baboon honking a warning in a tree, and up the side of the hill to resume the trail.
I won’t stake my life on it, but I would bet that for most people Day 3 is the loveliest part of the trail. There are two river crossings, shallow enough to wade across, some lovely walks through forest, and a long amble along the top of the highest cliff on the trail. This is not to say it is any easier, it is just that by now your body is no longer squawking in panic at every steep hill, your pack is lighter because you have eaten half your food, you have developed your stride, your boots have decided that pinching you is no longer any fun, and now you can really concentrate on the beauty around you. And what beauty it is.
The landscape changes constantly as you walk. Sometimes, out in the open fynbos, a narrow little gulley winds between the shrubs, then turns inland and rises to where a large grey rock is beckoning, leaning like a gateway, and the path vanishes between two trees into a forest. Once inside the forest, the roots and branches take on the fantastical shapes of myth and legend. Another turn around a corner leads you across a busy little waterfall or along a tiny ringing stream. Over everything, like the soundtrack to the universe, is the invisible sound of the far-away surging surf.
Moss hangs down from the trees, a single bird pipes in the distance while something small scuttles through the undergrowth. Then the trees open up and ahead of you is a leaf-strewn path with a wide glide of wooden steps, as broad and sweeping as the grand staircase on the Titanic.
“If we did this again, we would pack differently. We would bring fewer clothes and at least three types of footwear – boots, trail sandals, and flip flops for the camps.” Josie
On the next turn, the stairs narrow into high uneven stone steps and madly short wooden risers, as twisted as an Escher fever dream. There is a rise, a few steep steps, and you burst out onto the clifftop, with gulls flying below you and nothing but sea and clouds until Antarctica.
It was early afternoon, as we approached the final stretch towards the huts, that we saw the otter. I had been coming down a rather steep part of the trail towards a small bay. Alex and Camilla were ahead. As I rounded a corner, I saw them crouched and looking down towards a tidal pool.
“Sh! Otter!” they hissed. I crept closer – and there he was. A portly gent, lying at ease in the water, snacking on an octopus. He was holding the unfortunate octopod in his paws, and he would tear off a strip, toss it in the air and catch it, munch away for a while, and then wash his face in the water. We watched entranced for almost half an hour as he made his leisurely meal. Then he smacked his lips, licked his fingers, swam unhurriedly to the side, and ambled unconcernedly away into the bush.
We reached our overnight hut without further incident, and perhaps this is good place to reflect that the overnight camps are comfortable but extremely primitive, with two six-sleeper bunk-bedded huts with their own fireplaces, no electricity, a single cold-water tap, a single flush toilet, and a small stack of firewood. The camps are always down on the shore in a cove, backed with soaring cliffs, where a river meets the ocean. Our hut for Day 3 was on a ruggedly dramatic rocky shore, looming like a ship’s prow above the sea. As before, we shrugged off our bags, wandered around the camp and relaxed for a while, putting up our feet and chatting. Then we got the fire ready for our now-usual meal of two-minute noodles and gravy, and rolled into the sleeping bag for a good night’s sleep.
DAY 4
On Day 4, by the time we started up the inevitable hill towards the inevitable cliff, the various parts of our bodies had stopped ringing in to complain. This was just as well, as Day 4 has the longest hike, the most demanding climbs, the loveliest scenery, and the notorious Blaauwkrans River crossing. Our guides had airily described these difficult sections of the hike as ‘technical’: I would have described them as ‘frankly terrifying’. In fact, during the more feverish parts of the hike I had amused myself by inventing names for some of the more memorable slopes, such as Good Grief Gully, The Impossible Climb, What the Hell Highway, Holy Moly Alley, Seriously?! Ravine, Yikes Canyon, Whoa There Road, Geez-Louise Terrace, Shocker Aisle, Far-fetched Freeway, and Dang It! Dragway.
So, for around 8 hours, we dawdled through forest and glen, cliff and cove, pausing for breath at the top of each stair, stopping for a body-part inventory at the bottom of each gorge, perching on rocks over tiny lakes and waterfalls to snack, exclaiming at the flowers, the views, the vistas that opened up and the beckoning lanes through the grey-stoned forests.
Then, the moment we had all been building up to… the dreaded Blaauwkrans Crossing. The other rivers on the trail could reliably be skipped across, but Blaauwkrans invariably means business.
This was the first time on the trail that we were all together, as usually we broke up into little groups on the paths. However, we had arrived at the edge of Blaauwkrans shortly after lunch, and low tide would only be at 4pm. So, we waited, sprawled out dozing on warm sunny rocks like a colony of dassies.
We had been sternly lectured that crossing anytime outside of low tide was a no-no. On the path down to the river was a signboard full of dire warnings and instructions, showing the maximum height at which the river could be crossed. What the signboard does not tell you, however, is that you are not strolling across on nicely packed sand. You are slipping and sliding over underwater boulders. Another fact they neglect to mention, is that the swell is likely to knock you off your feet, while friendly little waves keep slapping your face.
In true belts-and-braces fashion, we put our belongings into zip-lock packets, our rucksacks into plastic binbags, fastened ourselves to a rope, and began wading across. The first three-quarters were relatively civilised with only a fair amount of slipping and falling, but the last fifteen metres was a frantic swim, clinging to the rope, and swallowing a fair amount of Indian Ocean chardonnay. Cries of alarm, instruction, warning and chirpy encouragement resounded off the rocks.
On the other side, there was no sign of the expected refreshment table with bunting, paramedics, hot chocolate and a brass band. Instead, our group of drenched and dripping sloggers, wringing ourselves out and slowly re-assembling ourselves, were faced with a further two-hour hike commencing with an almost sheer climb up a very rough cliff face. There was only a rope, looking as if a firm tug would unravel the entire mountain.
So, in wet clothes, wet shoes and dripping backpacks, with sand crunching in our unmentionables at every step, we laboured up a series of vertical rocks and began the up-and-down march to our final night’s stop.
By the time we got there we were air-dried. Filthy, stiff with salt, coated in dust and mud, and starvingly hungry. It was almost dark. Not a good time to discover that the camp had no water. Not a drop. Not an atom of H20.
There would be no fabulous sunset cold-water showers, no necessary rinsing of clothes, no leisurely stew, no final after-dinner coffee. Some of the group had (extremely bravely) carried beer all the way, and offered to share, but we did not have the heart to diminish their store. After all, they would need the rest for breakfast.
Supper that night was a handful of salted peanuts and raisins. Alex and Camilla tried to boil two-minute noodles in sea water, but it tasted too awful to eat. In the event, it might have raised our dehydration to cardiac-arrest levels. We went to bed, tired, hungry, dirty, disappointed, and salty to the gills.
“Nothing can prepare you for this trail. You just have to experience it. It is like nothing else.” Ella
DAY 5
By the time Day 5 dawned, things had improved. An SOS had gone out and a guide had come down the precipitous set of wooden steps with a large bottle of water. Enough for morning coffee and to fill our water bottles for the day. Also, being our last day, our packs were the lightest they had ever been and after a while we no longer crackled when we walked – we had sailed beyond dirty and had reached the calm waters of terminal grime. We were also all by now suffering from acute cases of ABCA – Another Bloody Climb Ahead.
The first few hours of the trail were the expected ups and downs, the steps and gullies, the jumps and scrambles. We were walking through fynbos, full of ericas and proteas and restios, bristling with cheerful little rockjumpers and sugarbirds, on a wide white sandy trail for most of the way.
And then it ended.
It came as a surprise, seasoned with slight alarm. We had rounded a curve and saw, in front of us, a wide bay… with houses on the far side. We stopped. Was that… was that really… the end of the trail? We walked a little further as the bay was revealed and yes, it was Nature’s Valley….. and then, there, in front of us, with shocking suddenness, was the gate.
For a few seconds we stood, as reluctant to go forward as a little group of ducklings afraid to enter the water. We felt that the moment we set foot through the gate we would break the spell. We would be leaving the magic and returning to earth.
So… we had finished the Otter Trail. But the Otter Trail had not finished with us. From the gate there was still a very steep climb down to Nature’s Valley beach. This simply has to be one of the finest beaches in South Africa, if not the world. It is a gentle curve of soft sand, punctuated with lovely little outcrops of rock. The waves are a crystal clear blue-green, as warm and soft as a kiss.
And we were not the only ones to appreciate the solitude and beauty – as we emerged from the edge of the forest above the beach, be-booted, be-grimed and be-backpacked, we encountered two nudists as surprised as we were, and who hastened to preserve their modesty with a few well-placed boulders.
From here, we could have simply crossed the lagoon and walked up the main road to the Vasselot Reserve office to fill in the logbook, but the signage insisted on a detour through the forest. As it turned out, this adds another unnecessary three kilometres to the trail. And while it is an admittedly pretty flourish to end the walk, we were so tired and dirty and footsore that we could have encountered an entire troupe of otters in tutus performing on roller skates, and we would have just trudged past.
Hours later, after a guest-house shower and change of clothes, after a fine meal at the one and only restaurant in Nature’s Valley, after reconnecting with life online and assuring various friends and relatives we had survived, it was time to take stock.
It is difficult to explain exactly what it is that makes the Otter Trail so exceptional. It is not just one thing. It is everything together. The phrase ‘No Pain, No Gain’ could have been coined for the Trail. It is not just that the views are so spectacular and the landscape so pristine – it is because you have worked so hard, climbed so far, and endured so much pain to get to see it. You earn that beauty and drama and solitude, paid for in muscle and sweat.
A large part of the magic is also the incessant primeval roar of the sea, the turbulent surf that backdrops the whole five days, that after a while becomes a lullaby of creation. Each clifftop view is a parade of cliffs and bays and coves, stretching away into the distance on either side. And even on the clearest day, the restless tempestuousness of the sea – beating endlessly against the prow of the rocks – throws up so much spray that the view takes on the misty quality of a half-forgotten dream.
“I can’t wait to do this again!” Philip
I have been home now for several days, with the dust and mud and grime but a memory (while the smell of woodsmoke still lingers!), but I feel as if a part of me got left behind. All it takes is for me to close my eyes for a moment and I am back there: coming out of the forest to gaze over the cliffs; scenting the hot sun on dust and stone; picking my way up a rocky crevice, crossing a busy little waterfall; meandering through trees; wading through a stream, scrambling over a log.
Would I do it again? “Maybe”, says my brain. “Nooooooo!!!!!” says my legs.
Perhaps the Otter Trail is not something you do twice. But it is definitely something you have to do once.
