Conrad Stoltz
Puppy
The Katse Dam Challenge
Gert Stoltz
The time for the next bike trip was long overdue. The last one with the Beemer to Stellenbosch in February had already faded to just a pleasant memory, and there was the unfinished business of Normandien Pass. During the previous trip a couple of riders I met at Verkykerskop wanted to persuade me to ride Normandien Pass with them, an invitation which I had to turn down because it would have taken me in exactly the opposite direction from where I was heading. But they described the pass in such glowing terms that I promised myself that I would still do that trip. And early in May 2010 the opportunity presented itself. At the same time, and with the front wheel pointing in the right direction anyway, there was no reason why I should not also include the Katse Dam in the itinerary. I have heard enough about the road leading to the dam to justify a first hand exploration . What was more, the weather was particularly pleasant and the longer term forecast promised the same for the foreseeable future.

On Friday 14 May 2010 the GS 1200 and I leave the farm on the first leg which would end at Ermelo with a sleepover at the family. The Waterfall River Pass is as enchanting as ever, and the worst of the potholes on the way to Dullstroom have been filled in with soil, so that I reach Belfast without any major mishap – which is more than can be said of the rider of a Suzuki who recently cracked the frame of his bike and wrecked his rear rim on the same road. The road to Carolina and Lake Chrissie is quiet with a good surface, and you can cruise along at a nice clip while the rich autumn colours of the ripening veld stream past you. And you wonder why you have waited so long before you hooked up the panniers and swung your leg over your trusted old mount.
When I leave Ermelo the next morning the Beemer’s computer indicates a mild 12 degrees, which is a sure indication that winter is not with us yet. The roadworks on the way to Amersfoort, however, add seriously to your travelling time, and although there is some visible activity taking place, there does not seem to have been much progress since I travelled the same route three months ago. The deviations are still being irrigated regularly, so that they are slippery and messy. So much for my impeccably clean bike. But this is familiar territory for me as I grew up in the metropolis of Amersfoort. Along the way you cross the Riet Spruit of which I have poignant memories. As a bunch of carefree youngsters we used to swim with our horses in the Riet Spruit: bare backed and bare arsed. Shall I ever forget the hapless Justice Robertson whose horse once ran away with him past a few fishermen and their families on the banks of the river – and not knowing whether to hide his crown jewels with his hands or hang on to the reins.
Amersfoort itself has become pathetic, soulless and dirty, and I drive through it with a nostalgic sense of loss. The road takes me past what used to be our farm, but it appears to have become the victim of a land restitution programme, and I decide to close the book on the recollections of my youth: what matters is the here and now: The bike, and the ripening grass, the azure sky and that yellow orb up there. There is no reason why you should be a prisoner of the past.
When I approach Volksrust, a strong wind springs up and drives heavy clouds in over the coutryside. Majuba’s head is wreathed in fog, and I can imagine the ghost of the late General Colley hugging its shoulders and stamping its feet and cursing its luck. There are delays on Laing’s Nek Pass due to road works, but the fact that with a bike you can drive past all the waiting cars and stop at the front of the queue gives you a malicious feeling of superiority over the other poor slobs who are pinned down in their cars. Once I was even waved through by a particularly bright traffic regulator who suggested that I proceed against the traffic by weaving through the oncoming vehicles. Bless her perspicacious heart.
In New Castle I get confusing directions on how to find the road that would take me to Normandien Pass and I do a round trip through the Indian township before I eventually discover the appropriate track. Long before you get to the pass itself there are sign posts warning you about the unfriendly nature of the pass and the undesirability of trying to cross it in the family saloon. The heavy rains of the last few seasons certainly have not done the pass any favours. Where the pass is particularly steep there are concrete strips to help you along. Where there are not, you battle along washed out gullies and bounce around and over rocks which put your skills and your bike’s ruggedness to the test. It is too steep to stop along the way to take photographs, and when I get to the top where you can pull off for a photo or two, the camera batteries are flat. Pity, because the midlands of Natal lie spread out in a vast panorama far below and would certainly make a captivating photo. It would certainly be a photo to reminisce about when dotage eventually claims you.
I get back on the bike and ride on, just to discover that the clouds I have seen earlier sweeping in from the South have obliterated the pass on the Western side. I ride on in an eerie stillness and concentrate on the road which is hardly visible in the dense fog. I console myself with the argument: you wanted adventure, now enjoy it. As I descend the fog starts lifting and eventually becomes a canopy under which you cruise easily on a good dirt road with sleek cattle alongside to please any farmer’s eyes. But I have no idea what the scenery along the Western approach to Normandien Pass looks like. Which means that I will probably have to do this trip again. Ah, the burdens that life lays on us!!
Gert Stoltz
The time for the next bike trip was long overdue. The last one with the Beemer to Stellenbosch in February had already faded to just a pleasant memory, and there was the unfinished business of Normandien Pass. During the previous trip a couple of riders I met at Verkykerskop wanted to persuade me to ride Normandien Pass with them, an invitation which I had to turn down because it would have taken me in exactly the opposite direction from where I was heading. But they described the pass in such glowing terms that I promised myself that I would still do that trip. And early in May 2010 the opportunity presented itself. At the same time, and with the front wheel pointing in the right direction anyway, there was no reason why I should not also include the Katse Dam in the itinerary. I have heard enough about the road leading to the dam to justify a first hand exploration . What was more, the weather was particularly pleasant and the longer term forecast promised the same for the foreseeable future.

On Friday 14 May 2010 the GS 1200 and I leave the farm on the first leg which would end at Ermelo with a sleepover at the family. The Waterfall River Pass is as enchanting as ever, and the worst of the potholes on the way to Dullstroom have been filled in with soil, so that I reach Belfast without any major mishap – which is more than can be said of the rider of a Suzuki who recently cracked the frame of his bike and wrecked his rear rim on the same road. The road to Carolina and Lake Chrissie is quiet with a good surface, and you can cruise along at a nice clip while the rich autumn colours of the ripening veld stream past you. And you wonder why you have waited so long before you hooked up the panniers and swung your leg over your trusted old mount.
When I leave Ermelo the next morning the Beemer’s computer indicates a mild 12 degrees, which is a sure indication that winter is not with us yet. The roadworks on the way to Amersfoort, however, add seriously to your travelling time, and although there is some visible activity taking place, there does not seem to have been much progress since I travelled the same route three months ago. The deviations are still being irrigated regularly, so that they are slippery and messy. So much for my impeccably clean bike. But this is familiar territory for me as I grew up in the metropolis of Amersfoort. Along the way you cross the Riet Spruit of which I have poignant memories. As a bunch of carefree youngsters we used to swim with our horses in the Riet Spruit: bare backed and bare arsed. Shall I ever forget the hapless Justice Robertson whose horse once ran away with him past a few fishermen and their families on the banks of the river – and not knowing whether to hide his crown jewels with his hands or hang on to the reins.
Amersfoort itself has become pathetic, soulless and dirty, and I drive through it with a nostalgic sense of loss. The road takes me past what used to be our farm, but it appears to have become the victim of a land restitution programme, and I decide to close the book on the recollections of my youth: what matters is the here and now: The bike, and the ripening grass, the azure sky and that yellow orb up there. There is no reason why you should be a prisoner of the past.
When I approach Volksrust, a strong wind springs up and drives heavy clouds in over the coutryside. Majuba’s head is wreathed in fog, and I can imagine the ghost of the late General Colley hugging its shoulders and stamping its feet and cursing its luck. There are delays on Laing’s Nek Pass due to road works, but the fact that with a bike you can drive past all the waiting cars and stop at the front of the queue gives you a malicious feeling of superiority over the other poor slobs who are pinned down in their cars. Once I was even waved through by a particularly bright traffic regulator who suggested that I proceed against the traffic by weaving through the oncoming vehicles. Bless her perspicacious heart.
In New Castle I get confusing directions on how to find the road that would take me to Normandien Pass and I do a round trip through the Indian township before I eventually discover the appropriate track. Long before you get to the pass itself there are sign posts warning you about the unfriendly nature of the pass and the undesirability of trying to cross it in the family saloon. The heavy rains of the last few seasons certainly have not done the pass any favours. Where the pass is particularly steep there are concrete strips to help you along. Where there are not, you battle along washed out gullies and bounce around and over rocks which put your skills and your bike’s ruggedness to the test. It is too steep to stop along the way to take photographs, and when I get to the top where you can pull off for a photo or two, the camera batteries are flat. Pity, because the midlands of Natal lie spread out in a vast panorama far below and would certainly make a captivating photo. It would certainly be a photo to reminisce about when dotage eventually claims you.
I get back on the bike and ride on, just to discover that the clouds I have seen earlier sweeping in from the South have obliterated the pass on the Western side. I ride on in an eerie stillness and concentrate on the road which is hardly visible in the dense fog. I console myself with the argument: you wanted adventure, now enjoy it. As I descend the fog starts lifting and eventually becomes a canopy under which you cruise easily on a good dirt road with sleek cattle alongside to please any farmer’s eyes. But I have no idea what the scenery along the Western approach to Normandien Pass looks like. Which means that I will probably have to do this trip again. Ah, the burdens that life lays on us!!
