The Mountain is not done with us yet.

The morning frost lingers well past dawn, the sun a feeble thing against the grip of the mountain’s chill. Our boots crunch through the brittle path, each step shattering the frozen dew, leaving behind nothing but the echo of our passage. The air is thick, heavy with the weight of altitude, and every breath is a struggle—lungs clawing for what little oxygen the heights are willing to surrender. Below, the Mvemvane Valley should stretch in all its splendor to Fika Patso dam, but today it is veiled in mist, a ghostly chasm swallowed by silence.

Ukhahlamba is a cruel range, jagged and unyielding, but in winter, it turns merciless. The ancient rock faces, sculpted by the hands of time and rain, bear the scars of centuries—some split by ice, others hollowed into overhangs where, long ago, San wanderers huddled against the elements. Here, they mixed the ash of burned bones with ostrich egg white, painting their stories onto sandstone, whispering to the past as they glimpsed the future. Now, those same cliffs stand frozen once more, watching, waiting—silent witnesses to the footsteps of those who dare to tread their path.

The Chain Ladders wait, as they always have, indifferent to the weary traveler, measuring not strength but courage. They dangle from heights unseen, twin lengths of iron disappearing into the mist, as if strung from the very clouds themselves. In the gorge, we stand before the sheer wall, staring upward at the challenge laid before us.

The climb demands open hands, yet my fingers, clenched tight against the cold, refuse to obey. I attempt to warm them with a feeble breath, but the effort is futile. They remain pale and lifeless, dead things at the end of my arms, as numb as the wind that howls through the gorge, carving its path through stone and bone alike. The cold does not yield, nor does the rusted steel, slick and biting as I grasp it at last. It is like clutching the blade of an assassin’s dagger, but hesitation is a luxury I cannot afford.

Hand over hand, I climb, the weight of my body pulling against the rungs, the weight of the mountain pressing down. The wind does not care. The rock does not care. The ladders do not care. Higher still, the mist thickens, swallowing all sound but the rattle of steel and the labored breath of those who dare ascend. And then, just as the body begins to hope, another set of ladders emerges from the gloom—an unkind truth laid bare. The climb is not over. The mountain is not yet done with us.

At last, we crest the Western buttress of the fabled Amphitheatre, swallowed whole by a silent, suffocating mist. The world beyond is lost to the whiteness, but our journey does not end. Step by weary step, we trace the path beside the frozen Thukela, where ice and sand meet our boots with a brittle crunch, the only sound in the stillness. The river, once a lifeline, lies imprisoned beneath its frozen shell, as unmoving as the stone walls that flank us.

Fingers, stiff and unfeeling, fumble at the task of raising our shelter. The cold gnaws at flesh, burrows deep into bone. Every movement is a battle, every breath a struggle against the bitter air. Yet we persist, for there is no choice. The promise of shelter, of warmth—even if only in a tin cup of steaming liquid—is enough to drive us forward. No one speaks. There is only the work: pitching the tents, gathering water, coaxing flame from steel, cooking the meager meal that will keep us standing another day.

Dawn comes with a sky as clear as glass, stretching wide and endless above. But below—below, an ocean of clouds spills across the world, kissed by the golden light of the rising sun. The horizon glows with warmth, amber melting into the deep navy of the heavens. Yet the warmth is an illusion. The air is still cruel, the frost still biting. Fingers remain stiff, toes unmoving, lungs burning with each cold draw of breath. And yet—for this moment, for this sight—we forgive it all.

For here, at the roof of the world, the land awakens. The pastures roll out in an endless sea of green, the cliffs stand tall and solemn, their sunlit faces turned toward us like old gods appraising mortal wanderers. The river stirs once more, its icy grip undone by the sun’s return, and it moves with purpose, with grace—flowing onward to the very edge of the earth, where it plummets into the abyss.

Thukela Falls—the tallest waterfall in the world—reborn again, as it has been for ages untold.