It was still dark when our alarm clocks rousted us from sleep. Namibia’s giant corn crickets were awake and tapping their six feet against the cold desert rock with impatience. With bleary eyes, I danced between them to avoid the unpleasant crunch and squash one would make under footfall. Their cannibalistic friends had other hopes, following each other, watching and waiting for one to meet his maker so they could have a nice corn cricket breakfast.

“You guys are gross,” I said, “yeeeiiigggg!" One scampered toward me and threatened to crawl atop my shoe.

Basecamp was a hive of hikers warming up under beanie caps and wool socks. Despite being in the desert, it was late fall (May) and the morning was cold. We teamed up to make a quick breakfast, packed our hiking sacks, and finalized last minute organization needed for our Slackpack deliveries. Then, we loaded into the back of a four wheel drive truck to bounce and rumble up a craggy path cut into steep slopes. Our faces glowed under the last of the night stars and morning twilight.

A group of four local Namibian gals from the big city of Windoek were slackpacking, too. We benefitted from their Namibian-mastery of braai coals the night before, slipping in behind them to use their still-red embers to cook our dinner. We made proper introductions as we clattered along together in the back of the truck.

The canyon took us by surprise. Looking to the horizon, the landscape seemed a vast, flat plain. Only upon arrival at the canyon itself do you find the enormous slice through the earth’s crust. The sunrise cracked the Eastern horizon just as we arrived at the canyon ledge, showing us the maze of stone and river laid at our feet.

Our plan for the day was to hike down into the canyon, along the river, then back up to the top where we would traverse the plateau until we find our camp. We picked our way down a crevice and between large boulders, comfortably shaded by deepening cliff walls.

"I have never seen anything like this," our British friends marveled again and again at the desert scenery and the canyon so incredible it must be unique in the world, right? At the intersection of rivers, we stop to capture footage.

Andrew and I had a different experience. “This is so weird,” I said time and time again, reminiscing over our own trips to the Grand Canyon. My mind struggled to claw away from it’s memory-map of our homeland desert and back into this reality half a world away. It isn't quite as red as the Grand Canyon, and it’s not quite as deep. But, Fish River Canyon is still so large and deep that when I was inside, it was for me to grasp any difference. “I could swear we are at home.”

At least so I thought, until...

“GRRAAWWSQAAAUUAAAAAA!"

““GRRAAWWSQAAAUuaaaaa!"

““GRRAAWwsqaaauuuuaaaa!"

“grrrawwwwqaaauuuaa.....

"What is that?!" We said, scanning 360 degrees to find the source of the original half bark/half scream now echoing in rounds.

“GRRAAWWSQAAAUUAAAAAA!"

““GRRAAWWSQAAAUuaaaaa!"

““GRRAAWwsqaaauuuuaaaa!"

“grrrawwwwqaaauuuaa.....

“There it is!" Andrew said, “A baboon!...no, three baboons!”

Three baboons were scaling the cliffside, looking back at us and screaming. They were clearly displeased with our presence, practically stomping along the ledges, following us along the canyon as we hiked along.

“GRRAAWWSQAAAUUAAAAAA!"

““GRRAAWWSQAAAUuaaaaa!"

““GRRAAWwsqaaauuuuaaaa!"

“grrrawwwwqaaauuuaa.....

“We don’t have any of those guys in the Grand Canyon.” I noted, following them through my camera lens.

“It's okay, Buddy, we are just passing through.” Andrew said, soothing the angry beast. I swear the fuzzy little ringleader raised his fist and shook it in our general direction…except they were not little in any way at all. They are each probably 3/4 of our size, and with sharper teeth. We kept moving and skipped our snack break until the baboons seemed satisfied we’d exited their territory. They turned back, and we peeled open our peanut butter and honey sandwich bag.

As the afternoon progressed, the sun perched overhead just in time for our vertical climb out of the canyon. We slid along the cliff walls as close as we could, keeping the shade as long as possible until we arrived atop the plateau to walk along flat shale rock for a few miles more. Here, the trail weaved along the canyon edge, offering spectacular views and no shade. We were feeling a bit picked on until we turned the corner and spied what could only be our camp.

“Our camp!” We cheered. Not just because our legs were tired but also because we could see the camp perched right on the cliff's edge. We sped up our pace looking forward to a bag of chips and a cold beer overlooking one of the most spectacular views anywhere in the world.

As Andrew warmed our braai coals, the sun set and the small sliver of new moon chased closed behind. My own treasure hunt began. Laying on my belly, just like the diamond miners of Namibia, I worked feverishly to position my camera just so atop a miniature version of the Namibian Giant's playground rocks - my makeshift tripod. I'd been saving my battery for this moment. “HOLD STILL!" I told our friends and open the shutter.

Of course diamond fever is always contagious and before I knew it, Amy and I were both adjusting this angle and that shutterspeed... “Look at that!  Oh that is spectacular!" Squeals of delight between the canyon walls for the sky-diamonds we were collecting in our purse.

"You know our hiking friends went to bed a hours ago, right?" Andrew said, the kill-joy. We tried to temper our voices, but to no avail when Amy captured the best picture of the night - a photo of she and Matt, crisp and clear below the the camp kitchen patio under a fully streak of milky way. (You’ll have to watch Sailing Florene’s YouTube episode to see how that one turned out.)

“HOLY MOLY! What an incredible shot!” I caterwauled at top of my lungs.

Andrew congratulated Amy on the photo, then dragged me to bed to give our camp-buddies the peace and quiet of the desert. Admittedly, I was pretty tired. I laid in my cot and admired thick stripes of Namibian stars visible between the slats of our sleeping cabin. Soon, I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and I fell asleep under the crisp desert air and song of crickets.

Our morning wake up call came before dawn again. We needed to capture as many hiking miles as we could in the side-slant shade of the canyon walls. Amy, stretched and yawned over her second and third mug of coffee. “Oh, I'm so tired!"

"Didn’t you sleep well?" I asked.

“No! I couldn't sleep because I kept seeing better and better star photos available for the taking!" She turned her camera around to show me a perfectly captured shot of those same stars I enjoyed through our cabin walls.

“This is the mark of a true professional,” I said. “No rest until the story is captured.”

The hiking plan for our second day mirrored our first. We were to drop down into the canyon, follow the river until signs pointed our way to the canyon wall. Then, we were to climb back out again for a second night perched at the edge. Today, though, the river has widened to span the width of the canyon floor in places, and leaving us to walk inside sandy, muddy river beds and even forge the river a time or two.

“If quicksand were to exist, this is how I'd imagine it to be!” Andrew says as we walked along a particularly soggy patch.

"What do you mean ‘if it were to exist’?" I asked. “It exists."

“No, not really. There is no such thing as the quicksand.”

Andrew said this with complete authority.

I almost even believed him. Of the two of us, he is usually the one with deeper knowledge of the earth sciences and/or history of world exploration. But, no sooner had he taken the next breath to support his hypothesis did he sink hip deep into...

“QUICKSAND!!!" I yelled as Andrew disappeared from my line of sight. For a moment I thought I was going to have to say goodbye while watching sand envelope his skull, his hand reaching out to grasp a makeshift rope constructed of marsh reeds and maybe a baboon tail. But, he flattened his weight to distribute it across the quicksand pond and crawled from his death-hole.

Having clambered to higher (and drier) sand, there is a moment of silence in which we all contemplate the joy of comedic timing...then we all burst out laughing. “No such thing as quicksand, I tell you."

Matt sent up the Florence drone to path find our way through a safer river crossing, and we spend the afternoon alternately picking our way through quick sand adventures and cleaning off in clear patches of river whenever our way-finding failed. We all found ourselves the victims of a quicksand patch except for Matt who always seemed to pick the better line.

I'm no dummy, I started to follow him.

Around 3 p.m., we started to daydream about our cold beer at the end of the hike. Our dreaming came much too early, as our ascent required us to claw our way up the face of the canyon wall. The rocks were hot to the touch, scorching through the rubber of our boots, and offering no place to sit for a rest. I trudged behind Matt and Amy who were laden with cameras, tripods, microphones, and drone equipment as well as their water and snacks. This YouTube thing is a labor of love.

I was feeling sympathetic until Matt pulled out the interviewing microphone to ask me how the hike was going.

Sweaty, out of breath, and with my adventure hat undoubtedly crooked, I set out to explain the fine distinctions between Type 1 and Type 2 fun - this definitely being the latter.

"Type 2 fun is the kind that isn't fun in the moment, but when you are done you are glad you did it." I wave my arms to demonstrate, based on the incredible scenery lighting the inferno under our shoes. I immediately regretted this explanation, as it failed to capture the most important nuance! But, I was too parched to request Take Two and so we marched onward, miles yet until we arrived at camp.

"This camp had better be good." I say, grousing. “I don't know how it can best last nights, camp, though!”

"I know, last night was pretty epic!" Amy said.

The last mile or two was a soul crushing walk through hills that blocked our view of our end destination. We were a tiny bit worried we'd be walking forever. But, the last leg was a downhill slope that dropped us into a camp that met our expectations - at least until we saw the bathroom/shower. 

"THAT IS THE MOST EPIC TOILET IN THE WORLD!"

The camp isn't too shabby, either.

 After our post hike beer and a nice dinner, we pulled our four folding chairs to the edge of the cliff and watched the canyon turn blood red in the fading light. Stars began to reflect in the calm of the river below.

“So, what is it about Type 2 fun?" someone in our group wondered. “Why do we do it?”

“The opportunity to feel smug!" I explain. “I didn't just stand on the edge and look at Fish River Canyon, I engaged in miserable, possibly regrettable behavior to experience Fish River Canyon.”

"I think we need a category for Type negative-two Fun."

"What's that?”

“Well, if Type 2 fun is the kind that is miserable in the moment and fun once its over, we need a number for something fun in the moment, but wholly regrettable thereafter.”

“Like boozing and hangovers?”

“Exactly."

And, so it was.

Don’t miss Matt & Amy’s episode on the Fish River Canyon. They are master storytellers in the video format, a skill they’ve honed over their own six year circumnavigation. With serious dinghy racing in their sailing background, they sail their 1981 Oyster, Florence, like absolute pros. If there is anyone I’d trust to give good sailing and passage making advice on YouTube, it’s these guys. They are one of the few YouTube sailing channels I love to binge watch.