Moments of inspiration and clarity of thought can strike at the oddest of times. On this occasion I was hanging on a wire 100m below the Bloukrans Bridge, swaying in the wind some 116m above the chasm’s narrow, rocky floor. I should have been paralysed by fear – my friends will attest to me lacking a head for heights – but instead I was captivated by a sliver of ocean in the distance. It was at this instant that my thoughts focused firmly on the Otter Trail. I wanted more of that coastline.

Like most people who live outside South Africa, I didn’t hear about the trail until I had already arrived in the country. Unfortunately, it’s usually the same moment you learn of its astounding virtues that you also painfully realise your odds of completing it are slim to none – with only 12 spaces available each day, the Otter Trail is typically fully booked almost a year in advance. For the lucky and eternally optimistic, your hope lies in a sorry soul failing to show up to take their spot.

The trail stretches 42.5km along the Eastern Cape, flirting with the rocky shoreline of Tsitsikamma Coastal National Park between Storms River and Nature’s Valley. It’s named after the Cape clawless otter that patrols the area’s waters. With the jaunt lasting five days, four overnight camps, each with two six-person huts, are strategically (and stunningly) placed along its route.

The night I arrived in Storms River I asked the Scottish owner of my B&B if he could look into my chances of tackling the trail. He smiled sympathetically and said he’d make a call to the park office in the morning.
When I came in for breakfast he approached me excitedly. “Two people failed to show yesterday and if they haven’t arrived in the next hour, you’re in luck!” he bellowed. I inhaled breakfast and was halfway through sorting my belongings when the phone rang. After some mad shopping for supplies (and a lottery ticket at the suggestion of the B&B owner), I was at the park office just before half eleven. There was a hitch though… I had to complete day one and day two of the trek that same day.

The 4.8km of ‘day one’ are supposed to be a gentle two- to three-hour introduction to the type of terrain the next four days will throw at you. For me it was anything but. While I’d managed to pack quickly, I hadn’t managed to pack lightly, which made all the rapidly-paced boulder hopping rather tricky work. The rocky, stratified terrain also required my eyes to pay more attention to where I was putting my cumbersome size 13s than to the overwhelming scenery around me. However, I was truly loving the challenge. I soon passed Guano Cave, but my lack of time and my understanding of the word guano kept me from exploring it (a mistake you shouldn’t make). At the 3km mark I painfully zoomed past a cascading waterfall, whose pool is famed for swims on hot days. Not long after, I reached the Ngubu huts and hurriedly started the 7.9km of ‘day two’.

After a steep climb up to the coastal plateau, the trail led me through a splendid section of virgin forest, which made for a pleasant respite from the sun. My torrid pace was stopped dead at Skilderkrans, a quartzite outcrop offering a transcendent view of the coast. Below, the deep blue ocean churned into a magnificent turquoise as it interacted with the slivers of rock jutting from the coast. In the distance was a seemingly endless array of lush green bluffs caught between the blues of the heavens and of the sea.

Like a stubborn child being pulled away from an ice-cream truck, I left Skilderdrans and descended to cross the Kleinbos River. For those on a less hasty schedule, the narrow gorge of the Kleinbos hosts numerous cascading pools and is ideal for exploring (and a swim). I eventually decided to take a breather on the beautiful sands of diminutive Bloubaai (Blue Bay). It turned out to be a wise decision, as the trail soon made a steep ascent. Feeling exhausted and exhilarated, I crashed through the bushes at the Scott huts around 4pm.

I’ll never forget the look on the faces of my four South African hut-mates (Johan, Dirk, Kristof and William) when I first caught their eye. They’d only just arrived and were licking their day’s wounds. I started to explain the situation when Dirk interrupted, “Are you trying to tell me you that you just hiked from Storms River early this morning?” “No, I actually left around eleven-thirty,” I replied with a smile. He laughed, shook his head and ordered Johan to grab me some of his whisky. Later that evening, Dirk laughed even more when he saw my pathetic provisions. He pulled four fresh, vacuum-packed steaks from his bag and said I’d share their dinner that evening. Amazingly, he performed this miraculous feat the following two evenings as well.

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After the campfire died down, I was left sitting alone under the brilliant night sky… That was until a glimpse of a leopard moving in the bushes sent me scurrying for the hut. Dirk came out with his flashlight and chuckled to himself when he spotted a petite genet.

The start of the Otter Trail’s ‘day three’ (my day two) led us over the Geelhoutbos River and through indigenous coastal forest before a steep climb ensued. Walking through the unique fynbos vegetation and seeing the waves crashing on the shoreline below was an inspiring way to start the day. Before reaching the 2km mark, we dropped down to the wide mouth of the Elandsbos River. The tide was low making the crossing a breeze so it was the sun cutting through the lingering morning mist in the gorge’s depths that provided all the drama (though the cold water and sand between my toes was also rather heavenly).

We continued along the shore until the sight of a dozen dolphins surfing within the surging waves halted our progress in jawdropping fashion. After thirty minutes of giggling like school girls, we came to our manly senses and climbed back up to the plateau. The day’s six-hour hike ended with a dramatic descent to the Oakhurst huts, which were set on the far bank of the Lottering River.

While all the trail’s hut locations are stunning, Oakhurst’s was truly staggering. It was so close to the ocean that the crashing waves actually sent refreshing mists over our balcony. I spent the afternoon on the rocks absolutely captivated by the power of the sea. Thankfully the sounds of the shore serenaded me to sleep early, as the following day involved a 2am start.

Of all the Otter Trail’s river crossings, the most difficult is the Bloukrans. Unless crossed within 30 minutes of low tide, it usually involves a difficult swim. In our case, the water was at its lowest around 7am, which meant we had to complete the tricky 10km section of trail to the Bloukrans by that early hour. With headlamps lit we managed successfully to follow the trail’s yellow otter-footprint markers over the rocky terrain for 7km until daylight broke. We reached the river at low tide, but quickly realised that staying dry was not an option. We stripped to our shorts, put our backpacks over our heads and waded chest-deep into the frigid water. Finding a shallow route proved impossible, so we just headed straight for the trail marker on the other side. There were a few anxious moments when the footing was unsure, but we all managed to cross without our bags taking a soggy swim.

After a well-deserved rest and towelling off, we journeyed on. The remaining 3.8km to huts at Andre involved a strenuous climb back up into the fynbos for some glorious coastal vistas, as well as the inevitable descent to camp. By this point, you’ve already learned that what goes up the Otter Trail must eventually come down.

Our last night together on the trail was a great one, with all of us sitting around the campfire into the wee hours, reflecting on our adventure and our different backgrounds. I was amazed to hear that William was born on Robben Island while his father was headmaster of the prison’s school for employees’ children.

Before leaving Andre the following morning, I made one last trip to the trail’s famous loos. This is not usually something I write about, but the outhouses here are ingenious. Each features a panoramic mirrored window, so that you can gaze out to sea while sitting privately on the throne.

The final day of the trail wasn’t too strenuous, involving only one steep climb onto the plateau. The path’s route wound through fynbos and constantly kissed the cliff tops, providing more resplendent views of the coast that I’d fallen for a week earlier. Before I knew it, I was standing on a precipice with the sweeping sands of Nature’s Valley laid out below. I was almost overcome and didn’t know whether the tears welling in my eyes were due to the sheer beauty or whether it was just the sad realisation that I couldn’t turn around and do it all over again. I have a feeling it was a little of both.