On the shortest day of the year, I trekked up Sani Pass, the twisting, torturous, gravel road that snakes its way up the Drakensberg and links KwaZulu-Natal with the mountain kingdom of Lesotho. I was participating in the Sunflower Sky Hike, an annual event organised by that intrepid and tireless pair of adventurers, Ian and Mandy Tyrer, to raise funds for and help cancer sufferers. It was a cause close to my heart, having lost my father to a particularly virulent form of the disease.

All sorts of people participate in the hike: young, old, short, tall, fat, thin, the quiet, the ebullient, the fit and not so fit. It was amazing, though, how on the mountain old people became young again, as if they had left their cares and infirmities behind them in the boot of their car parked outside the border post. One couple even took their two dachshund, with them, on leashes, like they were out on a casual Sunday stroll. The two dogs made it all the way to the top and then got driven back in style, like conquering heroes.

We set off under a gunmetal grey sky which seemed unable to decide what form it wanted to take. As we walked, we hit patches of drizzle. It did not detract from the magnificence of the setting or my enjoyment of the hike. Striding along with their hiking sticks, the rest of our fellow mountaineers looked like some medieval army on the march or a procession of pilgrims seeking absolution for their sins. Many had lost family or friends to cancer, and for them (as for me), this was a way of honouring their memory.

My hiking companion, Mary Ann, was one of the lucky ones who had survived cancer. The annual hike was her way of celebrating her recovery. Struggling to keep up with her, I could only admire her courage and stamina. The more exacting the conditions got, the more she rose to the challenge. I am not sure if she felt the same about me, but, for my part, she was the ideal colleague to climb the mountain with.

By a small stream, which crossed the road, we stopped for a breather. Fed by the recent melt-water, its water was beautifully clear and limpid. As I sat, munching an apple, I watched the way light and water bubbled together as the current swept around and over tree roots and smooth brown rocks and then rushed and tumbled its way down the slopes. Lost in the wonder of the moment, I leaned back and listened to the sounds of the mountain. The wind rustled softly through the gorse. The clouds continued drifting overhead. From somewhere well concealed, deep inside the dense foliage that grew along the banks of the stream, a bird serenaded us with the most piercingly beautiful of songs. The weather obviously couldn’t dampen its joy either.

As an avid birdwatcher, I felt the hunterly instinct kick in. I wanted to find and identify our melodious songster. Maybe it was some rarity? Try as I might, I could not locate the bird. In the end, I decided that was how it was supposed to be. Some pleasures should be enjoyed for their own sake without feeling the need to make a record or tick it off on your checklist.

I was content to leave it as a mystery that was not meant to be solved.

Indeed, that is what climbing mountains does for you. It teaches you appreciation, patience, perseverance and a deep and abiding love for nature in all its forms. On the slopes is where I feel at my most free.

Having got our breath back, we continued toiling our way up the slopes. Looking down into the ravines below us, I could understand the importance of being a good 4X4 driver on the loose, stony gravel of the Sani Pass because the valley floor contained the wreckage of several cars that had obviously taken the corners a little too fast and paid the consequences. Exhausting as it was, I decided there were advantages to being on foot.

For several hours I trudged and panted, pausing to take occasional swigs from my bottle of water. There was a cold wind blowing and up by the peaks there were small patches of ice left, including a frozen waterfall that hung, suspended in air and time, waiting for the summer thaw. At the top of the pass it had begun to snow, although it was mostly small, flaky, lightweight stuff.

Inspired by Mary Ann’s quiet but focused resolution, I got two kilometres further than I had the previous year. We stopped, just over three-quarters of the way up, at the beginning of the switch-backs, where the road begins its zigzag route up the final, steepening slope. My legs felt strong and could easily have carried me to the summit, but my damaged lung was battling to cope with the high altitude. It was a terrific temptation to carry on as we had only several hundred feet to climb to reach our destination. Good sense prevailed. I turned back. But not before stopping to take in the view.

It was an enormous, dramatic landscape. On either side, the steep cliff faces surged away, the sweep of the horizon emphasised by the stark outlines of the mountain peaks that loomed above us, almost vertical in places. Below, the land stretched away as if it was limitless in its immensity. It was a fitting place for dramatic thunderstorms, blizzards and the full pyrotechnics of nature.

Bleached dry by the winter cold, the landscape was a mixture of light greys, subtle ochres, greens and occasional splashes of purple. Lashed by rain and whipped by centuries of winds, the soils were thin, sandy and studded with rocks and boulders, giving the landscape an almost lunar-like appearance.

Having soaked it all in, I turned around and trekked back down the mountain. The going was much easier this way. I strode through the gates of the South African Border Post full of vigour and high spirits, feeling that sense of gladness that comes from overcoming a difficult mental and physical challenge. Watching them straggle back, in an equally elated mood, I felt an immense sense of companionship with our fellow hikers.

It had been a good way to celebrate the winter solstice. I felt much better prepared to tackle the second half of the year…