Cautious
As dusk settled over the cliffs, his gaze held mine in silent question.
The sun hung low above the Riviersonderend peaks, casting long, golden shafts of light across the slopes as I followed a narrow path winding up the side of a steep kloof. The air was cool but not yet cold, scented with dry fynbos and the faint hint of dust from weathered rock. I paused at a bend in the trail where the clattering of boulders meeting muscle caught my ear—small, precise movements over the rockface.
High above me, a juvenile chacma baboon (Papio ursinus) made its way from one ledge to another, moving with a confidence that only youth’s curiosity can bring. It settled for a moment on a flat, lichen-flecked stone. In the soft glow of dusk, its fur appeared almost bronze, and sharp shadows accentuated the alert posture of its slender frame. I raised my camera gently, careful not to startle it. The youngster turned its head and fixed its distant amber eyes on me, as if measuring my presence in its domain.
Below us, the steep kloof dropped away into deeper shadow. Patches of golden light highlighted clusters of protea and mountain rosemary clinging to the crags. The baboon’s stillness mirrored the slow quiet that settles into mountains at this hour: a gentle hush broken only by distant birdcalls and the faint whisper of wind through sparse shrubs. The animal’s small body remained poised on the edge of the rock, every muscle ready to spring. I felt a weight in my chest, an intimate sense of sharing this narrow window between light and darkness.
Greyton is often celebrated for its feral horses, vineyards and oak-shaded streets, but true magic also lies in these hills at twilight. The baboons that call this place home emerge from their midday rest on lower slopes and ascend to higher crags as the temperature cools. For them, late afternoon is a time of renewed activity—and renewed risk. Predators such as elusive cape leopards and caracals become more active as dusk deepens, and even the occasional eagle may circle overhead.
The young baboon had already leapt between at least three ledges before pausing. Its keen eyes observed every movement, not only mine but also the shifting layer of cloud that drifted across the western sky. A soft breeze stirred the grass at its feet, carrying the scent of fynbos seed pods. I noted how its small paws gripped the sandstone, toes splayed into every crevice. A subtle radiance of the setting sun glinted off its face, revealing a moment of vulnerability beneath its cautious demeanour.
With a stretch of its long limbs, the juvenile advanced to a higher point, easing across a narrow ridge that became slick with cooling rock as shade enveloped it. From that vantage, it overlooked the valley floor where adults from its troop foraged for late-season bulbs and roots. The dominant male lounged in a shaded crevice not far away, his broad shoulders pressed against cold stone, watching over the group. Smaller siblings scuttled among the rocks, occasionally sparking a chorus of excited squeals before tumbling out of sight.
As I advanced a few careful steps upward, I noticed how the troop used the cliffs like stepping stones. Beneath the baboon’s feet, patches of orange-hued lichen glowed in the fading light. The adults remained focused on foraging, but the juvenile’s attention flicked constantly between the shifting sky and the distant calls of other baboons along the ridge. In greyton’s hills, crossing paths with rival troops at dusk can mean confrontation over territory or access to favourite foraging pockets.
I lowered my gaze to observe their diet before returning my focus to the juvenile. In this season, protea seed pods lay cracked open, revealing sustenance for hungry mouths. Opportunistic insects—golden amber beetles and nocturnal moths—stirred as light dimmed, and the baboons would seize any movement for an evening snack. The young one, still learning the rhythms of its environment, paused when an adult broke away with a triumphant grunt, brandishing a bulb plucked from the earth below.
Then the juvenile shifted—nimbly descending a short distance to join its mother for a brief grooming session. Each breath they shared came in harmony with the soft call of Cape sugarbirds swooping between protea blooms. In these dying moments of daylight, the troop’s social bonds were visible: adults exchanged low, comforting grunts, and infants clung to any available mother for safety. The young baboon’s moment of solitude, however fleeting, revealed a growing independence tempered by instinctual caution.
As twilight deepened, I sensed the first stars beginning to pierce the dusky blue above. The juvenile took a final glance in my direction before it scrambled down a crack in the rockface, disappearing into the protective cluster of adults. The troop gathered in a huddled line, flattened against the cliff, as if seeking one last trace of warmth from the fading sun. Their silhouettes merged with the darkening stone—an emblem of survival etched into the hillside.
Descending toward the valley back to my local hotel, I thought about the silent lessons of dusk for creatures in this wild corner of western cape. For the chacma baboons of greyton, late afternoon brings a choice: linger high where predators rule, or move lower into denser cover for the night. The juvenile’s momentary stillness—cautiously perched on that ledge—showed me the tension between curiosity and caution that life on a cliff demands.
Back in the village, lamp-light glimmered in café windows and laughter floated along oak-lined lanes. I paused outside a small gallery, recalling the bronze glow on the baboon’s fur as it watched the sun fade. That single image—an animal hovering between light and shadow—captured the fragile beauty of this place. Greyton’s hills may welcome hikers and artists by day, but it is at dusk that the natural world asserts itself most vividly: in careful leaps, hushed calls and the reflective eyes of a young baboon learning to trust its own balance.
Background about the baboons of Greyton
The chacma baboon (Papio ursinus) holds its place among southern Africa’s largest Old World monkeys, every muscle honed for life on steep terrain. In Greyton’s Riviersonderend Mountains, these baboons claim the sandstone slopes, weaving through rocky ledges draped in lichen and pockets of golden fynbos. As daylight fades, the troop climbs higher, seeking cooler air and unobstructed views where adults can scan for threats before settling onto sheltered cliffs for the night.
Omnivores by necessity, these baboons draw from a seasonal buffet: protea seed pods, carpobrotus berries, indigenous bulbs and, when nature’s pantry runs low, maize or grapes from neighbouring farms. Younger ones watch patiently as elders dig roots or crack open seeds. By late afternoon, juveniles—full of taut energy—return to the cliffs, practising leaps across narrow crevices and testing their balance under the vigilant gaze of mothers and older siblings.
Life within a troop hinges on strict hierarchy. A dominant male perches on a sunlit ledge, flared mane catching the last rays of sunset, while females forge subtle alliances that determine access to prime foraging spots. Juveniles linger close to their mothers for roughly two years, absorbing every nuance of group life: which alarm calls summon a huddle and how to recognize a rival troop’s distant grunt before conflict arises.
As dusk deepens, vocal exchanges rise in urgency. A sharp bark might signal a stealthy caracal below, or a distant leopard weaving through undergrowth. Mothers and infants share soft, urgent calls along shadowed cliffs to maintain contact as visibility dwindles. Even a lone eagle against the burnt-orange sky can send the entire troop scattering into cover.
Though classified as “least concern,” Greyton’s chacma baboons face mounting pressures: habitat loss, crop raids and occasional persecution. Local guides encourage eco-tourism that respects their space—no feeding, no off-trail exploration—especially at dusk when baboons are most active. Community-based monitoring provided in this case by the Greyton Baboon Programme, helps track troop numbers and movement, fostering peaceful coexistence between baboons and local inhabitants and farmers.
In the fynbos ecosystem, baboons perform silent restorative work. As they forage, their digging aerates soil and disperses seeds, enabling proteas and other endemic plants to thrive. Insects and small mammals follow these evening disturbances, taking advantage of open ground just as the sun dips behind the ridge. Today, Greyton’s baboons remain symbols of adaptability and careful observation—creatures that, as darkness falls, remind us of nature’s rhythm on these rugged slopes.
Greyton Stories
Nestled in the foothills of the Riviersonderend Mountains in the Western Cape, Greyton is a village that whispers tales of time, nature, and community. Founded in 1854 and home to just over 2,000 residents, it remains one of South Africa’s most beautifully preserved rural gems. Here, history lingers in the oak-lined avenues, artful porches, and timeworn pathways. These images are moments drawn from quiet mornings, dusty roads, grazing horses, and garden gates left ajar — fragments of a place where the past and present coexist in stillness. Greyton doesn’t shout its beauty; it reveals it, slowly, to those willing to look.
Sony A1, Sony Sigma DG DN ART 24-70mm, FL: 70mm, S:1/640, F:7.1, ISO:640