Climb higher into the hills his instincts had told him.

Now, the rider, on a motorbike called Silver, stopped and looked down from where he’d come.
Below, back there, he saw the Camdeboo range, all hills and valleys smudged with turquoise shadows, cast from heavy nimbus clouds.
Seeking his own African Shangri-La, he’d turned off the R61.

A voice within him said;

“Stay on the path. No jumping fences. Stay within the lines, behind the wires".

Upwards he rode. Higher still. High as a Chanting Goshawk. There it was against the sun.

Then the road leveled off and tapered away into what looked like God’s country. He rushed headlong into it, for it felt big. Big as it could ever be.

The road did go down. At last. But into a Butte strewn ravine. Yeti. Something told him he was getting close to his Shangri-La. It had to do with the silver windmills, willows and wires.

Once he saw the columnar conifer before the compassberg and telegraph poles, he knew then this was the end of the road. That he’d found his African Shangri-La.
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