On the mountains above Ceres and the Hex River Valley, severe winter storms dump a 3 foot layer of snow. Spike joins a group of snowboarders who trek up a mountain that has no ski lifts and no prepared slopes, just landmines made of rocks and bushes. But hey, who cares about being tired or sore? This is Africa!
Out here on the perimeter, there are no ski lifts, we is snowed immaculate.
Overstretched and underdone, unknown muscles emit signals ... pain ... pain ... pain. Tendons are on fire. Bones feel ready to fuse with the snow as the body sinks in, again. I've just wiped out, again. This time I caught a rail catching a clump of fynbos and caught myself in mid air doing a front flip ollie to fakie body thud.
But above me, as I lie spreadeagled in the snow, the sky is a brilliant blue and my face wears a silly grin. Staggering to my feet again, the grin alternates with a grimace. Digging the snow out of my crotch, slapping it from my clothes and shaking it from my head, I am ready to carve up the powder bru.
Back on track, standing on my own two feet spread parrallel to the slope, ready to resume the oiling of the rusty cogs, ready to break back into the big time. A bunch of us are up here on a trip from Cape Town to snowboard. High up in the mountains of Ceres, it's a kiff day. The sun is out and the snow is outlandishly thick, up to 3 feet in parts.
What's more, we're in Africa!
The last time I snowboarded was at Mt Buller in Australia 7 years ago. It didn't seem like that long when I strapped on the bindings, but it seems light years away now. Seven solid years of surfing -- all those waves, all those spots -- have entrenched the body into a different regime. Any snowboard technique once learned over three ski resort trips totalling maybe eight days is out the window. It's been swallowed by bottom turns and top turns; speed lines and barrel rides; cutbacks and wipeouts.
But I am ready. No time to waste. Haven't come this far to think up reasons why not. I let the left foot slip out and we're back into the groove, styling, gaining speed, making the first turn, then even the next! Yahoo! Slowly I am getting it back. It's not easy to make rail to rail transitions on a steepish slope that's pockmarked with potholes - these are more than moguls, these are nature's landmines, air pockets of loose-packed snow around fynbos bushes. Yahoo! It's a laugh. It's a joke. Snow on the fynbos ... weird thought, but it's real! Yahoo! Woosh! Weeeee! Gaaaa-DOOOOF!
Back on track on my back. Other obstacles - sharp rocks lurking beneath the light crusty powder - have made themselves known to me. One has skinned a finger, the other has attempted to impale my left buttock. The mixed signals - pain and pleasure - buzz around my head like cartoon flies.
By the time I have reached the bottom on this run, which is only the third run so far, I am kussed. After each run, you have to trap back up the mountain. For every 20 seconds of 'whoosh', there's about 20 minutes of 'plod plod plod'. It's an unfair proportion, but hey who cares, we're snowboarding in Africa!
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