Rain in the Richtersveld and refloating the SAS Wildehond

[DustySprocket]

Having waiting in the shadows of the shepherds' hut for quite a few hours, the reality of spending the night out there in the veld kicked in..

Having read quite a few stories of predators in the barren Kalahari, I started to prepare my bed for the evening. As the sun set (which was around 18:30), I decided it's time to pop the sleeping tablet, dressed all up, along with jacket, gloves and helmet so no hyena or jackal could sneak in @ night for a tasty snack.

The tablet takes around 45 to 60 minutes to kick in, where-after my brain starts to slow down and block out everything.

Sometime after 20:00, I woke up with the roaring noise of a diesel bakkie, with lights everywhere! Brain was in slow motion by then already.

It must have been quite a sight for Gus, Jarod and the 2 recovery guys to see this very 'deurmekaar' guy with ATGATT

They have already picked up the bike and secured it tightly for the hectic ride back to the tar road, and I only had to get my Desert Fox bag (ironic name, taking into account where I ended up) onto the bakkie.

Thank you Gus and Jarod for giving up your Friday evening and missing out on the night-life in Port Nolloth to come and safe me and my bike. Also to Henry and Mike for both marking the spot and getting through to the rest of the Team waiting at the hotel.

We were still in time to get a quick meal in the hotel restaurant, which followed by one of the most enjoyable shower I had in a long time, and straight into a comfy bed.

Footnote: Although I tried to stay calm and try to reason out the options of recovery, I was in a such a state that I never thought of taking a photo or two of my humble abode. If anyone ever decides to go and tackle that route, please stop to take a photo.

 

[51Mobile]

Friday was a rather bumpy day, extremes on both ends, exhilaration, exhaustion, concern, relief and just to put a cherry on the top the Boks handed the All Blacks their a####s on a platter. It was great to have Pikkie back with us, albeit he was mostly there in body alone, his mind remained well obscured by his sleeping tablets (Nice to know these things really do work).

We started the next day with a slight hangover from the excitement of the night before, and with a few logistical headaches. What to do with Pikkie's bike?

Tow it to Klein Pella - bad idea, ride to Klein Pella and bring a car back - Port Nolloth to Klein Pella, Klein Pella to Port Nolloth and then all the way back again, hmmmm ... . the ideas are not improving. We then figured, let's test Pikkie's insurance. And sure enough, they did cover getting Pikkie and his bike to the nearest KTM dealer. This suited us fine, as Klein Pella made for a palatable compromise with his insurers. We deserted Pikkie at the hotel.

Our last day Port Nolloth back to Klein Pella, with titillating tracks between the two.

But – first we had to sort out Jarod’s puncture – AGAIN. As Gus brings rain, Jarod gets punctures.

The crew at Tyremart Port Nolloth, an extremely helpful team.

 

[51Mobile]

Once we got enough sky into Jarod's round, we headed out on the R382, swinging a hard left about 20km out of town. This started as a track through yet more fields of flowers.

 

[51Mobile]

We then turned East and the track largely disappeared, quite abruptly opening up to red sand desert all the way to the mountains in the far distance.

 

[51Mobile]

We were about to enter, as Expat rightly pointed out, some of the very best desert riding one could wish for.

 

[51Mobile]

Over one of the low dunes we came across a graveyard, partly reclaimed by the relentless desert sands. I suspect they had endured many cycles of being covered and then uncovered.

 

[51Mobile]

Gazing on these simple yet poignant headstones, one wondered what drove people to come and eke out a living in this beautiful yet hostile landscape. And admire that this family seemed to have done just that for a number of years. Noting the person's life in years, months and days gives me an indication of how hard things must have been for them and the degree to which they valued their daily survival.

All the other headstones had given up their inscriptions to the relentless wind and sand.


I have not been able to find out any more about whom this family were.

 

[51Mobile]

The surreal atmosphere and vistas of the area got everyone doing their very best to outdo Obie Oberholzer.

Tjek me tjek you back.

 

[51Mobile]

We left on a barely visible track that once more beckoned one to crank open the throttle. We all were revelling in skipping from one bump to the next, flying across the desert surface. Now this is what adventure biking is all about, exhilaration at the speed, wonder at the landscape, the camaraderie of like-minded friends and a smidging of sheer terror.

Some action footage from our ever vigilant videographer Gus:

 

[51Mobile]

All too soon it was over and we rejoined a gravel road, complete with gates.

Henry looking for some drifting action.

 

[51Mobile]

Past de oude werf before hitting the tar to Steinkopf to top up our fuel.

 

[51Mobile]

Out of Steinkopf we turned off the N7 not a moment too soon.

Shortly we were back in river beds!

 

[51Mobile]

After a broad sweep of the river bed, a speed bump stretched across the valley floor. There was a line of rocks that required some investigation on foot.

We took the opportunity to take a break and readjust Gus' makeshift gear lever.

 

[51Mobile]

Once the route through was staked out, it was back on down the river.

 

[51Mobile]

Gus's onboard view of proceedings.

 

[51Mobile]

No trip to the Richtersveld is complete without the obligatory group photo with a Kookerboom.

 

[51Mobile]

Eating again Bob?

 

[51Mobile]

As a last hurrah, Gus found a fairly steep, long twee spore climb whose surface was only soft red sand. Approaching it, I realised the only way to get to the top was with as much momentum as one dared to accumulate before starting the climb.

I came in hot, wrestling my 890 to stay in one of the tracks which I had chosen to be my path to the top. Things were going well, the roar of my Akrapovic, back wheel throwing out sand sufficiently to have me moving forward with a better than even chance to make the top.

Then, inexplicably, the bike in front of me stops! 3/4 of the way up, young Henry decides this is a good place to take in the view, or nibble on his honey balls again, or whatever. Blocking my way with his 990. I did not have the speed to cross over into the other spore. His attempt to regain forward momentum (which was mirrored by me), was the most effective means of making that line unusable for anyone, let alone a loaded 890. All dreams of triumphantly cresting this last climb of the tour ended in clouds of red sand.

The crest we were aiming at, proved to be a false top with some more soft sand requiring attention before we truly crested.

 

[51Mobile]

Lohan, making it look all too easy.

 

[51Mobile]

Then,
with far less finesse ...