The pounding at the door won’t let up.

I hear my name and manage to croak out a groggy, “I’m up” as I stumble to the bathroom and then pull sweatpants over my shorts and slide my hands into gloves. My warm bed beckons, but the bus departs at 4:30am, whether I am on it or not.

The snoring of my fellow passengers, the rumble of the diesel engine, and the vibration of loose gravel under our tires prevents me from napping as we bounce through the darkness. Our guide has promised us that our early wake up time will ensure we beat both the crowds and the sunrise on our race to the sand dunes of Sossusvlei.

Yellow and pink streak through the sky as we pull through the gates and chase the light to Dune 45. As soon as we arrive, I toss my shoes aside and feel the cool, nutmeg-coloured sand slip through my toes. My heart hammers for the first time in weeks as I chase my new friends up the dune’s slippery peak. When we finally make it to the top, we flop onto the dirt and pant like thirsty dogs. Sand coats my teeth. Dust clings to my eyes and the whole valley lies at my feet; vast, desolate, and more beautiful than I could have imagined.

As the sand whips around my face, I glance down the path and see him. With his shoulders hunched against the wind and his hood tied snugly around his ears, he takes one determined step after another. I squint in disbelief. I thought he would stay safely on solid ground and experience the dunes vicariously through the rest of our group.

On my way down the dune, I pass him and stop to yell out a greeting. I can’t help but notice his red rimmed eyes and his laboured breathing. Although I want to offer my arm and stay beside him to ensure he makes it back down safely, I can tell from his stance, he would take any offer of help as an insult.

So, I take a deep breath, throw out my arms and race down the sharp side of the dune. With the wind and sand rushing through my hair, I am almost flying. When I pause mid-flight to look up and snap a picture, I see his hunched figure at the summit and shake my head in wonder. Alone on the dune, I want to memorize this feeling as I reflect on how lucky I am to be here, in this moment, with a fellow traveller like him.

Only a year ago, I had bandages across my aching, post mastectomy chest and a heavy cloud of depression around my heart. With nothing to look forward to, I wondered if the emotional and physical pain of cancer would ever fade. I couldn’t have imagined a life after cancer when I would have the strength to travel to the other side of the world and race up and down the sand dunes of Namibia.

Later, after I slide my socks and shoes over my gritty toes, we pile back onto the bus and I sit down next to him. I can’t help but lean over and ask my new 90-year-old friend the question on all of our minds.

“How do you do it? Where do you get your energy?” I ask. He cups his crooked fingers into a semi-circle around his right ear. So, with a half yell, I repeat the question.

He shrugs and with a faint tremor in his voice says, “You do what you can, while you can”.