The caracal appeared on the trail ahead of me, stopped to look at me for a moment, then walked on calmly. I briefly saw it again on the adjacent Kloof Road, closed to traffic since storms in 2023. Before I could retrieve my phone to take a picture, as suddenly as it appeared on the trail, the caracal disappeared.

The entire experience lasted no longer than a few seconds, but it was loaded with magic; the soundless, effortless movement of the sleek cat, the self-assured way it looked at me, and the way it just vanished again.

I have spent thousands of hours on my bike on Table Mountain. This was the first time I’d seen a caracal; best of all, it was no more than five metres away from me.

But, for over five hours, I forgot about the sighting. This may illustrate something about my short-term memory, but it perhaps has more to say about the way that our minds work. Maybe the most surprising aspect of this forgetting is that I am usually awed by interactions with the natural world.

My day started on our stud farm in Ashton. After my cocoa drink, I did my usual 20-minute meditation. I left the house at 7:30 – before sunrise – dressed warmly against the low single-digit temperature. I was in a good place to start the day.

I felt awe and wonder seeing the setting full moon low in the sky above the arid hills in the direction of McGregor while young horses crowded around me for attention. I scratched a few of them behind their ears or on their wither, their winter coats furry to the touch. The boldest of them nudged me for more when I stopped.

This twice-daily walk through all the horses is one of my favourite parts of the day.

Later, I saw a group of weanlings cantering together, their ears pricked. I got up to see what was holding their attention and saw a jackal dashing out of the paddock. I’ve previously seen what I’m assuming is the same jackal. Unlike the caracal, the jackal made its presence obvious by dashing out of tall growth. No calm or silent movement for this creature.

The further difference is that the stud is surrounded by vineyards. The closest veld is several kilometres away; the jackal has no business being here.

On my drive back to Cape Town I started getting messages about mountain bikers riding on a muddy section of trail we’re busy repairing, just above Kloof Road in The Glen. I was on my bike within minutes of getting home, to do an assessment of the damage.

The ride around Lion’s Head, descending on the newly maintained trail, was magnificent. As I started climbing again, I reached a man and his son who let me pass. It was gratifying to see them riding together on this upgraded trail. I felt less gratified by the ebiker who raced past me soon after, but once again it felt good to see cyclists using the trail.

I got off my bike when I reached the muddy section, pushing/carrying it the rest of the way to avoid damaging the trail. The final section, down some steep steps, is where I saw the caracal. I’m sure the sighting was only possible because I was on foot.

Seeing as I had my phone out, when I reached the bottom, I started typing a message to post on my various mountain biking WhatsApp groups, with a request to please not ride this final section. Before I could finish, the lad – demonstrating phenomenal skills – came riding down the steps.

His father followed soon after, when I had already started explaining why, for all his amazing technical skills, he shouldn’t have been riding the final section. It was polite, but it remained a telling-off.

I was in full class captain mode, simmering in a mist of indignation at their lack of consideration for riding on a muddy trail that is in the middle of maintenance (and marked with danger tape).

I was polite and measured throughout, but as I soon as they went on their way, I felt regret at the way I handled the situation. Fortunately, I have the father’s contact details, so I was able to send an apology.

Just one of the ways I could have done it better would have been to share my wonder at the caracal sighting that happened minutes before their arrival. However, the caracal had left my brain almost immediately after it disappeared off the trail.

There was further WhatsApp group chatter about inconsiderate mountain bikers. Outrage stayed high.

Not even the time spent cooking supper with my daughter, Sophie, who works on conservation-focused documentaries, could unlock my memories of the rare caracal sighting.

I was lying in bed, lights off, when I eventually remembered seeing the caracal. I was instantly in a state of regret. In that moment, and for hours after, I couldn’t have been further away from my early morning post-meditation state of mind.

Barring my own poor short-term memory, I am left with the role played by the way that indignation messes with our brains. We know that social media is toxic, especially when it is used to weaponise outrage. This was a personal experience of its impact.

Outrage is sometimes necessary, but it eclipsed my experience of awe and wonder. I lost something in the process.