First Visit to Mount Rochelle

— First written in 2019, revised and translated into English in 2026 —

I. Late Spring Lingering

The season should already have turned hot, yet late spring lingered, reluctant to leave. Looking toward the distance, the Cape mountains stretched across the northeastern horizon—another day of clouds gathering and rising. A quiet impulse stirred. Without further thought, I set out for Mt Rochelle Nature Reserve.

Sunlight broke through the clouds and spread freely across the land. In the nearby pastures, sheep lifted and lowered their heads; a leisurely wind moved through fields where grain rolled in long soft waves. On this country road, almost empty of people, I found myself easing the car to a slower pace—without thinking, without needing to.

Today, no hurrying. No hurrying today. Whither the heart leads, the feet follow. Where the heart rests, there I stop.

After about an hour I arrived again at Franschhoek, passing through the green vineyards and the winding mountain road, until the final turn brought me onto a yellow dirt track marked by the reserves sign. Mount Rochelle—our first meeting. A warm day in late spring; the clouds were many but light, the midday sun bright without being harsh. A gentle breeze, gently stirring this heart that had longed to come.

Whither the heart leads—there I go. Where the heart rests—there I stop. Let the heart go where it will.

Leaving the car behind, I began the walk. At the entrance I registered, paid the conservation fee, and bought a map marking the various trails and their times. After weighing the options I chose the route called Uitkyk—"Outlook." The name alone suggested something worth seeing.

II. Entering the Mountain

And there it was: vastness returning to the eyes. Far away the blue waters of Theewaterskloof Dam; nearer, the green valley of Franschhoek spread quietly below. A single mountain ridge divided the two. Route 43 climbed steadily through the heights, linking the world within the mountains to the world beyond. From this vantage the structure of the Cape landscape became suddenly legible.

Underfoot the road narrowed from path to trail. Yellow dust gave way to gravel as the route climbed toward the west-northwest—clear at times, at times nearly lost among stones and grass. Whenever the path disappeared, a small unease rose within me. It was my first time here; the terrain did not yet know me.

Steps heavy, then light. Breathing long, then short. Sweat gathered and fell. Gradually the rhythm of walking settled the body, and the slope remained but the struggle eased.

III. The Flower and the Mind

Joy came suddenly, and my steps found a kind of singing. I sang to the wandering wind—but the mountains deep silence swallowed every note, each sound dissolving into the stillness of what has no end. In that silence, the restless mind gathered itself: from silence to tranquillity, from tranquillity to peace. I dwelled in the present, stepping forward yet often turning back, trying to hold the landscape with the heart. Even a withered flower earns a moment of stillness; standing before its faded form, one cannot help imagining what it must have been.

Along the path I came upon a flower. Flowers in the mountains bloom and fall according to their own time; they do not open for anyone. And yet—this flower before me existed now because I had come.

"Before I looked at this flower, it and my heart both rested in silence." In the moment of seeing, the flower and the one who sees it entered the same world, inseparable. Perhaps this is something of what Wang Yangming understood. Perhaps it is the unhurried ease of Tao Yuanming among his chrysanthemums. Flower and mountain, seen together—and for a moment, words fall away, the birds return, and there is nothing left to explain.

Clouds drifted slowly across the ridge. Sunlight slipped through a gap in the valley and warmed the air without announcing itself. In that moment I knew I was not walking alone. With me were the mountains, this wide sky, and the warmth moving quietly through the chest.

On I walked, and on—and at last I reached a high point and stood looking across the distance. Mountain ranges stretched outward from the lake far below. Peaks rose sharply; cliff faces stood alone in the wind. Cloud moved quickly through the valleys, and light poured across the rock walls, shifting between brightness and shadow, opening out this canyon set apart from the world.

The returning light enters the deep forest, falls again upon the green moss. And I stood within it—the empty mountain had found its person; no voice broke the silence.

Still, ethereal, far—wind moving through the heights, a lone eagle turning in the clouds. Wordless, boundless, vast—canyon and peak, the slanting sun before the eyes.

My thoughts turned to my life as one living far from home—to my parents, my brothers and sisters, all still well. This, I know, is the mercy of things as they are. Life rarely grants completeness. Gain and loss, rise and fall—one must receive them as they come. Only a calm heart can remain at ease.

IV. Contemplation on the Mountain

I found myself calculating: the angle from this peak to that one, measured in arc. Trigonometry for the solitude of looking at mountains. Calculus for the loneliness of the sustained gaze.

Nearby, spiral buds caught the light in layered reflections—a small universe hidden inside each flower, deeper than it appears. The fiercer the sunlight, the more clearly their true nature shows: like the sage Yan Hui, whose joy held firm in barren soil, self-possessed in whatever weather came.

The curves folding inside the petals nearby, the ridgelines extending across distant peaks—similar within similar, a resemblance that kept repeating. I looked at this landscape unfolding like a fractal and took from it one small piece of the Mandelbrot set, placing it inside the divergence and convergence of memory.

How much longer before the king protea blooms red in the valley? Born from fire, it is not unlike a phoenix among flowers. And then, quietly, a poem by Wang Wei:

Hibiscus blossoms at the branch tips,
red petals opening deep in the mountains.
The valley is silent, no one there—
flowers bloom and fall on their own.

Walking to where the water ends, I sat and watched the clouds rise. When the clouds came and the wind rose, it was time to go. I said farewell to the valley and took a different path down, climbing once more toward Du Toitskop, moving carefully along the cliff edge. Mist wrapped the slopes—cool, clean, close. The trail vanished among grass and scattered stones; I moved forward slowly through the haze.

V. Leaving the Mountain

The clouds wished to stay at the summit. I left them there.

After descending a few hundred metres the path gradually emerged. Rounding a final bend, I saw suddenly a patch of green: the valley of Franschhoek appearing before me as if from nowhere. Behind me dark clouds had gathered, dimming the sky. Then a shaft of sunlight broke through and lit the land.

By the time I returned to the car it was past six. Before darkness fell, I drove away from Mount Rochelle.

The road home stretched ahead. Distant trees seemed to accompany the traveller; the town below rested in the last of the evening light.

A little joy, slowly fading with the distance.
A little melancholy, growing with the distance.

I must return. I will return. Returning. Home at last. Let there be no resentment toward fate. Life has its own plain wind.

VI. Coda

Later, looking again at the photographs—time and space gathered once more. Mountains and water, appearing and receding within the frame. Let them follow the wind. The mountains now seem almost dreamlike: peak beyond peak, blue and green beneath drifting cloud.