Tales from the Trail: True Horror Stories from the Drakensberg (That We Can Laugh About Now)

“Not every monster hides under the bed. Some wear trail runners and pack couscous.”

Welcome to stories from the Drakensberg: where the views are biblical, the weather is vengeful, and the strange noises in the night are either baboons, ghosts, or your teammate Gary crying into a lentil packet.

We’ve seen some things. Heard some things. Smelled some things. And now, dear reader, we invite you into the madness.

These are true stories.
Names have been changed.
Digestion has not.
Enjoy.

1. The Ghost Cow of Mbundini Cave

“We heard it just after midnight. A deep, echoing ‘Moooooo.’ Then silence. And then… the chewing.”

It began like most horror stories: in a cave, in the mountains, surrounded by sleep-deprived hikers trying to convince themselves that the wind wasn’t whispering their names.

We were deep in the Northern Drakensberg, camped in Mbundini Cave, known for two things, its excellent shelter, and its uncanny ability to make you question reality.

At around 00:42, someone sat bolt upright and whispered, “Did you hear that?”
Then it came again.
Moooooooo.
Long. Low. Soul shaking.

We scrambled for headlamps. Nothing. Just darkness. No cow. No movement. Only that terrifying bovine sound.
Another moo. This one… closer.

One of the hikers, Paul, swore he saw eyes glowing from the back of the cave. Another insisted it was just condensation. A third person quietly started packing their bag, ready to hike out immediately. At midnight. In winter. Like really Cheryl.

By sunrise, we’d found no tracks. No droppings. No signs of life at all. Just the echo of a haunted moo bouncing off our memories.

Some say it was a cow that wandered up from the valley.
Some say it was the ghost of a cow that never made it back.
We say if you hear the moo, do not answer it.

2. The Avocado and the Ukulele

“He said it was for ‘vibes.’ The only vibe I got was rage.”

This one happened during a guided Amphitheatre hike. Group of eight. Varying levels of experience. One guy named Jono who had “traveller energy.” You know the type… floral bandana, short shorts, and an air of mystical confidence that only comes from never having packed your own tent.

At the trailhead, he proudly unpacked an avocado. Just one. A ripe, delicate, easily squashed avo for “after summit guac.”
Then he pulled out a ukulele.
An actual ukulele.

We tried to explain: the trail involves vertical gain, scrambling, possible hailstorms, and a ledge that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. He waved us off. “I’ve climbed in Nepal, bru. It’s all about balance.”

By hour two, the avo had exploded inside his pack, coating everything in a green smear of disappointment. His sleeping bag. His spare socks. His dignity.
By hour three, we found the ukulele crushed flat between a rock and his ego.

That night, as we huddled around a stove eating rehydrated curry and giggling uncontrollably, Jono stared into the flames and whispered,
“Maybe I wasn’t ready for the Berg.”
No, Jono. You weren’t.
But thanks for the story.

3. Altitude Ate My Boyfriend

“He was fine… until he wasn’t. And then he cried because his instant oats ‘tasted like betrayal.’”

They were the golden couple.
Matching fleeces. Matching gaiters. Matching enthusiasm.
They’d trained together. Posted gym selfies together. Told us they were “ready to conquer anything.”

We should’ve known.

By the second day of the Mnweni Circuit hike, she was crushing it. Leading the pack. Smiling. Radiant.
He was… struggling. Slowing down. Breathing hard. Occasionally muttering things like “It’s just the altitude” and “I’m saving energy.”

By that evening, it had escalated to sitting in silence, hood pulled up, staring at his tent wall like it had personally betrayed him.
The next morning, she was chipper. Offering instant oats and gentle encouragement.

He took one bite and said, “This tastes like lies.”
Then he cried.

It wasn’t dehydration. It wasn’t fatigue. It was the slow erosion of confidence that only high-altitude hiking can deliver, especially when your partner is thriving and you’re held together by dental floss and pride.

They’re still together.
But she now books solo hikes.

4. Lentils, Lightning, and the Emotional Collapse of Gary

“The lentils were undercooked. The lightning was aggressive. Gary was… not okay.”

Let me set the scene.

Day three of a five day traverse. Spirits high. Bodies sore. Gary, a first timer with big energy and questionable gear was doing well.

Then the weather turned. Like, Biblical turned.
Lightning cracked above the ridge. Rain came sideways. We made camp just in time to avoid becoming human conductors.

Dinner was lentils. Rehydrated, rushed, a little crunchy.
Gary took one bite, looked at the sky, and said:
“This is how I die.”

He proceeded to have a mild, lentil triggered breakdown in the vestibule of his tent. Muttered something about how “the mountains reflect the chaos within,” and then threw his spork at a rock.

Later, as we watched the storm pass, sipping tea and listening to Gary’s tent flap in the wind like a sad flag of surrender, we realised he had gone full existential.

In the morning, he was fine.
Mostly.
He now calls lentils “emotional legumes.”
We call that trip: The Great Garystorm.

5. Fluffy the Ice Rat (Sherman’s Cave Edition)

“It was our last night. Spirits were high. Food was low. And then the screaming started.”

Six days of sweat, rain, blisters, and bonds. We’d crossed rivers, scrambled ridgelines, misjudged lentil portions, and made peace with the smell of damp socks.
Our final stop: Sherman’s Cave. Cathedral Peak looming above. The promise of a warm shower and greasy burger less than 24 hours away.

We were relaxed. Too relaxed.

At 1:03 a.m., a blood-curdling scream shattered the silence.
Then another.
Then rustling. Scratching. Panic.
One of the hikers yelled, “Something’s in my bag!”
Another cried, “It’s on my face!”

Headlamps lit up like disco balls. Chaos erupted. Sleeping bags flailed. Someone threw a Croc. Another person curled into the foetal position, muttering “I didn’t sign up for this.”

There it was… perched on the cave ledge like it owned the place, Fluffy the Ice Rat.
Big eyes. Bigger attitude. Completely unbothered by the mayhem.

We tried everything:
Clapping.
Stomping.
Offering it a Squillo bar as tribute.

Eventually, I did what no guide ever wants to admit.
I caught the little monster using a Jetboil lid and a drybag, sealed it like a cursed relic, and gently relocated it to the far side of the cave.

We all lay awake for the rest of the night. Listening. Waiting.
But Fluffy did not return.
We like to believe he moved on to terrorise another hiking group.
Maybe somewhere in Organ Pipes.

The Moral of the Story?

If you think the Drakensberg is just hiking and fresh air, you’re adorable.

This place has everything: ghost cows, crying boyfriends, lightning-fueled emotional spirals, and rogue rodents with a vendetta.
But it also has golden sunrises, roaring waterfalls, silent caves, and the kind of raw, soul-igniting beauty that makes it all worth it.

Just… maybe don’t bring an avocado.