IT is a bright and sunny August Saturday in Juliasdale near Nyanga.
Far from urban madness, we are preparing for a lifetime family adventure; to climb Mt Nyangani.
Family meant me, wife, two sons (15 and six) and a daughter (21).
The build-up had been full of excitement, but on this morning, excitement had given way to apprehension and anxiety.
My elder son had had a terrible nightmare the night before.
He kept repeating it, but I refused to see any premonition behind his dream.
Not that I was completely unworried.
Who would not?
The internet is awash with stories of people who have disappeared; real people, people with names.
In 1981 two young daughters of the then Minister of Finance, Dr Tichaendepi Masaya, disappeared on this mountain without a trace.
In 1986, Robert Archurst, an eight-year old primary school boy from Banket also vanished without trace on the mountain.
In January 2014, Zayd Dada of Belvedere also mysteriously disappeared on the mountain.
These incidents were global news that catapulted Nyangani Mountain to Bermuda Triangle notoriety.
There are many other such claims of undocumented disappearances.
I had every reason to be worried.
Outside immediate family, I had kept this trip a closely guarded secret.
Neither my mother nor my friends would have allowed me to proceed with such child’s play.
We drove the treacherous path to the foot of the mountain in our huffing and puffing sedan.
The drive seemed to take forever.
The dwarf msasa trees making occasional appearance on either side of the dirty track looked spooky, which only served to increase our anxiety.
We finally arrived at 11.30 am, just making it before the noon climbing curfew.
After a short introduction, mainly on housekeeping issues, the Parks guide led the ascent along the marked path.
The climb is divided into resting stages before the peak.
It is a 3,5 km meandering climb, kukwira gomo hupoterera style, to the 2 593m peak.
At stage two, where a stream emerges from the mountain, we take a long rest and refill our water bottles with this very clean mountain-filtered water.
As we are about to resume the climb, my wife and daughter decide to call off their participation.
It is a silent, but emotional parting.
Down to myself, two sons and the guide, we set off for stage three.
The climb has become fairly steep.
At stage four, close to my feet, I notice what looks like a brown dwarf hen, what we would call chihindiya in the village probably because of assumed Indian ancestry.
Scary as it was, I kept the observation to myself.
This was part of the ground rules.
Finally we get to stage five on the edge of the mountain top.
From here it’s a relaxing mountain-top flat walk before we begin the final assault on the outcrop summit to the peak.
I am just praying for my dying battery to persevere until after the photo session at the peak.
Temperatures have dropped markedly.
My elder son is audibly becoming apprehensive again.
My little one excitedly points at something and he is quickly admonished by the guide.
Suddenly from a distance, the black and white trig beacon makes an appearance.
It waters our resolve.
At 13.30 pm we are posing for photos, stepping on what is Zimbabwe’s highest point above sea level.
The weather suddenly changes and we become enveloped in a cloud travelling from east to the west.
I know all about the mountain’s sudden fog/mist/clouds/storms.
My little boy cares not about my anxiety; he is ecstatic at being in clouds and therefore in heaven.
He lets out joyous screams and makes a failed attempt to collect part of the clouds in his cap to show off to waiting mum.
After the photo session at the peak, it is now time to begin the descent.
But not before I posted one proof on the family whatsapp platform.
The guide has increased his speed.
My legs are rebelling as if in leg irons.
I am at tail-end of the party.
Suddenly on a granite surface I see what looks like engraved lion spoor.
I am really pushing my legs to keep pace, but I manage to steal a moment to take a photo of this piece of art.
My screen goes black and I reason the battery has finally died.
Moments later I just manage to avoid stepping on what looks like a brown bream.
As we go past stage five towards stage four I get a phone message alert and realise that the abortive photo shoot had nothing to do with a dead battery.
Something could be happening here.
I immediately send a cryptic sms to my daughter at the foothill: “Stage four now, can’t take photos.”
As we take a rest at stage four, I decide to check on my hen friend.
The object is still there but now looks like a pine cob.
My eyes could be playing me up.
Closer to stage three I pick a half buried sunglass lens.
Could this be a missing link to a mountain mystery, I wonder.
My fear has receded.
I can see the mountain foot camp and our sedan.
The legs stubbornly delay my triumphant descent.
The guide and the little one had by this time opened a 200m gap.
My elder son patiently shepherds me through the last stage of the descent.
On getting to the foot, I just manage to raise my hands in triumph before collapsing into the drivers’ seat.
In rapid debriefing, no one had seen my hen, lion spoor or brown bream.
The guide and my little one had seen a duiker.
My elder son had seen nothing unusual on the mountain.
My daughter only received my sms after our climb down.
The message had flashed on her phone screen, but never made it into inbox.
By and large we had abided by the rules.
I had climbed Mount Nyangani, but had not become any wiser about its mysteries.
This is untapped intangible cultural heritage about a mountain that occasionally swallows its guests.
The mountain had spared a Hungwe/Dziva family whose ancestry had roamed the neighbouring Ziwa/Chihwa country well before the Simboti and Nyamuziwa people sighted the enigmatic Nyangani Mountain.
On the drive back to Juliasdale, I found myself playing Mbira dzeNharira’s ‘Saramugomo wawega’ and reflecting on Zimbabwe’s many undocumented mountain mysteries.
Like mbira, this is a forgotten Zimbabwean heritage.