Climbing Mt. Maculot

I don't mind being the third person on an unusual choice for a date between a fraternity brother and his girlfriend. Apparently, Kate was complaining that their relationship had revolved around routine and wanted a change – something exciting. I am at a lost why of all the things he could have chosen, my brod chose taking the girl out to the mountains. I think a trip to a theme park would have done the trick.

At the end of a two-hour bus ride, we were wounding down curves leading to Cuenca, Batangas. The place was rural somewhat. Since it was Saturday, you will see many large vans and cars parked on the side of the road, seeming out of place adjacent compact houses. I surmise that is almost always the case in rural Philippines where many city-dwellers take the trip to the provinces during weekends to be with family. It is a real loss that I have no personal link to the provinces. Being Manileño has many downsides. If I can have my way, I’d rather be probinsyano who can clearly trace my affinity and proud origin to the various ethnic groups. As it stands, I’m half Batangeña and half Cebuano, but I speak neither Cebuano or have that endearing but potent accent of the Batangeños. It is a loss worth a world of lament – to be culture-deficient among those who have all the reason to be proud of their heritage. If there is a taste to this feeling, then paper describes it well.

As we wound a curve I caught a glimpse of a peak with an unusual bright green patch midway its height through a break in the line of trees. It was just a glimpse and I was not even sure if it was the mountain we were supposed to climb. 10 minutes and we were being informed by the conductor that the next stop was ours. Alighting off the bus, the town was like any other rural town except for this large mountain looming clearly overhead with slight wisps of low clouds weaving its way around its tree covered peak. Confident as I was, I dismissed the climb as simply too easy to get worked up about.

The town has encroached so much on the mountain that you can see almost 90% of the mountain less its base. Most of the mountains I’ve climbed would hide their peaks behind rolling shoulders.

We walked through a community that I immediately knew had capitalized on the weekly presence of mountaineers and hikers in their area. There were sari-sari stores selling hydration bladders amid cans of sardines, salted eggs and salted fish, and offer the use of bathrooms for bathing and changing for 10 pesos.

I prefer climbing with a small group and would prefer climbs where I don’t have to encounter other climbers along the way. But it always ruins everything when you start something with a negative attitude. So I told myself this will be a pleasant climb and will try to enjoy every step as I am the strongest climber and will not have to worry about keeping up with the group or whether I am holding everyone back.

10 minutes into a slight incline, Kate began to complain. Somehow, I knew this would happen. But as the climb progressed, we began to look at the predicament in a humorous light even while Kate cried between laughter. I tried to reassure her saying that in 40 minutes we would be at the ridge and everything would be more or less level. She wasn’t happy about 40 minutes so I revised that statement with thirty minutes.

There were structures made of bamboo along the way looking like makeshift stalls. We were told by a girl who clambered past us that the stalls were used during the holy week when devotees would pack the mountain to pray and do whatever Catholics are inclined to do when they climb mountains as a sort of offering to their savior – like light candles and worship rocks that looks like Virgin Mary and the likes.

I knew the trails were popular among mountaineers and weekend hikers, but I see no reason why the place is littered with empty bags of snacks, plastic bottles and wrappers. All mountaineers are bound to be environmentalist, and though it is a point of contention, I’d think it would be the ignorant devotees and careless locals who are the culprit. Every mountaineer I know would cringe at the thought of leaving an empty candy wrapper on a mountain trail.

Litterbugs: they see a wonderful view, they enjoy nature, they bask at the clean air, yet they care nothing about polluting and ruining it for the ones who will come after them. I have no adjective to describe my contempt towards these individuals.

Upon reaching the ridge, we were greeted by 3 stalls and other structures. Apparently, the ridge offered a wonderful view of Cuenca and neighboring towns on one side, and Tagaytay, Talisay and the magnificent Taal Lake and Volcano on the other. It was simply breathtaking.

Campers had pitched their tents at the ridge and were gathered around the stalls with some eating Halo-Halo. Upon reaching one of the stalls, I myself ordered one tall glass of Halo-Halo. Though I prefer the ridge in its natural state, since the stalls were there, why not avail of the slight comforts that they offer? Who can resist ice cold Coke on a hot summer’s day anyway?

Here’s the catch though: on level ground, a 1.5L bottle of Coke would cost around 35 pesos. At the ridge, it cost 70 pesos. If you want ice with that, that would cost you an additional 10 pesos. Who am I to complain? How much would you charge to lug a bottle of Coke in addition to your normal backpack load halfway up a mountain anyway?

Commandeering one of the stalls, we set down our bags and rested, enjoying the cool breeze, magnificent view and our ice cold tumbler of Coke. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but look out towards the peak and wonder how the view is like up there. It is an impulse to keep on going up until there is no where else to go. It pushes when you are grappling with physical limitations, and pulls when you sit out at the distance contemplating your destination.

Excusing myself, I went to look around and see what the ridge has to offer further out, since Kate had claimed the hammock for her exclusive use. Who can argue with a sleeping person?

The campsite is an enjoyable one here you can run on either direction across the ridge and get served with two wholly different terrain and view. I ran towards the direction of the peak.

Raring to climb while I sat at the bus, I saw a feature of this same mountain which I had visualized myself to find, trample upon like a tired dog and lazily lie upon gazing at the clear beautiful sky – the bright green patch right in the mountain’s belly.

Well, I did find it but it’s not the soft fluffy grassy patch that I have envisioned. It was a patch of cogon: bright green, itchy, sharp like razors and much taller than your average person. They leave you with paper cuts all over your arms if you happen to be impatient and rush through them like the way I did. The first few cuts definitely slowed me down. I never enjoyed cogon. My first climb was on a mountain covered with cogon – ergo the climb was hot, itchy, dusty and would inevitably leave you with cuts that would lead city people to think you enjoy the art of self mutilation.

Scrapping my earlier plans to take a nap, I went on to explore up until where the tree line interrupts the bright green of the ridge.

The views were magnificent. The bright green-blue of the lake behind features of the mountains causes a most disconcerting optical dilemma – where the brain struggles to fathom the logical implication of a tree juxtaposed beside a boat barely large enough to see moving across the lake. The side of the mountain facing the lake is very steep, which accounts for the absence of visual cues that hints of distance – like when you look at a field on a farm, crop lines seem to converge at some point in the horizon which allows the mind to perceive distance. It is surreal looking down at the boundary between the mountain and the eerie clarity of the wide green expanse of the lake.

After jamming the memory of my mobile phone with torrents of pixel data, I had no recourse but to return to our stall and transfer the images I got to my pocket pc. Yes, unfortunately I was not able to bring a camera.

Moving on to the opposite direction, I came upon a rocky knoll-like structure jutting against the ridge. I was elated and made my way down a slight but steep declination before scrambling onto rocks.

The view at the peak of the knoll was amazing. The blue-green of the lake draped the expanse while the Tagaytay Range rose behind the crater in the middle of the lake. Looking further out into the hazy distance you will seed the valleys hugged by mountain ranges that sit silently like gods looking out over their dominion, animated by the brilliant sun, and made static by the patient sky. This is my land. I belong to this land. If I am to die, I will die in this land and my ashes scattered to feed the plains – to give back everything that was ever taken.

Every squabble that ever was, wars and uncertainties that had infested this country are but moments in the endlessness before me. Generations will pass inevitably, and a new set of squabbles will replace tired old ones, and it carries on preoccupying our short existence. In sitting and looking out where I am, I knew that the only thing that is of importance is that which we have made important. I cannot see poverty where I was, or corruption, or the deterioration of societies. I cannot see disease, hardship and unemployment. But upon returning, I will find myself wallowing in these. And I will once again make it a part of my existence, concern and consciousness. It will give my life meaning, as I set goals and make these important to me. In the end, what you see and hold close to your heart depends on how high off the ground you are. Every step higher reveals a wider picture, but you will for every succeeding step lose sight of the drama that unfolds amid the details.

I let the wind blow against my face, whipping through my short hair, howling past my ears. I let myself feel the fear of being so high up. I allowed myself to acknowledge how small the ground I am standing on, and recognize the steep angles on either side. I allowed myself to accept that this landmass rest beside an active volcano. I told myself that a finely timed tremor may knock me off where I stood. I imagine soaring through the air, catching wisps of grass as I pass them in a blur, I imagine my mangled body, and the darkness of nothingness. And then I let the wind blow against my face. I felt alive. I felt so alive.

Lunch was uneventful, and we sat around our soiled canteens and plastic cups while the heat of the sun and the steamy green scent of grass compelled us to small talk. We decided that I should go first and secure a campsite at the summit. Kate was apprehensive of the profile of the mountain, and she had good reasons for it. Some sections looked steeper than what we have gone through and judging from how she reacted earlier, she may find the next few hours too grueling.

So I took off on my own with my full pack. I was determined to enjoy the hike, with no one behind breathing down my neck or in front of where I have the privilege of breathing down their necks. I can stop whenever and wherever I want and enjoy the trees and the ruckus of nature.

Apprehension, it grows on you as you bring yourself further from the pack. It pulls and draws on you, as if where everyone else were was the coziest place in the world. And just when the trees blanket you with a sort of mid-afternoon darkness that tugs at your sleeves, you begin to wearily look into even darker corners and underbrush of the forest – fearing something you can’t quite put your finger on, yet it seems real enough to make your skin crawl. There will be sections on the trail that would rise sharply and the effort coming from your lungs would silence the cacophony of forest sounds. Then as if consciously defying the intrusion, a crescendo of whirs, chirps and hoots rises into the air, silencing footsteps.

So you listen, as the forest speaks to you. It never welcomes, just forebodes – like darkness, it never entices.

You reassure yourself that you are not the enemy and that your blood is of the same dew that nourishes the orchids and ferns. You invoke your heritage, race, staunch environmentalism, sensitivity to nature, goodness to your fellow humans, as you trek with no one to chase at front and no one to look out for at the back. You are alone, and the chilling reality of that edges you to the brink of panic. You race forward to find the peak, madly grappling at vines and branches, squeezing under logs that lay prostrate across the trail, ripping out spongy and beetle infested sections from it in an explosion of desperation. You claw at the earth – the same earth you have professed your love to; searching for that break in the canopy that tells of the summit.

So you stand at that point in the trail where what lies in front is soil and above your head, the sky. You take those last steps with the same strength that you begun the trek with, and the sky opens up to you. You breathe as if the air was your prize. You bring your eyes to feast on the expanse, to devour the horizon, to take dainty bites off passing clouds and lick at the sun.

I learned from SMS and later a phone call that Kate can no longer go any higher. We had to camp elsewhere other than the peak. I wasn’t all that disappointed as her endurance had exceeded my expectation. I replied that I was going to explore and take a slight nap before descending.

The peak had one exposed campsite and a number that are very much sheltered from the sun and wind by thick brushes and trees. Though the view was magnificent, much of that which preoccupied my attention was my disgust to see a slight hole dug at the peak where torn rice sacks, empty packets of snacks, bottles and a medley of refuse have been dumped. A tree that stood looking out at the view was mutilated and a banner with an unintelligent insignia of an insignificant organization was tied to it – binding it and choking it of life. Torn rice sacks were wrapped around it, and empty bottles were strewn everywhere as if to add insult to injury.

Everywhere at the peak, trash can be found. I had trouble finding a spot to take a nap because everywhere you look you see trash strewn and scattered all over.

All I have are curses to the groups and individuals who have done this. Ignorant as they may be, I am bewildered by the utmost insensitivity and lack of sensibility of these people. It does not take an ounce of intelligence to see that leaving trash in your wake – be it in your house, your backyard, the city streets and wilderness, is wrong. But here I see stupidity reaching unbelievable heights – literally!

I made sure to climb light, but I descended with a heavy pack. I have tried to roll up as much torn sacks as I can and strap them against my bag, but it didn’t make any difference, not a difference. I came down heartbroken.