In July 2010, I led a small group of teenagers and a teacher on a hike to Tarn Cave via Bushman’s Nek Pass. This is one of my favourite caves, but not so much for the cave itself because it is very breezy and heavy mist often rolls into it. Its main attraction is the splendid views it offers of the Devil’s Knuckles and the whole of the southern Berg escarpment. There are also some picturesque tarns in the area, and a fantasy world of rock formations everywhere you look.
After summiting the pass and heading along the border fence towards the main tarn above the cave, we stopped to admire some of the rock formations, whereupon the boys starting clambering over them to gain a height advantage.
On his descent, a 16-year old boy named Devon decided to do some bouldering and had his legs resting horizontally in front of him against the rock face while he hung from it with his arms, about 2 metres off the ground. As I watched, he tried to swing his feet down to the ground, but he let go too soon with his hands and landed hands first on the shale stones below.
With a yell of pain, anguish and disbelief, he rushed towards us holding his right wrist in his left hand. The pit of my stomach churned when I took a look at what he had done to himself. His right arm ended in a stump and his wrist and hand were parallel below it. It looked like a dislocation or possibly even a break and he was shaking in agony.
We completed the remaining 250 metres or so to the cave, got him seated and gave him some Myprodol for the pain, but only after carefully reading the instruction leaflet to ensure it was suitable for someone his age and to get the dosage correct. Administering medication to a student is normally an absolute no-no.
I usually wrap pre-cooked meals, chocolate bars and slabs, cheese and other heat-sensitive food in layers of newspaper to insulate them, and this hike was no exception. I gathered together 3 sheets of our local newspaper and wrapped them loosely around Devon’s arm as an improvised splint, with just his fingers sticking out. He found this so comfortable and supportive that he removed it only reluctantly when he eventually got to a hospital.
By now it was early afternoon and I had to make a decision about what to do next. I thought it would be best to find a horse to get him down the pass as soon as possible, but it was unlikely to be the same day because that would involve moving at night and arriving at the Bushmen’s Nek border post after it closed, which would further extend the journey over rough ground. We had travelled up in a school minibus, so we were going to have to stay together and I was very reluctant to put everyone through the rigour of a return trip the same day. It would also mean driving on livestock-infested, pothole-ridden roads at night. The risks seemed too high to even contemplate.
Now for the horse. I know the Sehlabathebe area quite well, so with another student in tow, I headed off in the direction of the old lodge in the hope of finding a horse there or organising one from one of the Lesotho villages nearby. The game guard tried to contact his headquarters office at Sehlabathebe village by radio, but to no avail. They were closed for the rest of the weekend. These options were a dead end and we returned empty-handed.
One can get cell phone reception about 150 metres from the cave, so we managed to contact a doctor (I am not sure who it was now) to ask for advice. I was given very alarming information – if blood vessels had been badly damaged, Devon could get a clot and die during the night. That was not what I wanted to hear. I asked for more information about what to look out for, and I was fairly satisfied that the situation was not that dire because Devon’s wrist showed no signs of internal bleeding or going blue, and there was surprisingly little swelling. I had to weigh up the risk of him dying versus all of us heading back in the dark to the minibus, and then running another gauntlet back to a hospital, perhaps in Howick.
Devon seemed settled and comfortable, everyone else by now was also settled in and preparing their evening meal, so I made the judgement call to stay put. We did contact Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife and tell them we would need a horse first thing in the morning to get Devon back down.
The teacher and I checked on Devon throughout the night, but he slept very well and we felt bad having to wake him just the once to repeat his dosage. In the morning, he woke and was up and about as though nothing had happened, and even accompanied me to the tarn where we met some game guards who must have left in the early hours of the morning to reach us. They looked a little peeved to see our patient so mobile. With a jacket sleeve pulled down over the makeshift splint, you could not tell him apart from the other boys. The game guards arrived sans a horse or even a stretcher, so I have no idea what they had in mind.
Devon was adamant that he was OK to hike back, and even donned his backpack, so that was that. We improvised a sling to support his arm, and returned via Bushman’s Nek Pass because it does not involve any clambering, unlike the alternative route. He even made his own plans to meet a friend in Hillcrest when we got back there, who would then take him to a hospital. When he was finally x-rayed, it turned out that he had a greenstick fracture.
