Tales from the Tangled Trail

Tag: travel-with-humor

  • The Heavenly Helpline Chronicles

    Oops I did it again… apparently I’m high-maintenance

    So, I’ve got one more angelic encounter story for the books. Honestly, I’m think my guardian angels demand hazard pay.

    There’ve been countless times when I’m pretty sure heavenly help was involved—moments where things worked out just a little too perfectly. But unlike those subtle nudges from above, this story (like the two before it) involves a full-on, no-doubt-about-it angelic intervention.

    At this point, I imagine the leader of the angelic task force sighing deeply, rubbing his temples, and sending out yet another urgent memo: “Right team, she’s wandered into trouble again. Get your wings in gear—this one’s going to need backup.”

    I definitely keep them on their toes. Or clouds. Or whatever angels stand on.

    Heaven’s 911

    This next story takes place deep in the rolling green hills of the KZN Midlands.

    I was in my early 30s at the time—still single, still hopeful (mostly), and heading off for a much-needed weekend getaway in the Drakensberg Mountains. My travel buddy? Jane. Also single, newly divorced, and very much in need of mountain air, strong coffee, and possibly divine intervention.

    Jane and I had met at church, though technically she was my mom’s hairdresser first—someone I’d adopted after a particularly traumatic home perm situation. We bonded over the usual: heartbreak, horror dates, and how most decent men seemed to have gone extinct somewhere around 1996. Our shared survival of the dating scene in our 30s created a friendship forged in fire… and flat hair days.

    For our Drakensberg adventure, we decided to take my car—a shiny (well, sometimes dusty) little Mazda 323 that was still fairly new at the time. What could possibly go wrong, right?

    Now, if you’ve read any of my previous stories, you’re probably starting to notice a pattern: me + car trip = angel alert at Heaven’s emergency desk. I’m convinced the minute I put a key in the ignition, there’s a siren going off in the heavenly control room.

    “She’s on the road again, folks. Buckle up and grab the holy toolkit—this one’s gonna need us.”

    And sure enough, this trip didn’t disappoint.

    Angels, Mist, and One Very Unimpressed Cow

    It was around 6 p.m. when we veered off the N3 and onto the road to Underberg—a stretch of road that locals will tell you is less of a road and more of a real-life game of Taxi Chicken. It’s narrow, it’s winding, and apparently it comes with a built-in “death wish” mode for minibus drivers doing 120 km/h into oncoming traffic.

    As we hit that infamous road, the mist rolled in—thick, cold, and clingy. Autumn in the Midlands does that. One minute you’re driving, the next you’re starring in your own horror movie with a visibility rating of “LOL, good luck”.

    Naturally, I eased off the accelerator, dropping to a cautious 70 km/h while Jane and I muttered hopeful prayers that no taxis would try anything dramatic. We had literally just said, “Let’s hope no one does a kamikaze overtake,” when things took a turn. (A literal one.)

    I rounded a bend—and there it was.

    Out of the swirling mist emerged a massive cow. Not walking. Not crossing. Just standing. Sideways. Right in the middle of our lane like it was contemplating life, chewing its cud, and couldn’t care less about Mazda-shaped problems.

    I did what every panicked driver instinctively does: I slammed the brakes. (Mistake number one.) Because, surprise, mist and tar make an excellent slip-and-slide combo.

    Everything slowed down like I was suddenly in The Matrix: Midlands Edition. I saw Jane brace for impact. I felt the car start to slide. And I watched in helpless, high-definition horror as we drifted straight into the bovine blockade.

    There was no dramatic swerve. No movie-style dodge. Just the cold, slippery truth of physics. We hit the cow.

    Straight on.

    And then it slowly slid up the hood of my car. In that surreal moment, I actually had a thought:

    “I’m about to have a whole lot of fillet on my lap.

    Moo-ving Toward Impact

    We’d heard the stories. Everyone in the Midlands knows someone—or knows someone who knows someone—who hit an animal with their car and didn’t walk away from it. So as the cow slid up my bonnet in cinematic slow motion, a wave of cold dread hit me harder than the actual impact.

    My brain was spiraling. Was this it? Was this the bizarre, mist-covered end of my life story? “She lived, she loved, and then she lost a high-speed showdown with a cow.” It was terrifying.

    Miraculously, the cow stopped sliding just short of my windscreen. But then—like a final dramatic move in a bovine ballet—its head and legs flopped over, leaving a massive dent in my roof and side panels. And then, as if following some invisible director’s cue, the cow slowly slid off the car and onto the road with an undignified thud.

    All I could see was the front of my once-proud little Mazda now crumpled like a used napkin. We sat there frozen. Time felt weird. It might’ve been five minutes… it was probably more like five seconds. Silence hung thick in the mist.

    Eventually, I snapped out of it just long enough to register that my car had come to a full stop—on the wrong side of the road.

    Facing oncoming traffic.

    Had anyone else been barreling around that corner like the taxis were earlier, we’d have had a full-speed head-on collision with a cow acting as a grotesque bumper.

    Then we heard it.

    Mooing. Loud. Pained. Drawn-out.

    The cow was very much alive—and not at all happy about its impromptu ride on my car. Jane, ever the tender-hearted vegetarian, immediately covered her ears and began whisper-praying on repeat:
    “Please, Lord, don’t let the cow die. Please don’t let the cow die. Please, please don’t let the cow die…”

    Meanwhile, I stared at the front of my poor, crumpled Mazda—hood folded, bumper gone, headlights blinking in confusion—and I’ll be honest: I wasn’t praying for the cow’s survival. In that moment, after all the damage it had done, I was lowkey hoping for slow internal bleeding. I know that’s terrible, but so was the dent in my roof.

    Then Heaven Sent a Land Cruiser

    Just as we were about to peel ourselves out of the car, headlights cut through the mist behind us. A large Land Cruiser pulled up—one of those big, rugged ones that look like they’ve driven through battlefields and Sunday braais alike. I assumed it was a group of local farmers. From what I could see, there were two guys in the front and three standing casually on the back like it was a khaki-clad chariot.

    They all jumped out in one fluid motion, like some kind of Midlands SWAT team.

    The driver and one of the guys came straight to my door, opened it without hesitation, and gently helped me out. Two more did the same for Jane. The last one jogged to the front of the car and crouched near the cow, giving it a once-over like a vet-slash-cow-whisperer.

    “Hey,” I heard him call out, “we might need the gun—she’s in bad shape.”

    Jane immediately gasped. Her vegetarian heart just about gave out. I, on the other hand, was still in shock and had just about resigned myself to my car being declared a total write-off—possibly by insurance, definitely by God.

    Once we’d convinced these rugged, handsome khaki angels that we were physically fine (emotionally? Debatable), one of them suggested we move the car out of the oncoming lane before we added more trauma to the evening.

    Two of the guys sprinted in opposite directions to flag down traffic, waving their arms and moving with military precision. Where I’d been stuck in slow motion just moments before, these guys were operating on fast-forward—like bushveld paramedics with a soft spot for damsels and livestock.

    I never actually saw a gun, but I was bracing for the worst. Then, just as the mist seemed to swallow the road around us, another shape emerged from the fog.

    A second cow.

    It walked calmly toward its injured friend, leaned in, and licked her ear.

    And just like that, the mooing stopped.

    As if on cue, the “injured” cow stood up—possibly out of embarrassment—and the two of them trotted off together into the field, vanishing like ghost cows into the mist. It was surreal. Jane, nearly in tears from relief, waved them off like long-lost friends, beaming with joy.
    “No one had to die tonight!” she exclaimed.

    Wheels, Winks, and One Last Moo-ving Moment

    Now that the cow had miraculously walked off and the Mazda was safely back on the correct side of the road, one of our rugged, khaki-clad angels turned to me and asked, “Do you want to try start your car?”

    Honestly, I didn’t think it had it in her. But I climbed in, turned the key… and she started first time. Like nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t just body-slammed half a ton of livestock.

    The driver of the Land Cruiser leaned in and said, “We’ll follow you the rest of the way to your resort, just to make sure you’re alright.”

    I blinked. “Are you sure? It’s still quite a way to go.”

    He just nodded, calm and confident. “We’ll follow.”

    And that was that.

    So off we went, creeping along at a respectful speed—slow enough to make sure the wheels didn’t fall off, fast enough not to look like a parade float. I was still high on adrenaline and disbelief. Jane, on the other hand, had shifted gears completely.

    “Why,” she hissed, “did I not hand one of them my business card? What was I thinking?!”

    I mean, fair question. How often do you get rescued by five handsome farmer-types in coordinated khaki?

    We reached the driveway of our resort, headlights bouncing gently off the gravel path, the mist still curling around us like a scene out of Outlander (minus the kilts, plus cows). As we pulled in, our guardian farmers gave a final hoot, a cheerful wave…

    …and then vanished back into the mist.

    Just like that.

    No names. No numbers. No Tinder follow-ups. Just a rescue, a goodbye, and a convoy of angels with bakkie boots.

    Gone—but never forgotten.

    Khaki-Clad Angels and the Road to Safety

    As I said at the start of this story, I’ve found myself in more situations than I can count where I know angels were working overtime behind the scenes. But on that misty Midlands road, I truly believe those khaki-clad heroes weren’t just good-hearted local farmers. They were honest-to-heaven angels—sent to pull us out of a potentially deadly encounter and see us safely to the end of our journey.

    Their timing. Their calm. Their quiet confidence. It all felt too perfectly placed to be coincidence.

    Sometimes, divine intervention shows up in a blinding light. Other times, it arrives in a Land Cruiser, wearing boots and a warm smile.

    “For He will order His angels to protect you wherever you go.”
    — Psalm 91:11 (NLT)

  • Murky Waters and Manatee Whiskers : An Unexpected Encounter

    Just had the most unforgettable weekend with my amazing girl cousins — all from my mom’s side of the family, and all forever etched into my heart. There really aren’t enough words to capture the beauty of what we shared: the laughter that bubbled up from deep places, the tears that reminded us of our shared journey, the endless conversations, and the kind of soul-nourishing fellowship that only comes when you’re with your own.

    One cousin flew in all the way from Vancouver, while the rest of us — two near Tampa, one in Daytona, and me in Ocala — met in the heart of Florida at a hidden gem called Crystal Springs. It was the perfect backdrop for something we’d dreamed of doing together: swimming with the gentle, majestic manatees.

    The swimming-with-manatees experience turned out to be slightly different than the dreamy, crystal-clear underwater ballet I had imagined. Every spring I’d visited before had water so clear you could spot a fish rolling its eyes at you from 20 feet away. So, naturally, I expected something similar—maybe even a graceful underwater photo with a manatee photobombing in the background like a sleepy potato.

    But oh no. Not today.

    I will say, the tour company was top notch. They took one look at each of us—like some kind of wetsuit sommeliers—and handed us wetsuits that fit so perfectly I briefly considered inviting mine to Thanksgiving dinner. Things were off to a good start.

    Then we got to the spot. The boat slowed down, and instead of some grave-faced guide delivering a solemn speech about respecting wildlife, ours was cracking jokes like it was open mic night. “Alright ladies,” she grinned, “this is where the magic happens—and by magic, I mean where the manatees turn the river into a giant salad bowl.” She had a punchline for everything, and somehow managed to make algae sound like an exciting feature.

    We peered over the edge, and instead of the sparkling blue spring water I had envisioned, we were greeted with what can only be described as slightly soupy guacamole. Apparently, manatees enjoy redecorating the riverbed by churning up grass and sediment as they eat, creating that authentic manatee mist vibe.

    Splendid.

    With great caution (and even greater bladder control), I slid into the green abyss, heart pounding, wetsuit suctioning itself to me like a second skin. I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me, and that’s when my imagination, unhelpful as ever, decided it was the perfect moment to cue the theme from Jaws. You know, da-dum… da-dum… Only, instead of a great white shark, it was a half-ton sea potato with flippers and a salad addiction.

    We had been firmly told: “Do NOT touch the manatees.” Which, I thought, was perfectly reasonable until you’re suddenly floating next to something the size of a reclining La-Z-Boy that could brush up against you at any moment and send your soul directly to Jesus.

    I tried to stay calm, but the combination of cold water, nerves, and a rogue underwater leaf brushing my leg nearly made my bladder file for early release. I floated, frozen, trying to look calm and reverent, while internally praying, negotiating, and humming worship songs in case this was the day I met my watery end.

    We were each handed a pool noodle—as if this neon-colored foam was the only thing standing between us and being swallowed whole by a curious sea cow. The instructions were clear: float flat, stay calm, don’t kick, and most importantly, stay near the tour guide, who—despite the murky water and zero visibility—somehow knew exactly where these giant river potatoes were lurking. She had a sixth sense, like some kind of manatee whisperer. I’m convinced she could hear underwater vibrations or perhaps communicate with them telepathically.

    As we floated in formation like very confused aquatic ducklings, weird squealing noises began erupting around me. Not manatees—humans. Apparently, some of the others were getting lucky with close encounters. Meanwhile, I was just trying not to hyperventilate into my snorkel. I couldn’t see a thing… but every now and then, just on the edge of my vision, I’d catch a slow, speckled shadow gliding beneath me—like a couch-sized submarine silently plotting its next move.

    Then it happened.

    Out of nowhere, something grabbed my foot. I nearly evacuated every organ in my body. My brain immediately flashed to the story of Jonah—except this time, I was the one about to be swallowed whole by a sea beast for reasons I hadn’t quite figured out yet. I braced myself for the slow journey into the belly of a giant, aquatic creature, fully expecting to be spat out somewhere near Tampa two days later, slightly pickled and forever changed.

    Just as I was preparing to repent for whatever had led me to this moment, I heard laughter.

    It was my cousin.

    Floating smugly behind me, she had decided it was the perfect time to test the strength of my sphincter—and our relationship.

    By this point, my back was absolutely screaming from all the stiff, noodle-assisted floating. I wasn’t alone—my equally tall cousin was also quietly dying from the awkward “hover like a sea otter” position and had made a wise, dignified exit back onto the boat. She was now observing the murky madness from above, squealing with delight every time a manatee surfaced like it was SeaWorld meets spa day. Clearly, she was having a much better time from her dry, upright position than I was marinating in swamp soup.

    So I made the executive decision to abandon my noble underwater post and join her. I was halfway through my dramatic retreat when our ever-joking, all-knowing tour guide spotted me attempting my dignified exit. She suggested I take just one more look. Before I could protest, she was right next to me, gently guiding me by the shoulders like some sort of mystical snorkel guru. “Just put your face in right here,” she whispered, pointing to a very specific patch of greenish nothingness.

    I did as I was told—lowered my face into the water—and there it was.

    Right there in front of me, filling my entire goggle lens like a potato-shaped angel, was the tiniest, most adorable manatee you could imagine. It was chewing thoughtfully on the rope that anchored the boat, looking as if it had been born to star in a Pixar movie. And then—oh my heart—as if it knew I had come just for this moment, it turned ever so gently toward me, glided up, and brushed its soft, whiskery, leathery nose against my cheek.

    And then… it blew in my ear.

    I kid you not, it exhaled a little puff of warm, manatee breath straight into my ear canal. It was equal parts magical, bizarre, and faintly unsettling. But I’ll tell you this—it was a moment. The only thing I could compare it to was the day the doctors lifted my baby girl from my stomach and introduced me to her for the very first time. That same “everything else fades away” feeling. Pure, unexpected joy.

    The whole experience—though completely different from what I had pictured in my imagination—was something deeply precious. A memory wrapped in laughter, murky water, and manatee breath, forever etched in our cousin storybook. It may not have been the serene underwater fairytale I’d envisioned, but it became something far better: real, unexpected, shared. One of those odd, slightly ridiculous moments you talk about over and over again for years to come—laughing harder each time you tell it.

    My cousins and I before “going under”….
    The sweet little potato before coming to blow in my ear…
    The little face that I’m sure held a smile…