Memorable moments: The evolution of Srini

My close friend Srini is a remarkable man. Raised in Bangalore, India, he began his life as a self-described computer nerd—a coder who spent the majority of his time behind a screen, significantly overweight and largely confined to his room.

Then, out of the blue, a LinkedIn job offer arrived from Australia. It took immense courage, but Srini got up from his desk and flew to a land he didn't know, where he knew absolutely no one.

In an effort to meet people, he joined a hiking group on MeetUp. For his first trek—a long trail in the Royal National Park—he arrived as the ultimate beginner: wearing jeans and carrying his lunch and gear in plastic shopping bags instead of a backpack.

I met him shortly after on another hike and immediately fell for him. He was a beautiful, friendly, and passionate guy, and that passion was quickly transferring to the outdoors. He graduated to a more professional group, tackling challenging, off-track routes. As the weight fell off, a new version of Srini emerged.

He became a master of navigation, leading our little group of friends into remote wilderness areas. He was fearless. He took up climbing, then canyoning—which required swimming through dark, subterranean rivers that never saw the sun. Remarkably, he could hardly swim when he started, but he refused to let that stop him.

Soon, the man who once carried shopping bags was abseiling down massive waterfalls and setting up complex rope systems to keep us all safe. He took up pack rafting, learning to navigate huge rapids with the same precision he once used for code.

Today, Srini is the ultimate mountain man—fit, skilled, and fearless. He has pursued adventures across the Himalayas, New Zealand, and Europe. He is a true inspiration, proving that a person can completely rewrite their own "software" and that passion, once ignited, is the most infectious force in the world.

Memorable moments: The Wit Els hopping hazard

In 2006, I returned to Cape Town for the Wit Els hike with Ally, Russell, and our friend Mike. It was a formidable four-day undertaking: a steep mountain climb followed by a descent into a deep canyon for days of relentless boulder hopping along the river.

Just before we set off, Mike met two pretty Belgian backpackers. Smitten, he impulsively invited them along. We began the ascent, finally reaching the summit in the pitch black—only to discover that the top of the mountain was engulfed in a raging wildfire. It was terrifying, but we managed to reach "The Hoar Hut," which fortunately sat within a protective firebreak. We spent the night huddled inside while the world outside turned into a furnace.

The next morning, we descended into the steep canyon to begin the boulder hopping. It was here that Mike’s romantic gesture collided with cold, hard reality: the Belgian girls were catastrophically bad at it. They had zero balance and were incredibly cautious. Every hop was a twenty-minute negotiation.

By day three, we had only covered a third of the river. The "four-day" hike was looking more like a fortnight. With our supplies and patience dwindling, we were forced to take the only emergency exit on the river—a brutal, punishing climb back out over another mountain.

It was a stark lesson in the logistics of attraction: when inviting strangers on a boulder-hopping hike, always ensure they actually know how to hop.

Memorable moments: The $1 heartbreak

I have always loved a good shower, but two specific experiences stand out in my memory—one representing the pinnacle of human pleasure, the other a descent into cold, shivering despair.

In 2001, I tackled the Annapurna circuit in Nepal. It was a three-week trek through the staggering beauty of the Himalayas, but it came with a catch: for the first two weeks, there were no showers to be found. By the time we arrived in a small mountain town that offered hot water, I was more trail-dust than man.

That shower was the closest thing to religious bliss I have ever experienced. I didn't just stand there; I sat on the floor and rocked to and fro in utter ecstasy as the hot water hammered down on me. In that steaming cubicle, I made a silent, solemn vow to the universe: I will never take a hot shower for granted again.

Fourteen years later, the universe decided to test that vow.

I was hiking with friends near Lake St. Clair in Tasmania. It had been a long, miserable day of trekking through relentless rain. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with a deep, internal cold. When we finally made it back to the campsite, the sight of a shower block felt like a hallucination of salvation.

I hurried inside, fumbled out of my sodden clothes, and stood naked in the cubicle, trembling with anticipation. I reached for the handle, ready for that Himalayan heat—and saw the sign that broke my heart: INSERT $1 FOR HOT WATER.

Chuntering under my breath, I frantically searched my discarded clothes. I found notes. I found 50-cent pieces. I even found a $2 coin. But the elusive $1 gold coin was nowhere to be found.

There is a specific kind of fury that comes from standing naked and freezing in front of a machine that demands exactly what you don't have. Swearing at the injustice of it all, I had to pull my wet, cold clothes back onto my shivering body and head back out into the rain in search of a dollar.

Memorable moments: The falling forward pace

I have always loved to walk. Whether it’s a rugged trek through the wilderness or a long, exhilarating urban hike through the city, walking is my primary mode of engagement with the world. However, I often hear a familiar refrain from my companions: "Graeme, you walk so fast! I can't keep up."

The reason for my unrelenting pace can be traced back to my childhood and a man who, at least to my young eyes, seemed ancient and quite a slow mover. That was, until he started walking.

My Grandpa lived about five kilometers from our house in a flat by the Rondebosch station. He would regularly make the trip on foot to Bertram Crescent to pick up my sister, Jo, and me. He’d then walk us through the park back to his place.

Gramps had a very specific, slightly ungainly gait. It was a "falling forward" style of movement—a rhythmic, high-speed stumble that he somehow converted into pure velocity. As soon as he set off, he would fly. Jo and I would practically have to jog at his heels just to stay in his orbit. This pace was even more pronounced during our regular excursions to Muizenberg Beach. We would fly along the sand in that same desperate, joyful pursuit, my small legs working double-time to match his momentum.

I loved the challenge of it. But more than that, I loved the reward.

The absolute highlight of these expeditions was the Appletiser. My mum would always pack one in my bag for the journey. In the hierarchy of childhood treats, Appletiser was the "champagne of apple juices." Its sophisticated fizz made it my favorite drink in the world, a luxury reserved only for the most special occasions.

Sitting there, catching my breath and sipping that fizzy gold after a high-speed trek with Gramps, is one of my most vivid memories.

I realize now that my "fast-walking" isn't just a physical habit; it’s a piece of Lambert that I still carry with me. Every time I outpace a fellow hiker or fly through a city street, I’m back on that beach or in that park, an Appletiser waiting in my bag, forever trying to keep up with the man who taught me that the best way to move through the world is to fall forward into it with everything you've got.

Memorable moments: The crown jewel crisis

Back in 2014, I joined a Meetup hike in Berowra—a rugged stretch of bushland just north of Sydney that looks peaceful until it isn’t.

In a moment of questionable judgment, I wore open shoes.

About halfway up a steep climb, I suddenly felt a hot, searing stab in the side of my foot—as if someone had driven a red-hot needle straight into it. I looked down and found the culprit: an enormous bull ant, radiating menace and what I can only assume was quiet satisfaction.

The pain was so intense that I briefly began planning my medical future.

Thinking practically (or so I believed), I killed the ant, wrapped it in a hanky, and put it in my pocket—just in case I needed to show a doctor what had nearly ended me.

Fifteen minutes later, now descending the hill and feeling rather pleased with my resilience, I experienced a second, even more alarming sensation.

A hot. Sharp. Stabbing pain.

This time… uncomfortably close to my groin.

There is a very particular kind of panic reserved for moments like this.

It turns out the bull ant had not, in fact, been as deceased as I had confidently assumed.

I learned two very important lessons about Australian bush survival that day.

Firstly, in a land of giant bull ants, open shoes are not so much footwear as an invitation.

Secondly—and this is critical—if you put a bull ant in your pocket near your crown jewels, you must be absolutely certain it is dead.

Memorable moments: The five-day fast

In 2015, I planned a five-day trek along the Tsitsikamma coast. My friend Chrisel—a woman with a legendary appetite and a deep, spiritual devotion to dinner—flew into Cape Town the night before we set off.

Being responsible for the food on our hike, I handed her a small survival pack of trail snacks: a few nut bars, some chocolates, and a packet of crackers and cheese. It was the standard "emergency sugar" kit for a long day in the mountains. 

We drove to the start, hiked the first day, and eventually rolled into the overnight hut. Because this was a "luxury" hike, our actual provisions were being dropped off by vehicle each evening. On that first night, a feast fit for a king appeared: piles of fresh meat for a braai, salads, and all the trimmings.

Chrisel let out a sigh of relief that was louder than the crashing surf outside.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she gasped, eyeing the steak. "I thought that little packet you gave me last night was my food for the entire hike!"

I suppose I should have clarified the menu; for eight hours, she’d been hiking through one of the world's most beautiful landscapes, mentally calculating how to make one nut bar last until Thursday.

Memorable moments: The wailing waterfall

I was on a guided hike to the summit of the Drakensberg. At the very top, a pristine rock pool sat perched right at the lip of a massive waterfall, its water spilling over the edge into the abyss below. It was a scene of rugged beauty—and the perfect stage for some high-altitude bravado.

There was a girl in the group I was particularly keen to impress. I figured a fearless, mid-air leap into that infinity pool would cement my status as the alpha-adventurer of the expedition. I took a breath, channeled my inner action hero, and launched myself off the ledge.

The moment I hit the surface, the laws of thermodynamics struck back. The water wasn't just cold; it was a liquid ice-pick that instantly vacuum-sealed my lungs. Every ounce of "cool" evaporated in a millisecond.

As the current began nudging me toward the edge of the falls, I produced a noise usually reserved for a cat being dunked in an ice bath. I scrambled for the rocks, limbs flailing like a panicked crab, desperate to escape the liquid nitrogen before I became a permanent part of the scenery at the bottom of the mountain.

I went in hoping to look like a mountain god; I left looking like a man who had just been electrocuted by a puddle at three thousand metres.

Royal National Park: Wattamolla to Bundeena

A lovely day walking part of The Coastal Track in the Royal National Park. See a picture book of the day.

Overnight hike at Warrumbungles National Park

A super weekend of hiking with Gavin, Jack, Ashesh and Rayu.  Warrumbungles National Park is a 6 hour drive from Sydney.  We left on Friday afternoon and overnighted at a pub hotel in Capertee Valley which is half way and then drove the rest of the way on Saturday morning.  

After a lovely 5 km hike, we arrived at a wonderful hut where we overnighted before completing the rest of Grand High Tops circuit on Sunday after our usual delicious breakfast of sausages and garlic butter. The scenery was absolutely spectacular. The highlight was watching the sun set as it lit up the Breadknife and other granite structures.  

We met a lovely fellow hiker, Sarah, who alerted us to a great sunset spot and joined us. We also met two very friendly climbing guys who had done a 10 hour marathon climb up one of the huge rock structures in the park.

Hotel in Capertee

Warrumbungles

Amazing clouds on the drive home