On my way to the airport, the winter sky is a pale, hazy blue. The forecast predicts wind and turbulence. It’s not a good combination for flying, let alone pleasure flying.

Earlier in the week, I arranged with three friends that I’d take them on a local sightseeing flight.

With only 70-odd hours in my logbook, I’m still an inexperienced pilot. But I want to share this newfound freedom and joy with whoever doesn’t mind risking their lives in a small, normally aspirated, single-engine aircraft.

There is excited chatter on the intercom as we taxi to the holding point. With the run-up checks completed, I apply full power and we hurtle down the runway.

On climb-out, I immediately sense that the air is very unstable. The turbulence is more aggressive, uncomfortable and jarring than on normal hot days.

Which is problematic, because I intend to fly from Nelspruit through the Schoemanskloof to Kwena Dam, then turn north towards Lydenburg before flying over and through the Blyde River Canyon to Hoedspruit.

I should turn around and call it a day.

But I don’t want to spoil the outing either.

My lack of experience makes me indecisive, and I push on.

As we pass Lydenburg, the turbulence increases. Through the glaring windshield, I can see Mariepskop, part of the northern Drakensberg escarpment, starting to grow bigger.

Conversation starts to dry up.

I ask everyone to tighten their seatbelts. I recall the turbulence penetration speed I should not exceed and aim to maintain it. My grip tightens on the control column as I watch the erratic airspeed indicator like a hawk.

I’m amazed at how quickly it adds or subtracts 20 knots of airspeed.

Controlled airspace ahead of us at 6,000 feet above sea level means I need to descend lower towards the terrain, which adds unwanted airspeed.

Then I see it.

A dark, towering ridge running perpendicular to our flight path, directly ahead of us.

What danger lies beyond it?

I struggle to keep the aircraft’s speed under control, reducing power to almost idle. We are being sucked towards the void.

The rushing air around the aircraft builds to a crescendo.

My instinct is to pull back on the control column, gaining altitude while bleeding off speed. My body tenses as I wait. The unknown draws perspiration from my palms.

The sharp ridge glides underneath the wing.

Then we slam into it.

The invisible rising column of air forces the aircraft violently upwards. Almost immediately, we start to fall and become momentarily weightless.

Heads bump against the cockpit ceiling. Books, maps and loose items hang suspended in the air.

Then, with a violent downward thud, we exit the updraught.

Mercifully, it happens only once.

I concentrate on keeping control of the aircraft.

A quip comes from the back seats.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I think I just shat my pants!”

Roger that.

I check whether the aircraft is still operating normally. The front-seat passenger looks pale and sits in a slight foetal position.

Yes, this is not how you endear friends to recreational flying.

The three rondavels in the Blyde River Canyon appear to the right. Despite the tension, I marvel at this breathtaking new perspective. They feel extraordinarily close and appear massive.

As we exit the gorge, the stupendous views are muted by the hazy conditions — and by the flood of cortisol still coursing through my system.

A short while later, I make an uneventful landing at Hoedspruit.

Feet back on solid ground unleash spontaneous laughter, relief and jokes. The passengers question whether they have just had a near-death experience.

I downplay it with an unconvincing, “I’ve had worse before.”

During brunch, we relive the encounter. The consensus is that taking a taxi back to Nelspruit is far more appealing than boarding the aircraft again.

Later that afternoon, I deliver my passengers safely back home.

It’s sobering to think that they once more trusted me with their lives.

Afterwards, I debrief and scold myself for caving to a self-imposed pressure:

Complete the mission.

The Swiss cheese model^* was lining up perfectly.

Apart from, perhaps, the last hole.

I’m once more amazed at the structural strength of the aircraft.

But a nagging thought continues to bother me.

How close did we really come to becoming another mountain-flying accident statistic?

Eight years later, that question has become more poignant with the passing of time.

The memory leaves me cold.

* The Swiss cheese model describes how an accident can happen when multiple small gaps or flaws in different defensive layers line up at the same time, allowing a hazard to pass through and cause harm.