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.