In which we entrust our car to a stranger, battle gravity in multiple directions, and narrowly avoid becoming roadkill on the N2…

Spotting Diepwalle: Excitement Meets Terror

As we descended the final stretch of Prince Albert Pass toward Knysna, there it was—Diepwalle Forest Station. The cycling equivalent of spotting your blind date across a crowded restaurant: equal parts excitement and anxiety.

“There it is!” we exclaimed with the misplaced enthusiasm of people who hadn’t yet read all the reviews. “Tomorrow’s adventure starts right there!”

Let me clarify something about this particular cycling route: when you research it online, you encounter what I call “review schizophrenia.” Half the comments suggest it’s a delightful forest jaunt suitable for grandmothers and small children. The other half describe a hellish odyssey of mud, confusion, and potential death.

Then, just when you’re weighing these contradictory perspectives, you stumble across an article about a cyclist who got lost on this EXACT route a few years ago and was only found after THREE DAYS in the forest. Nothing builds confidence quite like knowing search parties might be in your immediate future!

The Great Logistics Debate

We checked into our accommodation and headed to dinner at Dry Dock, where delicious food temporarily distracted us from our impending questionable life choices. But the meal eventually ended, forcing us to confront our logistical dilemma.

We had three options: 1. Cycle from Knysna to Diepwalle (immediately rejected by locals, who clearly thought we looked too pathetic for this challenge) 2. Drive to Diepwalle, cycle the route, then somehow teleport back to our car (also rejected, unless we suddenly developed supernatural abilities overnight) 3. Find someone to drive our car to Diepwalle, drop us off, then return our car to Knysna

Option three emerged as the winner, despite sounding like the opening scene of a movie where tourists make a decision they’ll deeply regret. All we needed was a complete stranger willing to drive our car up a mountain road, who would then—theoretically—return it to Knysna rather than starting a new life with our vehicle in Cape Town.

The Stranger Solution: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

“Surely there must be a responsible waiter here tonight,” we reasoned, with the flawed logic that has preceded many an adventure gone wrong. We approached our waitress, who, to her credit, didn’t immediately call security when we asked if any of her colleagues might like to drive our car up a mountain.

Within five minutes, a lovely gentleman appeared, apparently unbothered by our bizarre request. We arranged to meet at 7 AM, firmly suppressing any internal warnings about handing car keys to strangers.

Morning Doubts and Automobile Tutorials

Dawn broke, along with our confidence in our plan. Nothing like the clear light of morning to make you question decisions made over dessert and wine.

But when we met our driver, Sive, his genuine excitement about visiting Diepwalle for the first time was reassuring. Less reassuring was his casual admission that he’d never driven an automatic car before. Nothing like adding “impromptu driving lesson” to the morning’s activities!

Halfway up to Diepwalle, Roger—evidently believing that the forest road was the perfect place for driver’s education—let our new friend take the wheel. “He’s a natural,” we assured ourselves, as our car lurched forward with the characteristic smoothness of someone discovering that automatics don’t have clutch pedals.

Abandoned in the Forest (By Design)

We arrived at Diepwalle miraculously intact, our car still functioning and our driver beaming with newly acquired automotive skills. Armed with snacks, water, and a forest pass, we waved goodbye to our car (possibly forever) and set off to find the trail.

We’d loaded the route onto our Garmin—because while getting hopelessly lost and becoming a cautionary tale in a cycling magazine held a certain romantic appeal, we preferred to make it back for dinner.

Downhill Bliss and the Voice of Doom

The ride began with a glorious downhill jeep track that triggered instant joy—followed immediately by that annoying little voice in your head that says, “Remember the universal cycling truth: what goes down must come back up, usually when you’re most tired.”

We started our journey bundled up like the Michelin Man, having apparently packed for an Arctic expedition rather than a forest ride. But nature has a way of correcting poor wardrobe choices, and soon we were shedding layers like snakes in summer.

The Knysna Forest: Not Flat, Despite Appearances

The forest scenery was breathtaking—or maybe that was just the hills. Birds sang, streams burbled, and our legs screamed as we tackled “rather short but steep” climbs that felt neither short nor reasonable.

These were followed by “steady climbs,” a cycling euphemism for “soul-crushing inclines that never seem to end but aren’t quite steep enough to justify walking your bike.”

Then came a glorious downhill section that went on so long we became suspicious. In cycling, extended downhills are like free cocktails at corporate events—enjoyable in the moment but inevitably leading to suffering later.

Sure enough, the downhill eventually surrendered to a “long, slow climb.” The trail description called it “not technical or too steep, just long and steady”—like saying a marathon is “just regular walking, but more of it.”

Forest Exit: Surprise, You’re Not Done!

Just when we’d accepted that we now lived in the forest forever, we popped out into a clearing. The sudden transition from dense forest to open space was so jarring, it felt like accidentally walking through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia.

Before we could fully process this change, we plunged back into the trees and eventually reached a T-junction with a decision to make: take the well-maintained service road or veer left onto a single track.

In the spirit of people who clearly hadn’t suffered enough, we chose the single track. “It’s the most exhilarating part,” online reviews had promised—a phrase that could equally describe bungee jumping.

The Single Track: Heart-Pounding, But In a Good Way

With hearts pounding so loudly they probably scared the local wildlife, we committed to the single track—and for once, the internet didn’t lie. It was mostly downhill and genuinely fun, proving that occasionally, good decisions do happen on vacation.

We eventually emerged near the N2 highway, took a quick comfort break at the Garden of Eden hut, and faced our final challenge: cycling 12km back to Knysna on the N2. Not our first choice of cycling venue, but desperate times and all that.

N2 Highway: Where Cyclists Go to Question Their Life Choices

Cycling on the N2 is a special experience, particularly when you consider that vehicles are traveling at 100km/h approximately 50 cm from your right elbow. There was a wide shoulder initially, which gave us the illusion of safety—like thinking a paper umbrella will help during a hurricane.

Then the road narrowed, transforming our ride from “mildly terrifying” to “updating my will in my head.” We spotted a cement runoff area lower down—basically a sloped ditch—and decided that cycling in a ditch was preferable to becoming a highway statistic.

While navigating our drainage ditch of safety, we spotted another cyclist heading toward us ON THE NARROWEST PART OF THE N2, cycling INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC. We simultaneously declared this person insane, while secretly admiring their confidence in their own immortality.

The final kilometers blessed us with a downhill stretch, wider shoulders, and reduced speed limits—a triple blessing that almost made us forgive the N2 for the earlier trauma.

Reunion with Our Car: A Modern Miracle

Reaching our car was a moment of pure joy, made sweeter by the fact that it was: 1. Actually there 2. In one piece 3. Not halfway to Mozambique with our new driver friend. Thank you Sive

The relief of seeing your vehicle exactly where it should be after entrusting it to a stranger is a special kind of happiness—one that non-adventurous people will never understand.

Evening Celebrations: We Lived!

We returned to our accommodation where friends had joined us for the final two nights of our trip. The afternoon concluded with sparkling wine overlooking the Knysna canals—because nothing complements “we didn’t die today” quite like a good bottle of bubble.

The four of us later took a leisurely walk to Thesen Island for starters, then back to the waterfront for dinner—“leisurely” being the operative word, as our legs were now communicating with us exclusively through pain signals.

As we reflected on our perfect day, we felt truly blessed. Not just because of the beautiful surroundings or the fantastic company, but because we’d tackled Petrus se Brand without requiring helicopter evacuation or becoming a cautionary tale for future cyclists.

Tomorrow would bring wine tasting at The Crags—because after narrowly avoiding death-by-highway, one really need some wine.

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