Africa . He'd wanted her forever. A slow, burning passion, for years unrequited… No longer. At last, the taste, the very smell of her is everywhere… A heady scent. One can feel extremely small in the African bush. Insignificant. The notion of large, nearby teeth brings humbling perspective.

Here in the highlands, the silence roars. Sheer, rocky precipice loom imposingly above as Nyangani, the highest peak, glares down in stony silence. An eerie, malevolent presence. Her shrouded, upper reaches a worthy mystery. Hidden, by a sinister, creeping mist… Locals don't visit this place. Occasional tourists disregard the warnings and unwisely attempt the climb. Some return. Others are not so fortunate. The mountain claims them and hides them well. No trace. No clue. No picnic.

The surrounding hills beckon warmly. Welcoming African trees adorn a curvaceous terrain, spiced with exquisite pockets of delicate rainforest in bursts of dynamic colour. Unearthly quiet. Almost surreal. Where are the birds? The animals? Insects? Surely they must frolic here, or are they too in awe of this gloomy, towering mountain whose chilling presence dominates all...?

It is the first of four days, walking. Unaccompanied… Questionable sanity.

The crest of another breathless climb and the effort magnificently rewarded by a panorama of unsurpassed grandeur. Limitless. Spectacular. Centre stage in this vast expanse shines nature's cathedral. Elegant, rocky towers, of mammoth proportion yearn majestically skyward, questing for the afternoon sun. Having drenched themselves in its glory, they unselfishly share translucent cascades of red and gold with the entire valley. A blessing.

The little used track meanders downward into the sanctity of a serene forest, whose silence is parted by a distant hum. Everywhere, yet nowhere, until…

A vision splendid! Cascades, eddies and tiny rapids trip and tumble with happy urgency. Rushing with wild abandon at moss covered rocks.

The first kiss, tentative. Somehow divine. Invigorating mountain nectar.

Paradise continues with meandering descent. Deep in the forest, back and forth on rickety stones of dubious stability, the ‘path', at stream's edge, vanishes without reason… Surely it must continue? As with it's friend the stream, it must have a purpose? A destination…?

A frustrating mystery. Impotent curses at the now distant African map seller help not. A decision…

The map offers neither solace, nor clue. With heavy heart and surly mood it's back across the little stream, its sheen now dulled by circumstance. The pack too, is beginning to assert itself. Tent, food, sleeping bag, spare clothes, water and guitar. Bare essentials. The legs doubt.

Inhospitable terrain. Surely there's a way across ? The hills, while from a distance pleasant enough, are home to a tufty grass about ten inches high and just far enough apart that no step can be assured, nor reliable purchase found. Do snakes live in such inhospitable territory? The potential ramifications unthinkable. Toward the summit with the meandering stagger of a sea legged sailor, drunk, in silent battle with gravity, balance and mind. Legs scream. Ankles beg mercy. Each moment a small peril…

Thank heaven for good boots. Sweat spills unnoticed into thirsty African soil.

Eventually the musty, light starved floor of another ancient forest. An obstacle, which must somehow be traversed with haste, for the distant sun has little more to offer this day. Ghoulish vines. Long tentacled fingers scrabble at the guitar's vulnerable neck with sinister intent. The pack has become a near intolerable burden, an awkward encumbrance in this dim, claustrophobic place of tangled branches and slippery purchase. Gravity the enemy, ally of the hungry forest. Uncertain legs. Numb. Fingers claw at the lichen covered slope. Boots scrabble for purchase. Sliding, grasping, tearing at the impassive ground with growing despair…

The relentless weight of meagre possessions bears down.

Suddenly, from the gloom, a path! A way out! Free of the grasping, avaricious jungle. Out, to the welcome sun with hope rekindled, but shadows lean hard against the day. In Africa , night offers it's own challenges. Despite the urgency, ascent is slow. Painful. Breath, tears at exhausted lungs. Jellied legs drag each other in tiny increments like the emaciated shuffle of the very old. Only will power drives.

In time, the backpack shackles are released. The burdenous yoke laid down and a grateful billy boiled while impotent limbs struggwith uncooperative guy ropes and growing dark. Finally, the tortured body is eased earthward

as a lengthy groan of exhaustion punctures the silence.

Steam from the untasted cup escapes into the night…

The predator, when she comes, makes no sound, save for the satisfying crunch of bones.

© Copyright. Peter Healy. All rights reserved. No part of this written work may be reproduced by any means; including but not limited to mechanical, photographic, digital, Internet or other electronic process; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use; without the expressed written permission of Peter Healy.