The laughter of children before the Kings Blockhouse gradually faded.

I set out on a path of my own exploring, not knowing where it would lead; and there was only one trail through the woods, so I followed the red-brown earth underfoot toward the quiet. A little earlier the way had been all uphill, each step a try at slipping gravitys hold; now the ground ran level, and each step went forward toward the joy hidden in the unknown depths of the forest. The wooden boardwalk stretched on beneath my feet, stair laid upon stair, step after step, and the towering, close-grown trees passed by my stride. Warm morning light spilled through the layered green; gold and emerald, stirred by the breeze, painted an impression—an impression stored deep in the heart. The boardwalk, too, had its end, and at the end lay tumbled rocks with a small cascade racing over them, slight in volume yet sending up a rolling rumble. The mountain stream came from no knowing where, and went no knowing where. I sat there once, watching the water splash the rock wet, wind and spring filling the ear with clear listening. I cupped a handful of the spring—cold, piercing—and washed the journey from my face.

Back on the shaded boardwalk, my steps paused at a resting place. It was laid out like a bagua—the eight-sided figure of an older cosmology I knew—neither European nor quite African, yet the shape was familiar. Could this be the Picnic Area? On the way in I had asked a traveller how to reach Devils Peak; he told me to walk as far as the picnic area, then leave the boardwalk and climb. I steadied myself and found the sign: before the picnic area, beside the boardwalk, there was indeed a stone mottled with green moss, its arrow pointing up, reading Newlands Ravine. So I left the boardwalk, and scattered rocks came out to meet me, falling naturally into a stair of stone. The shade grew thicker, the green deeper, the solitude stiller. My heart quickened; my breath came short. Hands and feet worked over the rocks, searching out my bearings, following the shape of the track upward. Slowly the trees thinned and the wildflowers multiplied—nameless kinds on every side—and I knew the crest was near.

Looking back, the path I had come by could no longer be made out: only woods, one unbroken green. The breadth of the Cape Flats lay open below. Southward, along the running spine of the range, my gaze went on toward the far Cape of Good Hope; eastward it stopped at Limit Peak—the ridge I had once named, and could not cross. A few paces west—steps away—Table Mountain stood before me, and beyond Lions Head, the deep reach of the Atlantic. To the north, unmistakably, the back of Devils Peak, in drifting cloud. Hills and waters, taken in at one lift and fall of the eyes; a life, unforeseen, come to rest here—ten-odd years, so swiftly gone.

It is not only the passing clouds. Crossing one of lifes ridges, suddenly beholding a landscape never seen before, we too will shed our quiet tears.

I stayed a long while on the saddle between Table Mountains eastern ridge and Devils Peak, gazing at the mountain from the nearest distance of my life, looking on a splendour of flowers never seen before. As best I recall, it was past midday when I reached the saddle. A thin spring chill came on the mountain wind, and the mist—ah, the drifting mist—wound about the eyes; the path through the flowers was long gone. Only by parting layer after layer of thick wildflowers could I inch forward. Underfoot, uneven juts of rock and barren sand; before me, sturdy, hard-set wildflowers, unafraid of their harsh station. In scent and colour no different from the flowers of the plains—only fiercer in their will to live. Only after coming down the mountain did I search and learn that these flowers are known together as fynbos: of the worlds six floral kingdoms, the flora that belongs to the Cape of South Africa alone. Fynbos is admired for the toughness of its life, and the secret of that toughness is in its asking little, demanding little, forcing nothing; it settles where it falls, and so is content with heaven and at peace with fate. South Africas national flower, the King Protea, is of this kind.

Fynbos is strong of life and long of days—other flowers cannot come near it. Browsing Wikipedia, I found it has a stranger gift still: not only do ants carry its seeds into the earth, but the heat of fire wakes them into sprouting. That would explain why they are so thick and hard, so unlike the frailty of lowland blooms: the seed held within outlasts the burning, and puts forth new life. Fynbos, reborn from fire, is the phoenix among flowers. Standing on the saddle of Table Mountain, having walked through that sea of fynbos, I could only count myself fortunate: the bird of legend has gone unseen since antiquity; the flower of legend stood before my eyes that day. In the drifting haze the flowers swayed and rocked in the clear wind—and my heart with them!

Master Tao picked chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge and, at ease, saw the southern hills; and I, wandering the flowers of my exile, at ease, saw Table Mountain. To see it from so near brought none of the regret of standing too deep within a mountain to see it—only the free delight of a lightened spirit. Head down to the flowers, head up to the mountain; body lost in cloud, walking alone.

I turned toward Devils Peak, found the scree path, and gathered myself to climb again, step after step, turning now and then to look back at Table Mountain, studying its face as it changed in the light. The higher I went, the wider the view: once more the range ran out to its far end—the Cape of Good Hope farther south still—and from this angle the massed peaks stood at the meeting of two oceans. From the saddle, about half an hours walking brought me to the summit of Devils Peak: below, the city of Cape Town; and in the glittering water, Robben Island alone, where Mandela was once held.

The afternoon wearing late: time to go down. I weighed returning the way I had come; but wanting to catch a little more of the view, I took the long way round—from the saddle, crossing from the back of Devils Peak to its face, keeping to the highest line along the cliffs, then down the zigzag path. The cliff stretch was the most perilous of all: along the sheer edge one could only turn sideways and inch forward with every care. Next time I would know—never this path again. Southeast all the way, about an hours going, and I was back at the Kings Blockhouse where I had begun. Then downhill to Rhodes Memorial. By the hour of sundown the sun was dropping fast into the Atlantic; the eastern ridge of Table Mountain had lost its light and was going dark. I caught the last of the dusk, and drove away.

Eight hours on foot: the body thoroughly spent, the spirit brimming. Half a year has passed in a turn of the eye. In those months I have now and then walked the trails above Rhodes Memorial, but lingered only on the lower slopes, never going deep again. In the same season my working life took a dramatic turn. Since the world will not change for my thinking, before all that cannot be changed there is only the fynbos and its lesson: asking little, demanding little, forcing nothing.

Once I set out on a path of my own exploring, not knowing where it would lead; and there was only one trail through the woods. In the forest of retreat there is neither honour nor disgrace; on the road of right there is neither warmth nor chill—the Caigentan, too, marks out a way. May I, deep in the quiet forest, never forget the road of right—yet with no honour and no disgrace, no warmth and no chill.