AFTER driving north from Windhoek,
we turned west at
Okahandja, proceeding across the
plain in fits and starts. Fiona
McIntosh was writing a guidebook
to Namibia and insisted on stopping
to photograph road signs
cautioning of everyday hazards,
like sand drifts and warthogs. Just
outside Usakos, we caught sight of
the Spitzkoppe, impressive in a
shocking sort of way: 700m of
granite bursting out of the desert.
To IC Smith, visiting in 1940,
the peak looked like a giant elephant
tusk and had an unmistakably
hostile demeanour. “Some
mountains are friendly,” he wrote,
“this one was not.” Smith had
driven up from Cape Town with
three companions to conquer the
Matterhorn of southern Africa,
which was unclimbed and possibly
unclimbable. According to
local lore, a German soldier had
made a solo attempt in 1904, but
although there were rumours of a
bonfire being seen from the summit,
nothing was ever seen of the
trooper again. Smith’s expedition
ended in less dramatic fashion,
with one member jiggering his
knee, another getting distracted
chasing wildlife and the remaining
pair unable to surmount a
large, smooth boulder, nicknamed
the “Gendarme”. An attempt by a
German party, a few years later,
also failed there.
Progress is a mixed blessing
and on reaching the Spitzkoppe,
we were greeted by a boom gate,
curios shack, small bar and warden
demanding entrance fees.
After pitching our tent amid giant
boulders, we sat contemplating the
stillness, till the blood-red sun
dropped below the horizon and
darkness descended like a stage
curtain.
The next morning, just after 4,
we drove towards the looming
silhouette of the peak, a few kilometres
away. Ploughing through
head-high grass, we ground to a
halt beneath a gnarled camelthorn
tree, where we surprisingly
found a cairn. As we started up
the granite slabs, the sky lightened,
bathing the mountain in a
warm, honey glow. Then the sun
came up, and it was instantly too
hot and bright. A trail of cairns
led us into a labyrinth of dark
caves and narrow passages, which
got progressively steeper and
tighter. It was like being in Dante’s
Purgatory, working our way up
towards salvation, each chamber
more punishing than the last.
We were following in the footsteps
of an intrepid South African
trio – Les Schaff, Shippy Shipley
and Peggy O’Neill, who came here
in 1946, lured by the prospect of
claiming the first ascent. After
their initial attempt on the south
ridge was rebuffed by the unyielding
Gendarme, they explored the
north end of the peak instead. In a
feat of inspired navigation, they
discovered a route through the
maze of gullies, ramps and grottoes
to emerge two-thirds of the
way up, in a cleft above a broad
ledge. Abseiling down to investigate,
they now found their way
blocked by a 10m belt of featureless
granite. After a quick shopping
trip to Usakos, they returned
with extra provisions, a hammer
and chisel.
The mountain gods though
were unimpressed – their rope
snapped as they abseiled back
down to the ledge and Shipley was
fortunate to survive the 10m plummet.
Undeterred, Schaff and
O’Neill got to work, chipping away
at the armour-plated rock, spurred
on by the injured Shipley. By the
end of the first day, they’d cut four
steps into the face and were confident
another shift would see them
through. That evening, however, a
storm blew in and, after a torrid
night on the ledge, they retreated.
“We shall return to place our
names on the summit beacon of
one of Africa’s strangest peaks,”
wrote O’Neill. But they didn’t.
Abseiling down to the ledge, we
followed it round till it petered out
and we were facing a band of
brown, speckled rock, as smooth
as fine sandpaper. Above us, we
could make out the historic steps.
Whatever you might think of their
climbing ethics, you have to
admire their masonry. The
painstakingly chiselled steps are
more like bucket seats, easily
accommodating both feet. My only
criticism of their handiwork is
that the first step is well over a
metre off the ground, and the next
one, almost out of sight. They
must have been giants. Balancing
on crystal nodules, I gingerly
tiptoed up, grateful for the protective
bolts that had been added.
While O’Neill had assumed it
would be plain sailing above here,
there was still 200m of climbing to
go. The second pitch meandered
up a friable crack, while the third
scampered up a slanting ramp.
The fourth pitch was the crux,
requiring a delicate traverse
across a bare black slab. With
confidence and friction fading, I
swallow-dived for the belay station.
The final pitch, according to
the route description, was so easy
it was off the bottom end of the
technical scale and suitable for
most grandmothers. I can only
assume it was not suited to my
physique. Pack dangling from a
sling between my legs, I managed
to squeeze one shoulder and buttock
into the tight fissure and
wriggle up like a worm. Fortunately,
once I escaped this ghastly
vice, it was a short scramble to the
top. We sat at the summit beacon
and signed our names in the logbook.
We weren’t the first to do so,
of course. In fact, we weren’t even
the first in our family.
Later in 1946, another trio from
South Africa pitched up at the
Spitzkoppe, Mr and Mrs
Wongtschowski (the Wongs) and
an 18-year-old aristocrat,
Johannes de Villiers Graaff. They
were three of South Africa’s finest
climbers, with the Wongs having
already bagged several
“unclimbable” Drakensberg peaks
and Graaff going on to pioneer
routes in East Africa and the
Himalayas. On reaching the granite
rock band that defeated
O’Neill’s team, they used a piton
to etch another step, before the
leader stood on the second’s shoulders
and smeared nimbly up. Once
above this, they made short shrift
of the other obstacles I’d found
life-threatening. “We reached the
summit at noon, the final 400 feet
(122m) having taken three hours.
After a short rest, we started the
descent,” wrote Graaff, quite succinctly.
While bolted anchors and belay
devices have made descending
much safer, getting off the
Spitzkoppe was still exciting. Each
of the five abseils had memorable
idiosyncrasies, with the first
requiring a pendulum swing to
reach a hanging belay. Inevitably,
it was while dangling from here
that we were attacked by hornets
and then managed to lasso a bush
with our rope, necessitating an
awkward traverse to retrieve it. It
was 2pm when we stumbled down
to the camel-thorn tree.
Back in Cape Town, we drive to
Kenilworth for lunch with Mr and
Mrs Graaff. Confounding their
aristocratic lineage, it just so happens,
Johannes Graaff is Fiona’s
step cousin-in-law several times
removed. Admittedly, it’s quite a
tenuous tie, but once we discovered
they owned a ski-chalet, we treated
them as close family.
Now an octogenarian, old age
and hip operations have stooped
Jannie’s once towering, athletic
frame, but he’s still a commanding
presence. “Decrepit,” he snorts,
when I ask how he is. Over lunch,
we quizz him about his Spitzkoppe
climb, since his account in the 1946
Mountain Club Journal is characteristically
economic. “Ah,” he
smiles, fixing me with sharp, twinkling
eyes, “that was so long ago, I
couldn’t possibly remember.”
. For more extreme adventures
in southern Africa, see www.night
jartravel.com