The Changing Face of Castle Rock Conservancy – As Seen From Castle Rock

The Sea Slopes below the road have just about been cleared of invasive alien trees. The same applies for the entire northern section of the Castle Rock Conservancy from BlueGumsFree to Castle Rock itself. These photos from slightly different angles show the extent of the clearing. What began as a quixotic struggle around the Blue Gums plot has become serious undertaking. Castle Rock Conservancy is now 80% clear of invasive aliens.

Before clearing

After clearing

Close up shots give a clearer indication of how fynbos is restored once the invasives are removed. Here are two photos from the BlueGumsFree plot. The first was taken in 2000 when the stands of spider gums still dominated the area. Invasive alien removal began a year later. The trees in the first photograph were removed in 2001/2. The second photograph was taken in June 2015 and shows mature stands of fynbos.

The Changes at Blue Gums Free – as recorded on Google Earth

The area around Blue Gums in 2010. It looks green and healthy – but a great deal of the vegetation is alien invasive. The Blue Gums owners residents and friends slowly but surely chipped away at the spider gums, hakea, rooikrans and port jackson from 2001 to 2010 (area circled in red).

Five years later (2015) and after many years of solo effort around Blue Gums, the Castle Rock Conservancy – of which Blue Gums Free is a part – received private funding from the landowners and public funding from Working Water and the clearing began in earnest. (areas circled in black)

My Manenberg Boots

The mountain is rough – to climb it, one needs tough soles. No tackies. No hiking sandals. Boots. I was on a shoestring budget so my boots were tied up in the Cape Flats.

Manenberg may not be a place many Castle Rockers rock up at. Nor do many Manenbergs hike Blue Gums. It was pure necessity that made me trek the divide.

Of course I was told the gangs there were more dangerous than the Cape Cobras on our trails. And that the ride along the slum-lined streets would be more demanding than a hike along the Danger Rocks cliff-face. But I’m frugal, and I needed boots.

So Siyasanga and I drove to Nyanga Junction. I wasn’t allowed to get out at first for fear of getting the white price but eventually I spoilt the deal and showed my true color. The wares were lined up in the plaza, across from the chest-high pile of old clothing. I tried on a few pairs, found the right fit, haggled weakly, paid a bit too much, and got back in the car with my new pair of boots. Steel-toed boots probably made for road work. Ankle-high boots probably made for digging ditches. But this pair was about to reach new heights. And after that we went to the Gugulethu mall for some work clobber. No stress, I confess.

We want to bring people from the flats out to Blue Gums, but first we have to make it walkable. And the first step to doing that, is getting to know the distance someone else has traveled. I’m glad I didn’t let paranoia send me to Cavendish that day, even if it was naïveté that helped me surmount the barrier. I felt like I stood out as a pale prick, awkwardly trying on a pair of shoes that should never enter a cubicle or conference room. My outlandishness even cost me an extra fifty rand. But everyone else was doing their shopping that day, so why not me?

And the boots are still proving their worth, as the soles peel off and the laces fray and the fabric tears, the Blue Gums still fall.

Celestial Sea

Curve above the surfers at Muizenberg
Dodge a drunk couple in Kalk Bay
Turn past the superettes in Fishoek
Whiz by the battleships in Simonstown
Veer away from a penguin at Boulder’s

And the night falls heavily as Miller’s Point approaches.

The sea is more black than the cobalt sky, and the stars run across it from Swartkop to the Kogelberg.

But by the time you rumble into the driveway at Blue Gums, your eyes have adjusted. It may be dark, but there is always light. The full moon lights the stairway or the the stars shine bright, a million pinpricks that pierce the black veil of the sea.

When night falls, the /Xam raise their tall tales of the stars. A girl skipped through the sky, scattering fiery ashes behind her like pollen in the wind. The Bushmen followed this glowing path home each night, the same spray of white that we call the Milky Way. But her constellation had a spicy edge as she scattered the contents of that night’s cooking fire, with tasty roots landing where red stars now lie. (Hollmann 2000)

In our night sky, there is no prancing maiden to fill the eve. The only sound of the distant beauty hovering above is the silent reminder of the beauty it is to live on solid ground, to care for it, to smell the kamphorbush and buchu in the breeze. Maybe I am the blind shepherd in Van Der Post’s recollection of the Star Woman’s Basket, but I do not long to sit upon a star. Stars look best from a distance.

One can draw meaning from a few constellations – bright scorpius (while ours glow beneath the granite stones), twisting serpens (ours too hide in the cool darkness beneath the bishes), dull aquarius (and in our waters, the magic swims beneath the surface). But at Blue Gums, we have it all here.

Our story is the quiet from the city, still developing in our bosoms as we seep into the sea and find our own solace. We grow over the night fires that we burn to the crackle of gum and from the fresh morning when the last star winks out and the mountain splays out above, wide and green.

One is dwarfed at Blue Gums, yet embraced all the same – a simple dot in a black galaxy, but we know our place in it.

It is a windy road home.

Baboon Humor

The baboon visits are getting increasingly comical – there’s not other way to deal with their ever-growing need to get to know us and our pantries a little better. There was the lunch hour that I learned their taste for Italian cuisine, and the morning when a curious one joined Roz for her book club, albeit depriving them of their brunch.

Most recently they came to check out our newly constructed dam, where I had set up a camera trap. I wasn’t targeting them, just trying to see whichever animals might enjoy the improved water source, really. After tasting the water, the baboons noticed themselves being watched. And, like the pasta-loving, in-fighting, mafia of a family they are, we soon found our security devices tampered with. Don’t mess with the locals!

Sheltered in the Forest

They hide in the forest and the forest is hidden.

The mountain’s contours are layered like the story of Blue gums; the sea is the base and the rocks the crown and sandwiched between are the stand of gums and the swath of fynbos. The layers’ uniqueness makes each seem to belong to a separate place on the slopes – the grandeur of the rockface, the sea’s infinity, the bush so thick. Meanwhile, their immensity makes it easy to glaze over the enclaves of native forest that remain. But the traces of the forest remain clear; running through each layer, from peak to foot, streams cut away at the contours’ hierarchy.

Swaths along the contours, stretching from the city heights to the depths of Cape Point.

the stream to the forest, carving into the shelter of the cliff; blue gums upper right

Far above Blue Gums, tucked into a cleft of lichen-speckled granite, a native canopy persists. It survives on a misty trickle caught by a funnel of towering stone, and it tells the story of old. There above, stately red alders congregate like Tolkien’s ents, plotting the future of the shrubby streambeds below.

Gateposts of granite and trunk disrupt the march of the fynbos.

a determined boekenhout (Rapanea melanophloeos) competes with the cliff-face for stature

Clambering up the mountain, the only toeholds are the tight roots of shrubby buchus, rhamnus and restios. One might stumble across a snake, or catch the gaze of a falcon. With the sun beating down directly overhead, there seems to be little shelter for a hungry beast. But where the chatter of the stream descends into shadow, beneath the imposing shelter of the cliff-face the forest spreads across the rocks, ancient boekenhout shuts out the harsh light and a myriad of trees flower in the understory. A shrub like Camphor Bush (Tarchonanthus camphoratus) which scrambles across the driest parts of the mountain like a weed, here is a twisted old trunk as sturdy as it is gnarled. Some trees are seen nowhere else on the mountainside, their delicate flowers poking out in the rare shade, curtseying for some hungry forest-dweller to pass along their seed. Seeds sprout from the elbows of branches where mushrooms have left a fertile bed.

Points on the landscape ensconced in the rare shade.

canopy of red alder (Cunonia capensis) flowers and seeds the forest below

This wood is surely a place of refuge for more than thirsty old trees. Along the sloping floor, one stumbles across piles of dung, where wildlife have used the trees for both fodder and shelter. The fertility of this place is braced to spread across the mountain. Cape lore says that every stream was once forested before it was felled. After all, the first owners of spider gum plantations must have built their homes with some local timber.

Stripes running down the mountain between the thick stands of fynbos.

animal droppings grace the forest floor

This is our Peak of Good Hope. In the darkness of the gums at the road edge, these natives hang on as shrubs, seemingly waiting to be freed. They cannot survive in the raw heat of the sun, yet they cannot thrive beneath the heavy shower of alien leaves. There are indigenous seeds everywhere in this nested forest and beneath the canopy of the gums. As we peel off the shadowy foliage of the gums, we unearth a forest ready to regenerate across the seaside escarpment.

A patchwork of landscapes which together we call The Mountain. And the fabric’s thread, is the forested stream.

The Branch-breaker’s Approval

On the road to Cape Point, some artist managed to paint graffiti, pictured here. Why they chose Partridge Point, I do not know. But more importantly, the tagged rockface bore none other than the face of Nelson Rholihlahla Mandela himself. Like this rebellious artist, many labelled the virtuous leader mischievous; even his name, Rholihlahla, means the one who breaks the branch from the tree. Mandela surmounted the gargantuan challenges of his lifetime by find humor in the most serious of situations and played upon the faults of his foes. Here at Blue Gums, I interpret the meaning of Rholihlahla more literally, as we mischievously restore the fynbos vegetation by breaking away the branches of the gums, one tree at a time. It’s refreshing to see Tata’s face plastered on New York Bus stops, Beijing embassies, Cape Town brick walls, and here, at this most remote corner of Africa. You see, while Mandela was indeed a social savior, a champion of peoples urban and rural alike, he was also a worthy leader in environmental causes. In his 1993 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech he proposed that a healthy environment is essential to the normal condition for human existence. His many speeches, quoted throughout this post, are reflective of that. “The struggle for sustainable development nearly equals the struggle for political freedom. They can grow together or they can unravel each other.”  World Commission on Dams, 2000 His belief in the health of the environment was so strong that at the 2002 Earth Summit he labelled the “the absence of access to clean water” as the “most stark in the widespread impoverishment of the natural environment” (Guardian, 29 Aug, ’02). For him, restoration of water resources was not just an environmental concern, but a societal necessity. With each alien branch we break and each alien trunk we fell, we return the water it over-consumed to the stream and the fynbos which depend on it. Ours too is a battle of redistribution of resources. Long before his goal was achieved he started a garden as a prisoner at Pollsmoor. This he cared for to revitalize himself, sustain his fellow prisoners by supplying his harvest to the prison kitchen, and make peace with his wardens by offering gifts of fresh produce. In this way, Madiba exemplified that a person is stronger when he supports those around him. “To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction.”  (Long Walk to Freedom) So it is good to know that even Madiba has given his support for our humble effort. In his virtues, we follow suit, empowering local, disadvantaged communities through skills-training and employment, while restoring biodiversity and water flow to this unique ecosystem. On the mountain as in the city, people and nature are interdependent and symbiotic. “Like the gardener, a leader must take responsibility for what he cultivates… preserve what can be preserved, and eliminate what cannot succeed.”  (Long Walk to Freedom) The invasives come in hordes, their billions of seeds and stubborn coppices resprouting regardless of the harsh conditions they grow in. At times, our task to eradicate them seems impossible. But if anyone can demonstrate that every challenge is surmountable, it is Madiba, and we will carry his spirit forward with each blooming protea on the mountain. Our allies give us hope: predatory insects, community partners, national support. It is up to us on the ground with our own inspiration to take it to the finish line, restoring fynbos and removing the threat of reinvasion of bluegums for generations to come. In the words of the man himself:  “Sometimes it falls on a generation to be great. YOU can be that great generation. Let your greatness blossom.”

A glass of (cloud)water

Bluegummers survive at the brink of the clouds.

Sandwiched between watery sea and watery sky, our abode is a speck of sweet water just before it melds into the sickly salty sea.

We don’t have conveyance systems, pumps, or wastewater stations. Our reservoir is small enough for preschool kids like Tawana to play in. All we have is the mountain, its gravity pumping the waters down, its kloofs funneling them toward the sea, its granite and fynbos filtering the waters to purity.

coasting on the coattails of summer winds, a carpet of cloud streaks across the Blue Gums ridge

We live willingly at the clouds’ whim, through winter storms and (usually) dry summers. Without any municipal pipes, it’s the summers that cause worry. But luckily the summer brings winds as well, as the Cape Doctor whips toward us from Antarctica; throughout the dry season, the Doctor’s clouds collide into our mountainous ridge, allowing the stream to flow through the summer. Lying on our backs after a long day’s work, we watch the clouds stream by, whisked on the wind, streaking over the peak. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, the summer day turns dark and a mist envelopes the escarpment, transforming it into a mysterious vertical wonderland, where familiar outcroppings suddenly become hideouts, and patches of shrubs become thickets of adventure.

But it’s usually sun in the summer. Hot, merciless, inconveniently-determined-to-burn sun. In the midst of work on a hot day, singing helps keep the mind off the heat. In dedication to the relief of a cloud burst, there’s a Xhosa gospel song that often comes to mind while on the mountain (which I’ve adopted to a more secular enviro-industrial tilt):

Bayeza, bayeza, amanzi phezulu, onke amehlo ayakhumbona

[They’re coming, they’re coming, the waters from above, all of the eyes are watching it]

Simbonesiza sinzengamafu, onke amehlo ayakhumbona

[We see it coming upon the clouds, all of the eyes are watching it!]

Amidst beads of sweat, our pursuit of the never-ending weeds progresses upstream and approaches the waterfall, our own misty paradise, where specks of water fling through sunrays into golden illumination.

And at the end of the long day, a dip in the pond and a refreshingly cool glass of cloudwater.

Caught in the web

Tranquil, dewey and green, Blue Gums seems as gentle as a babe to our approaching guests. But, once they step out of their cars and onto the stone steps, they realize what being on the edge of wilderness means. Even before our warnings about baboons, newcomers meet the spiders.

It is the webs one meets first. Their webs are layered over every path, from the first sturdy structure of the mother, to the myriad spinnings of her progeny. The slightest brush across a web can startle someone into seeing its maker, a pincer-legged, hairy, blue and yellow beast with a bulbous abdomen filled with prey, eggs, or imaginary poison. These massive arachnids brace themselves and peer down calmly at any intruders.

While they seem to be relaxing for most of the day, the spiders spend a great deal of energy building their webs. And that works up a voracious appetite. Trapping prey keeps the impregnated females busy, and they are merciless. These menacing mothers package one lost bee after another, filling the edges of their webs with takeaway meals. But no fly would be foolish enough to wander through a dense forest. Their captors lie in wait between tree limbs, over trails, from the edges of walls. They need both the canopy and the light, they need habitat on the edge of a transit corridor to harvest bees, just as we need our cozy home on a rural road to soak up the wilderness.

And therein lies the conflict. You see, we Bluegummers commute to work on trails, hiking up the slopes in pursuit of alien invasives. Our trails make the perfect edge between branches and free-flowing air, the perfect place to spin a web and to catch passing insects. So on those same trails, the spiders spontaneously set up camp, like taxis stopping in the middle of the road. Before removing alien invasives we must clear away native arachnids. Their webs are taught and firm, and are textured yellow from the residue of nearby plants. The silken tapestries take a force to break and they break their normal poise and clamber elegantly over their web and away. Harmless after all.

Blue Gums Gathers In Another Ghost

Our wonderful, brave and loyal friend and companion, Mischa, had to be put down today. Mischa is arguably the most famous dog to grace this unusual place that has been as much a home to dogs as it has been for people. Everyone knows Mischa. For 13 years he has been going walkabout from Smitswinkel Bay to Murdoch Valley.

Mischa on his Mountain

Mischa on Walkabout at Fisherman’s Beach

How often was he picked up by well meaning strangers  assuming he was lost or abandoned – often from just outside our own driveway and taken to the vet or the pound. Eventually we put a tag on his collar with Rozzie’s number and the words NOT LOST! in capitals. From then onwards we would get the occasional call from someone who had found him on the road to Cape Point. “Hello. We have your dog Not Lost with us.”

 

The Leader of the Pack

Mischa, Rosalind’s shadow. Mischa, the dog who knew how to open sliding doors. Mischa, the stubborn Australian Cattle Dog with a mind of his own. Mischa, the brave and gallant defender of Blue Gums, keeping intruders and baboons at bay. Mischa, who taught five other dogs how to move the baboon troops away from our house without ever hurting them or being hurt themselves. Mischa, who had a pathological dislike for other male dogs and a ferocity to match. Mischa, the powerful and the brave with the bark of a consumptive.

Tomorrow we take Mischa home to Blue Gums to bury him alongside Jezzy and Sutika and Fronk. Not lost is lost to us forever more. But his ghost is already sitting at the top of the Blue Gums steps, looking out to the Cape Point Road, waiting faithfully for Rosalind, his beloved owner to come home.

A Tired Old Man – Six Weeks Ago. As Always Waiting at the Foot of Rozzie’s Bed