Hiking with Some Friends at Bugesera

The air in Musanze was thick with the smell of wet soil and pine, the kind of scent that feels older than you are. I arrived with a backpack that might as well have been empty — no real gear, no hiking experience, just a stubborn curiosity. The lake stretched out in front of us, still and green, framed by mountains that looked like they’d been carved with a dull knife.

Our camp was on an island you had to take a boat to. In my head, it would be a peaceful paddle across water that caught the sun like glass— which we did on the island. In reality, the kayaks were stubborn old fibreglass beasts, each stroke a gamble that left tiny, invisible splinters in our entire bosies. By the time we reached the shore, we were all scratching at our skin, laughing through the sting.

The tents were pitched high, as if the island itself was testing us before we could rest. Each step uphill was a reminder that my legs were soft from too many hours behind a desk. My lungs felt like they’d shrunk in protest— the smoking didn’t help. Still, the climb offered glimpses of the lake, and views of the beautiful Rwandan hills below — ripples spreading like breath, birds skimming the surface before disappearing into the green.

Nights were cold enough to make you curl inwards, the air damp against your skin. Somewhere in the dark, insects hummed in layers, and the wind carried the scent of woodsmoke from a fire that never seemed to fully die out. Mornings broke slowly — mist hanging low over the water, the world turning gold one inch at a time.

Out here, nothing was easy. The kayaks bit back, the paths punished you, and the ground was harder than any mattress. But every inconvenience felt was earned. Even my aching calves and scratched hands felt like souvenirs — proof I’d been somewhere worth the trouble.

I left with sore muscles, a mental list of gear I needed, and the quiet conviction that I’d be back. Next time, fitter, maybe faster. But still willing to let the wilderness win a round or two.