On a recent short break, my sister and I went exploring in an area I hadn’t visited in years.
Back then, we were in a rugged Land Rover, packed for anything, led by my beloved husband, a seasoned guide. This time, it was just my little car, no real plan, no guide, and only a picnic lunch and a sense of fun to see us through.
There was no cellphone signal, no GPS, no Google Maps. The reception desk had given us a simple hand-drawn map, and between that, my half-faded memories, and our adventurous spirit, we set off.
The first stretch of road was tarred and smooth, slowly drawing us into the forest. Butterflies drifted past, a bushbuck and its little one stepped lightly through the trees, and the birds filled the quiet with sound. It was peaceful and grounding, the kind of road that reminds you to breathe.
But as the mountain rose, the road began to change.
The surface grew rougher. First a few cracks, then loose stones, and soon enough, we were weaving through the remnants of what must once have been a rockslide, boulders scattered across half the road.
We passed a faded sign: Orrie Baragwanath Pass — 930m.
As we climbed higher, the road demanded more of the car. I realised my little engine was fighting to stay in second gear. Not quite enough power to keep momentum, but too much strain to stay slow. I had to decide: go faster and risk missing the beauty around us, or slow down and drop to first.
The forest eventually thinned, and the world opened up. The next sign read 1370m. The air was sharp, the sky wide, and the road now just two dusty tracks cutting through the grass.
We bumped along through what looked like old orchards, a few weathered avocado trees still standing, though long past fruiting. The landscape stretched out in rolling green waves, dotted with cows and, to our surprise, a few zebra grazing among them. It was wild, quiet, and strangely timeless.
Not a single person in sight, just the hum of the engine, the tyres on gravel, and the wind around us.
As we travelled deeper, the road grew worse. Some sections forced us down to 20 km/h, the car jolting so hard we were bouncing in our seats. And all the while, a quiet thought crept in: What if we break down here? No signal, no traffic, no way to call for help.
Then, just as the trees closed in again and the road narrowed to almost nothing, a government bakkie appeared from the opposite direction. Relief, panic, and confusion hit all at once. There was no space to pass and no way to reverse. I could feel my pulse in my throat.
The men on the back jumped down. They spotted things I couldn’t, a hidden tree stump blocking my way. One man pulled it aside while others gestured, helping me edge into a small clearing. The other driver eased forward, and somehow, with a mix of patience and teamwork, we both got through safely.
When they waved goodbye and disappeared down the mountain, I sat still for a moment. Breathing. Shaking. Grateful.
We decided to keep going until we found a safe place to turn around. When the forest thinned again and the road opened into a small grassy area, we stopped to take in the view. Mountains stretched for miles, the sky endless and blue. It was spectacular.
Just ahead, a small track veered off the main road. On instinct, we followed it and soon found ourselves on a hilltop overlooking a deep valley. From there, we could see where the main road continued, and it was clear we’d turned off just in time.
The drive back felt easier. The same bumps, the same rocks, but knowing what to expect made the road feel less intimidating.
Reflections from the Road
That short trip reminded me so much of our journeys as entrepreneurs — and as humans.
You don’t always know where you’re going, and there isn’t always a map.
Sometimes the road crumbles beneath you, and you have to decide whether to push harder or slow down.
Other times, it’s not about powering through at all — it’s about shifting gears, finding a new rhythm, and accepting that progress might look slower for a while.
There are moments when you can’t turn back, even when you want to.
Moments when fear sits heavy in your chest, but you keep going anyway.
And sometimes, you simply have to trust your instincts — that quiet inner voice that tells you when to stay the course and when to turn off.
Along the way, you’ll need others — people who can spot what you can’t see, help move obstacles out of your path, or guide you from a different angle.
And then, there are moments of clarity — when the view opens up and you finally understand why the road had to be so rough.
That’s the thing about these journeys, in business and in life: you don’t need to have it all figured out.
You just need the courage to keep moving, the humility to ask for help, and the curiosity to see what’s around the next bend.
Because sometimes, the most beautiful views come after the toughest climbs.
And in the end, no one else can drive the road for you.
You choose the pace, the gear, and whether to keep going — even when the map runs out.
If you’re standing at a crossroads — unsure whether to push forward, slow down, or turn off altogether — maybe it’s time to pause, breathe, and get some perspective.
That’s what coaching offers: a space to see the road more clearly and find your rhythm again.
If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to help you explore it.
Book a free Discovery Call here.
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