Friday, October 20, 2006

Buruwisan Falls

Buruwisan Falls
Brgy Macatad
Mt. Famy, Siniloan, Laguna
August 13, 2006

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Last August I went with Congress Outdoors to Buruwisan Falls and rappelled into her 100-foot drop. The act of leaning back into a chasm was mind-numbing. Such an act defies all naturally hard wired tendencies aimed at self-preservation. Perhaps in an attempt to shut down fear and preclude utter embarrassment from freezing over at the lip of the falls while your companions drop in like navy seals, the mind goes on zombie mode so that the body can commit itself to an illogical act.

The moments before the actual jump were solemn to say the least. I was not sure if everyone on the team was just concentrating on the lecture and instructions of the jump master or praying to the good Lord for their souls to keep. Oh yes, they call dropping off the cliff "jumping", hence the term "jump master" for the expert that will prepare the rigging, instruct and ensure everyone is doing the right thing.

Most of us had dropped into various places one time or another. Some had dropped into natural settings for that matter. Only a few however, had dropped into such a height as this presented to us. For one, the great rumble the falls made was disconcerting to say the least - and that was above the lip. What more if you happen to be beside it. The rope was rigged so that the jumper will come about four to five meters away from the edge of the curtain of water.

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It would be pretentious to say I wasn't scared shitless as I stood at the edge of the lip waiting for the jump master to signal for me to drop in. I've put up a brave face all throughout and tried as much as I can to look nonchalant about the whole thing. I'm not so sure if I was that successful in hiding the death-pale color of my face, or if I made any sense as I spoke through clenched jaws. All of a sudden, I became tunnel-visioned as I leaned back and allowed the rope to take my weight. Then it was only the rope in front of me and my feet as I willed them to take one step at a time.

It pays to take note of lectures and instructions. Sometimes, proper techniques may appear counter-intuitive. The proper thing to do when facing a vertical wall is to lean comfortably back to give you mobility and control over your descent. Intuitively, you'd want to hug the wall and cry out to your mommy.

About two meters from the lip, the wall becomes an overhang and you will need to maneuver yourself into the ledge. As much as I tried to gingerly ease myself in, the foliage blocking my view caused me to lose foothold and I ended up banging my shin on a rock. Adrenalin has a way of numbing pain and dimming sensibilities fortunately and I carried on. Further down, the foliage clears and you find yourself completely suspended under a huge overhang created by the falls. Noise, mist and tumbling wind from the force of the falling water send your body swinging and your mind swirling. It was a beautiful denouement for such a climactic weekend activity.

DSCF5947I cannot pass the opportunity to take pictures while suspended. The first time I dropped in I found the rescue sling was forcing me to double over backwards and that I needed a hand on the rope to keep myself upright. However, I also needed that hand to take my pictures.

You really don't want to flip upside down if you're not planning to do so especially with an improvised harness. So, I called off my plan to shoot during that descent. For the next jump, we did this trick with another sling to function as a body harness to allow me the freedom to shoot around without worrying about flipping back. A real harness provides stability so you can flip upside down or bring yourself upright without much trouble or fear from slipping off the webbings.

So there I was a mad photographer fidgeting with his camera suspended a fair height above the water's surface, while tons of fresh water fell only a few meters away. You have got to see the romance in that.

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Buruwisan Falls had seen a number of casualties. One account was a climber rappelling and due to some sorry sad twist of fate experienced equipment failure and fell into the water. He survived but he was vomiting blood as they hauled him off. Another time, someone was loafing around near the lip, probably played around and slipped. That one didn't survive.

Buruwisan Falls is part of a series of falls in Mt. Famy, Siniloan, Laguna. It is a mere three hours drive from Quezon City and another two hours hike from Barangay Macatad - the staging area or jump-off point for your hike. Brgy. Macatad is along the Famy-Infanta Highway, making it very accessible via private vehicles or public transport.

DSCF5760The campsite is conveniently supplied by a number of Sari-Sari stores and maintained by the local barangay. Toilet facilities are also available. It is implored from visitors to practice low impact camping activities at the camp site. Bonfires are not necessary and everyone is responsible to ensure that no trash is carelessly thrown into the river or left behind. The use of soap is discouraged in the river as this will promote algal bloom further downstream thereby reducing oxygen levels in the water and adversely affecting life in the river.

We are all responsible for the proper management of our natural resources and recreational havens. Ignoring rules and practicing acts that degrades the natural beauty of our wilderness does nobody any good. Leaving your trash behind hoping that others will pick it up after you may provide you with slight convenience, but the inconvenience and irritation you as a person give others are deplorable. Others may pick up after you, but they are not doing it because they are paid to do it. They go about cleaning up after idiots because they love the environment and care enough to do something about it.

On a final note, rappelling is an activity that demands exactness in skills, specialized equipment and professional guidance. Various mountaineering organizations offer guideship services which include rappelling in the itinerary.

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University of the Philippines Mountaineers (UPM) offer such guideship services and may be contacted at their website for queries.

Likewise you may also contact Jump Master Allan Bermudes of Red Cross Rizal Chapter to provide guideship, equipment and rappel instruction and guidance. He may be reached at 09198924425 for bookings.

(Some rights reserved. No part of this post may be reproduced in any printed material of commercial purpose without the express consent of the author.)

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

QUEZON FOR REAL

Tignoan, Real, Quezon
June 13, 2006

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Real, Quezon, it is an adventure waiting to happen at your doorstep.

I wouldn't have suspected that I could simply catch a bus near my house and get off at a fishing village where falls, skin diving sites and endless beaches are mere walking distance from each other. I couldn't have known that in three hours, I would have been transported into a place where the pace of life was much slower yet overflowing with honest and down to earth smiles.

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No Plans, No Idea
There is something appealing about having a backpack and not having a plan. I left home with only the knowledge that I was suppose to go to Quezon Province. Even that was indefinite until I got off the bus and found my foot planted firmly in Quezon soil.

From the bus station at Pasay, everything went by in a semi-conscious blur - I didn't even notice my home town Antipolo whiz by as we made our way through the province of Rizal. Next thing I know, I was getting off the bus still half-asleep and groggy. There to greet me was a brilliant sun dazzling my sleepiness away and a breeze coming from the shore blowing away the remnants of a dream from my eyes and replacing it with something much better. I knew it was going to be an interesting long weekend when I saw two men fixing a 12 meter pontoon at the side of the highway.

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Soon enough, my traveling companion and I were greeted by our host at Imperial Beach Resort. When travel agencies pitch the Philippines to the world, they always made mention the hospitality of the Filipino. As locals, such a thing is a non-feature because a friendly smile and genuine concern for a traveler's welfare are common place - like chocolate in a chocolate factory. If it is not like that for the rest of the world then it must be such an unfriendly place outside these shores.


A Swig of Beer for Stories


2006_0612Quezon0014Hospitality equals beer. The moment my rear end touched the bench of a beach hut, a bottle of beer grande size was shoved right at my face. From there, the late morning was spent listening to tales from the ocean from fishermen stopping by our hut to take a swig of ice cold beer. For the price of a short glass, you will hear fishing tales from the vast Pacific, of shoals in the middle of the ocean where lobsters abound, of particular spots in the open ocean where every hour was spent battling with fishing lines, of 60kg yellow fin tuna and Marlins that can lurch boats. For another glass, you might hear of sad tragedies and still for another glass, you might be able to coerce funny tales about village characters and hilarious antics of locals from neighboring islands.

We were joined by a fisherman who walked with a limp - which I later learned was called diver's stagger. His story was that he was rushed to shore unconscious, having suffered from the bends - a condition where dissolved nitrogen in the blood comes out of solution and forms air bubbles in the bloodstream due to quick ascents or depressurization. He was liberal in making known his displeasure of his numb leg. Midway his short glass of beer, he slapped his lazy leg and said it was holding him back and that if it gets in the way any further then he might consider chopping it off.

It never occurred to me that there were different ways to fish. Small scale fishermen on one-man outriggers would trace the shore about a kilometer out to sea and cast their nets for smaller catch. Medium scale fishing boats would go out to sea for weeks, sometimes traveling all the way to Palawan. The fishing boats meant for the open waters of the Pacific were larger and generally fish for Yellow Fin Tuna, Marlin and other large catch using fishing lines. There are other boats that are equipped with compressors and these are the interesting ones as they are for spear fishermen.

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It was hard for me to imagine how spear fishing in the ocean was done until we swam out to one of these specialized outriggers and with our own eyes saw the equipment that they carry. The compressor sat below deck mid ship. From it radiated four thin and clear hoses that are about as thick as an average person's pinky. It would be a fair guess to say that unraveled, each hose would extend 50 meters. At their ends was a stiff tube secured with rubber strips. We were careful not to kink, step on or even touch these neatly spun hoses for one look and we immediately knew what depended on them.

Spear fishermen would go down depths with these tubes as lifelines. They would bite at the stiff tube at the ends to secure their lifeline in their mouths to breathe as they go about hunting for fish with their harpoons way below the water's surface. If you think the activity is risky, you're not mistaken. The fisherman who had the diver's stagger was and still is a spear fisherman. Tragic stories abound but out of respect and perhaps to distance themselves from the same fate, fishermen are hesitant to speak of them.

Siesta over; let's walk

2006_0612Quezon0013Noontime came and gone like the bottles of beer and platters of seafood dishes that were brought before us. Though the stories were entertaining and awe-inspiring, there will come a time when you will feel saturated by expectations and think of nothing but grabbing your things and hitting the road to see for yourself.

To ensure our safety and to act as guides, four young locals accompanied us on our excursion. The only remuneration that they expected was to share our meals as friends and to tag along and find an excuse to revisit the palces that they themselves love.

Walking, it is the only way to travel. To feel the hot pavement on the soles of your feet is to absorb the character of a place into your soul. Each window that you pass and inadvertently peek into is a split-second revelation that builds upon your understanding of a way of life you would never have known or imagine if you stayed within the confines of your car.

You must tread past the line of thicket on the side of the road to be able to tip a hat, ask to pass through their property, and exchange pleasantries with a family composed of three generations of fishermen and their overlapping families.

If the shore whizzes past as you traverse the coastal road in a car, how can you chance upon children learning the ways of the sea and profiting from it with their harpoons'

I walk because I know that the way of life that I crane my neck out to see behind these curtained windows will soon disappear. I know that the harpoons and goggles that the children there carry in their hands to play with will soon be replaced by culturally and socially irrelevant plastic robot dinosaur toys. Soon the only songs that will be sung will be irrelevant to their values and way of life.

Lunok Falls

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Lunok Falls is five minutes by foot from the side of Real-Mauban Coastal Road. The short trail is marked by a group of structures perhaps meant a long time ago as accommodation or amenities for tourists but since then had seemed largely unused.

We were greeted at the falls by families picnicking and around 10 children clambering up the sheer and slippery walls of the falls to dive bomb into the seven-foot deep pool. Middle aged women sat around together at the path of the rushing water while men of different ages sat at the shore sharing lambanog - a local distilled spirit derived from the sap of unopened coconut flowers.

Lunok Falls was beautiful and enticing to look at. Plunging more than twenty feet, it made a fine and inviting rumble. The volume of water draining from the mountains and out into this falls was fairly light allowing swimmers to easily brave bathing underneath the falling water.

Walking past the group of men, natagayan ako (I was offered a shot glass full of lambanog). These gestures can be likened to a handshake - it will be terribly rude for a person to reject the friendly offer. So down the hatch it went and I returned the greasy shot glass with a smile. After a few exchanges I bid them farewell and began clambering up an 18-foot near-vertical rock wall with my camera slung across my chest.

While my climbing buddy and our guides prepared late lunch, I intended to explore upstream to take some photographs of the flora and perhaps fauna and other sights along the banks.

Beyond Lunok was a series of lesser falls. To trace the flow of the stream, I had to hug rock faces and do minor bouldering to get to the other side of deep pools. Because of the camera, my progress was very slow. Apart from taking photographs, I had to be very sure of my handholds and footing lest I fall into the deep pools. I wouldn't mind getting wet but I doubt my digital camera shares the same sentiment.

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It doesn't seem that people frequent the areas I've gone to because the available handholds had thick layers of spider webs and the route through the boulder walls were full of debris. I often daintily slapped and brushed off debris from my handholds fearing I might squish a fat spider or some other arthropod and slip from the slime or naked terror that this might cause.

Soon enough I was faced by cascades with vertical rock faces on either side, somewhat like a small canyon. The water exits into a wide and deep pool which barred me from continuing any further.

Shoal Soul Searching
Back at camp, squids the size of a grown man's upper arm were roasting above a fire and the fish stew was steaming and spreading its delectable aroma all throughout the campsite. By then we had the campsite to ourselves except for a large uwak or crow jumping from one tree branch to another curiously observing us, and a cat sitting across the stream with an intent eye at our pot of fish.

The open area by the pool of the falls looked like a perfect place to set camp during the night, but our companions thought otherwise. According to them, nikniks - nasty biting insects with an insatiable appetite for blood, congregate at the banks of the Falls in the evening.

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After swimming, dive bombing and eating, we gathered our things and made our way back to the Coastal Road, crossed to the other side and sauntered down the shore. The shoreline in these parts were covered with pebbles of different shades of gray and blue with some displaying streaks of green and red. The pebbles were large and looked like - for lack of anything better to compare it with - dinosaur eggs.

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In the dying light, we made camp on a clump of pine trees growing on a flattened coral bed. Our campsite resembles in texture, color and smell, the rough outside of an oyster shell. A light colored material formed a crisscross relief on the blackish surface. Though the surface is even, it is sharp and walking barefoot was a difficult undertaking.

After setting up my tent, I went about stringing a hammock between two pine trees. With my feet off the ground and my face staring at the darkening sky through the bristly needles of pine trees, I came to thinking about the stories being told by our companions who had lived all their lives by the sea.
The sea was their universe. They may speak of politics and things going on in Manila but all these things were spoken with indifference. What lit their eyes up and gave a smile to their voices was talk of the sea, of her bounty, of far away islands with brilliant white sandy beaches, of leaving shore before dawn and spear fishing with only the light of the moon as bait.

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It was difficult for me to see the world through their eyes. It was difficult for me to shake off the immediacy and demands of urban living and the superficial, transient and personally irrelevant concerns that define it. It was hard for me to see the sea the way they do but I tried nonetheless and found that I might almost be able to grasp it between the undulation that the darkened world made while I lay still in my hammock.

In the easy cool humming of the sea, with our sleepy faces lit like ghosts by the bluish moon, I chanced upon a feeling of oneness with everything around me. It is at that instance when I let myself go at the edge of sleep that I felt the vastness of the universe embrace my fragile body. It is then that I lost all desire.

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It was an eerie lesson in succumbing to fate, of succumbing to a form of soft death. For that brief moment before my consciousness fell into darkness, I saw the brilliance of the blackened sea and yet I didn't desire to own her or know more of her. Curiosity had left me and I stared out knowingly into the horizon like a child does to his mother's eyes. At that brief moment, I understood everything that needed to be understood and cared not for what I didn't understand.

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Dawn
I woke up in a place that was briefly unrecognizable. Most of the shoreline features I had taken note of at dusk became submerged at dawn. The vantage points where I planned to catch the early rays of the sun were no longer there.

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It was tricky to walk around the submerged sections of the shoal at dawn's muted light. Knee deep areas would abruptly end in 12-meter drop offs into the ocean floor. Seemingly secured knobs of rocks would turn out to be pillars of corals with a base submerged more than 5 meters underwater.
Peering into the dark deep blue, I can make out silver specks hovering then streaking into the darkness below. Fishes! They'd dart in and out of the dark bodies of coral underneath with some getting swept into the shallows where they'd skim across the thin water and plop right back into the ocean.

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Dawn was a spectacular show of pink and yellow streaks in a foreground of deep blue and muted green. It was at the edge of the shoal that I sat witness to how nature could paint in her canvass the passing of time.

Fluid Dynamics
After a quick breakfast, we donned on our skimpy-dipping gear and with our sandals dove feet first into the warm morning water. Starting from the pebble-strewn shallows, we slowly but systematically swam out towards the heads of corals sticking out of the surface of the water. The sandals were such a good idea because everything that we can step on or hold was sharp. I came out of the water with a few deep cuts on my fingers from simply holding on a coral and then being nudged by a gentle wave. That was all it took to draw blood.

2006_0612Quezon0089Though peppered with coral heads sticking out of the water, the ocean beneath us was deep - deep enough that even our young fishermen companions couldn't dive to touch the bottom. Perhaps to excuse himself, one of them said it was possible to reach the bottom but there were too many sharp obstructions below. It would be pretty risky to go that deep without a breathing apparatus and no idea on the currents. It will be easy to get swept into the maze of coral columns and get wedged underneath.

We were an interesting sight. A group of four men seemingly standing on something big and submerged in the ocean, crouching with our nose centimeters from the water peering into the deep. We stood there at the edge of an underwater cliff. No one brought goggles and the only way to see clearly what was beneath the surface was to bring our eyes as close to the surface of the water as possible. Even with such crude techniques, we could see the columns where we were standing on disappear into the deep.

We stared awe-struck at the spanning fans and other large structures of corals sticking out from the depths. Striped fishes, yellow flat bodied fishes, long silvery fishes darted in and out of view underneath. My companion even swore that he saw Nemo (a term used by city dwellers when they see a striped orange fish) which had all of us peering intently at the direction he pointed out. No Nemo but there were a number of Doris look-alike hovering in and around the area.


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All morning long, we launched ourselves from the top of one coral column to another crossing the deep divide with much exhilaration, stopping every now and then to peer intently with our noses centimeters from the surface at an interesting underwater feature.

It was apparent that there was not enough time in a day to explore and see all that can be seen at the shoals. We had to fight the impulse 'to just go over there one last time and see what's underneath'. It helped to pull ourselves away from our coral hopping to know that our next stop was a multi-layered falls of staggering beauty.

Leap of Faith
We retraced our steps along the Real-Mauban Coastal Road to get to our next destination. The glassy surface of the sea, the shore and shoals were sparkling and shimmering from the intense glare of the noonday sun. If not for these visual indulgence, I could swear that the five-kilometer march was as close to torture as it can get. The road was dusty, hot, and blindingly bright and offered no shade to those traversing it.

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A large group of around 80 riders on scooters of varying size and style passed us by in a swirling cloud of dust and exhaust fumes. It is a popular weekend activity for Manila scooter enthusiasts and riders to crisscross the Laguna and Quezon countryside via Antipolo or Tanay. This route is popular to scooter riders because they are prohibited from the North Luzon and South Luzon Expressways leading out to the countryside due to their machines' small engine displacement. This is probably the reason why during long weekends, Laguna, Quezon and Aurora become swamped by riders.

A small store marked the unassuming turnoff into Balagbag Falls. Unfortunately, the falls was within private property and a small fee will be collected upon entry. The owners had taken the liberty in converting the lower portion of the falls into a resort of sorts as well as providing basic amenities like picnic huts, running tap water and a pair of toilets. A narrow concrete path leads to but terminates a good 20 meters from main pool's edge. I was appreciative that the developer had not installed any permanent concrete structures near the falls as this would certainly destroy the natural beauty of the place. Sensibly, the concrete path and toilets are out of sight from the main pool area. Often, sites like these end up being peppered with tacky concrete structures like imitation wood huts, and paths which in turn were often painted pink or bright green.

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The first time I saw the multi-layered falls, I dropped my gear at the water's edge and clumsily brought out my camera as if what I was photographing was ephemeral and would be gone that very second. It was an impulse grounded on disbelief that such a sight could be beheld. I've been to many places and many a times was disappointed by the discrepancy between the stories told and what was actually there. When locals talk of Balagbag Falls, they'd describe it as maganda or beautiful and simply brush the topic aside. Clearly, I had underestimated what I thought to be behind the river's bend.

The manner in which the water fell was poetry. Like a playful but careless child, it hurled itself from the edge, before breaking apart into thousands of white flightless birds filling cracks and crevices before crashing into a state of languid abandonment as it snaked past self-possessed boulders before once again convening for a finale - a thundering crescendo! The spectacle was concluded with a denouement of faint chatter as the spent water trickle in a wide lineament towards the sea.

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While being an observer has its advantage, being a participant was definitely more fulfilling. It didn't take long before we all found ourselves hurtling our fragile bodies over the fall's edge and into the deep blue green water of the pool below. What added to the thrill was that the deepest part of the pool was a mere eight feet deep. After hurtling ourselves over the edge in reckless abandon a few times, our arms soon became numb and bruised from hitting the water to break our fall.

My friend thought it was a good idea to raise his arms to avoid the impact of the water. Apparently, that wasn't such a wise move because it made his body cut an arching path through the water causing him to scrape his back at the pool's pebble strewn bottom. He ended up with ghastly but amusing half-bleeding scratches along his back With newfound knowledge on what not to do, we continued hurtling ourselves over the edge, challenging gravity and the shallow bottom of the pool. As for our half-bleeding friend, he decided to cook the day's meal instead.

Soon enough, we all lay flaccid by the shore of the pool savoring the moment and allowing the throbbing pain in our arms to ease. A group of youngsters from the area decided to show us a thing or two on how to catch some really mean airs. I watched them in utter amazement as they snubbed the place where we have launched ourselves and made their way towards a large tree with upper branches hanging directly over the center of the pool. To get to the upper branches, the boys would have to crawl up and along the narrow trunk, past sharp rocks and boulders around three stories below them.

Even as a spectator, I could sense the caution and hesitation in the boys' measured movements. As they cautiously crouched and secured themselves on the top most branches, I could see that they were about to jump a height that was double what my companions and I had jumped. When I realized this, blood drained from my face.

Two and a half seconds of deafening silence followed when a boy dropped from the branches. Time stood still. Whatever thought you might have in that span of time would be blown away by the loud deep crack that the diver's slippers made when it hit the surface of the water.

Bayanihan and a Slice of Fish

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There are many places that I have been to which I didn't want to leave at first. To put things in perspective though, I always keep in mind that leaving is a good thing because it provided endless opportunities to arrive. So, with a smile on my face and a light heart to boot, I turned by back on Balagbag Falls, grateful for being an audience to her poetry and a dive-bomber to her rough edges.
Back at Imperial Beach Resort, the usual bottle of beer grande size greeted us, as well as a multitude of riders and cyclists looking for accommodations before nightfall.

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Soon enough, the length of beach was enlivened by drunken singing and all sorts of merriment while rain clouds gather just offshore. It was a fine night to string up a hammock and sleep facing the sea. The merry ruckus seem to be holding the rain back, but not enough to hold back the wind from disheveling our hair and stirring up sand.

Morning had an aftertaste of normalcy as the festive aura of the long weekend left with the departing riders and cyclist. People had begun to revert to their daily chores and responsibilities. As I hauled a big fat tire interior towards the water, I watched men doing maintenance work on the haul of their outriggers while others coiled ropes, lines and arranged line sinkers and other supplies on smaller outriggers to ferry on their waiting vessels anchored just offshore.

The water was very warm; the kind of temperature you'd expect from a spa. Further out, the water became a confused layering of warm and cold currents. The large difference in temperature enabled you to distinctly feel and sense the currents. Never had I used my skin to consciously objectify my surroundings. It felt like being given a new sense - something to know my surroundings by. And what a way to enjoy such a newfound sense: lying on an outrigger's pontoon, feeling the bands of warm and cold currents on my thighs and calf while riding the rise and dips of a peaceful ocean, soaking in the sun, sound and sights.

As I bobbed a fair distance from the shore, I took in the sight of the village as it lay sprawled along the beach while low mountain ridges backed the shimmering scene. It got me thinking about events earlier that morning when an outrigger returned after two weeks out at sea. The community came out in force to welcome it. You'd think that after seeing a thousand and one of these arrivals everyone would have gotten used to it; but not here. When people greet the arrival of a boat, their intentions run deeper than curiosity.

The crew and their onshore counterparts laid out wood as thick and round as a grown man's calf in a rail crosstie pattern up the beach. The outrigger aligned itself near the shore and powered itself up onto the wooden rail to beach itself. Young and old, women and men, took up their positions at the lateral framework supporting the boats pontoons. With the heavy beams resting on their shoulders, they heaved in unison at the egging of a crew member.

'Isa...dalawa...tatlo!' (One...two...three!). On three, everyone heaved and the outrigger slid up a few feet up the wooden crossties. The woods left behind are brought up front hurriedly. After allowing everyone to catch their breaths, the crew begins again, 'Isa...dalawa...tatlo! Tulak!' The boat was heavy and we struggled as our feet dug into the sand the moment we heaved. Sand stung our eyes and rubbed painfully between our exposed shoulders and the wooden beams of the boat.

The power of the community working together was awesome. We could feel it as the heavy outrigger made its way up the beach. The collective elation in fulfilling a communal task was overpowering. Everyone was smiling and laughing at the effort and a job well done.

Immediately, a crew member signaled everyone to gather near the boat and they handed out sliced tuna about the size of an open palm. There were many to go around and the children had a field day. My friend and I were a bit at a lost at this turn of events and we gingerly stepped back and out of the way of everyone. Our hesitation was felt by a crew member and he walked up to us with two slices of fish and motioned us to take them. Everyone was telling us to get the fish and the learned reaction of first refusing any offer seem so wrong at that moment that we felt we had no choice but to accept.

After giving away fish, the crew started work in hauling out their catch. From below deck emerged fishes the length of a grown person. Children filled the deck and clung to beams and post trying to catch a glimpse of shimmering giant sea creatures.

Tout sinewy men took the giant fishes on their shoulders with their fingers on the fishes' eye sockets for grip. With much heaving, they brought the catch to a waiting vehicle that will take them to Navotas - a central port in Metro Manila where fishes are auctioned off or sold wholesale.

I don' wanna go home!
The rest of the day was spent soaking in the sun, sights and smell of the place, in anticipation of our departure later in the evening. We swam out from one anchored boat to another, taking in the details of these crafts to deduce the boats function and imagine the activities that would have gone on above deck when they were out at sea.

We also helped in pushing an outrigger back into the water - though obviously that didn't yield any fish for us but it gave us a strong and powerful sense of belonging.

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It was an idyllic end to a long weekend, loafing along the shore, lying on a hammock not minding the sand covering most of my thighs and torso, watching children play and adults do their tasks, listening to outriggers chug along towards the bright horizon.

Evening came and it was time for us to depart. To return to the hustle and bustle, all one had to do was step onto the side of the road and wait for the next bus.

It was odd to feel like a stranger to this place all of a sudden. The mere act of preparing to leave had eroded that strong sense of community that we felt while we shared beer with fishermen, when we helped to haul that outrigger onto shore, while we looked out for children playing in the water.
Without that commitment in being depended upon by the community to work, share and care about the welfare of everyone, you become just like the countless faceless nameless persons who pass by the highway cutting through their village.

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The anomic existence of urban life has drawn our consciousness away from this place the moment we began to worry about our offices and deadlines. Before we even lay our foot on the first metal step of the bus, we had already arrived in the city.

Though our minds were already engrossed with future tasks and schedules, I think we left our souls straddling the bow of an outrigger, riding the ebb and rise of the gentle ocean of Real, Quezon.

How to get there and what will it take?

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All it takes is a bus ride.

Meet at Pureza Station of the Light Rail Transit 2. Alternatively, ask to be dropped off underneath the Nagtahan Bridge at the side going to Recto. Find your way towards Raymond Bus Line station. Depending on your preferred schedule, you may opt to wait for the next trip to Real, Quezon, or catch a ride on the vans for hire that are parked along the side of the road.

Ask to be dropped off at Imperial Beach Resort, Tignoan, Real, Quezon. Drivers and conductors are mostly familiar with the names of the private beaches along the village and it is common for people to request to be informed of their stop. Of course, there are other beaches with adequate facilities along the Mahaba Highway. Some resorts will allow you to pitch your tents at the beach or string your hammock at the open air cottages so long as you rent at least one cottage.

The cost of a long weekend trip will vary depending on your appetite for seafood and preference in sleeping arrangements. At a minimum, around Php 1,500.00 per person will go a long way to cover most everything you need for an exciting and eventful long weekend. If you happen to be a beer or lambanog guzzler, or someone with a biblical appetite for seafood, then you may have to bring more cash.

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Sunday, May 21, 2006

Sundan Mo ang Ilog

BAGSIT RIVER
Zambales
20-21 May 2006

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Tubig... Ilog... (Water... River...)

People gravitate towards rivers. It is inevitable. Like giant umbilical cords, these meandering bodies of water fed our earliest communes giving rise to vast cities. It shouldn't come as a surprise that the water used to wet clays that marks the first pages of written history once flowed from a great river.

It may sound like I'm about to launch on a long monologue about the world's great rivers, but relax, I'm not. Last weekend, I went on a slight river trek with some members of UPM and their guests from the Occupational Therapy Department of the Philippine General Hospital.

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It was to be a low effort trek and being so close to water, it cannot be helped that at every bend splashing good fun was to be encountered.

Following rivers can really be loads of fun. Unlike climbing mountains where water are sourced from specific sites along the way - either bubbling from a spring or flowing from a small tributary, in river trekking all you have to do is stick your face on the ground whenever you feel like it and drink the way water is meant to be drank. Of course, you can always dip your water container if you happen to belong to the genteel class.

I assume you all have the common sense to not follow Pasig River and drink from her banks. Though I have to agree that Pasig River is chock-full of nutrients, drinking it can have disastrous effects on your health. There is a simple way to determine the safety of water in the wilderness: let the most obnoxious person in the group have a sip first and wait for an hour or two. If he or she remains obnoxious after that, then the water is pretty safe.

Normally, you should bring your own water. If you are unsure of the water source and Mr. Obnoxious refuses to drink, then you can treat the water with Puritabs (chlorine tablets - unfortunately, this brand seems to have been phased out in local drugstores), Betadine (pweh!), or use them fancy water purifying camping pumps in tandem with a UV pen (those are cool). For proper procedures, please read over the BMCs found at the UPM website or the documentation which comes with your water purifying device.

2006_0521bagsit0073The river is fed by surrounding mountains. We began collecting water for cooking and drinking only after we were sure that there were no human settlements further upstream. I knew it was pretty risky to be drinking untreated water from the wilderness that way but the water was so clean and free from sediments that it was hard to fight the temptation.

The water was so clear that you can always see the bottom of the river bed all throughout the trek. Even when it rained, the river remained surprisingly clear.

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If local wisdom is something to go by, well, they did say that the water upstream was safe to drink.

Puros Bato
Progress was relatively slow as we trekked by the river. The terrain was almost alien. I entertained myself by thinking I was an explorer in Mars as I hopped from one boulder to the next. Of course, in Mars the rocks would have been sharper since there isn't water to shape rocks the way it does here on Earth (I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's my fantasy in the first place and I don't have to show the plausibility of my own pantasya).

Though at a very gentle incline, boulder strewn terrains are the most dangerous terrain in my opinion. Piled up boulders can be pretty slippery, notoriously unstable and in places where erosion had broken it, can be pretty sharp.

To make matters worse, constantly hopping from one boulder to the next for hours can induce a trancelike state. Sometimes you find yourself concentrating on plotting your route without thinking where you are placing your feet. Sometimes you will be focusing on where to lay your foot that you will fail to see that you are heading towards a precarious set of boulders with deep dangerous spaces.

Most injuries I have come across in the wilderness usually involved boulders. Limbs can get wedged in the spaces and with the aid of gravity either pull a muscle or tendon, dislocate a joint, or worse still break a tibia.

2006_0521bagsit0265I have made mention a number of times in this blog regarding a reddish alga that when dry has no notable quality but when wetted becomes as slippery as ice. On this trek, we had to cross a field of boulders covered in these while it began to rain. To understand how slippery it was, we all knew the nature of this algae and were very cautious in our footing but still a number of us fell and came out of that field with badly bruised knees. On another section of the trek, I myself had my legs pulled from under me as I gingerly shifted my weight across a flat slab of rock covered in red algae.

Litratista's Lament
Water and digital cameras don't mix. It was hard negotiating thigh deep water knowing your digital camera is sitting vulnerable inside your belt pack inches from the water's surface.

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What would take a few seconds took minutes as each measured step is test and retested to ensure a secured footing while water rushed by making you giddy and somewhat disoriented. Every boulder that stuck out of the water's surface is a godsend and I didn't hesitate to grab onto anything to provide that added stability - even if it meant grabbing onto and shoving an already off-balanced companion just to secure myself. Better their digital camera than my digital camera I'd always say.

As a personal rule, I always bring along where I'd store my camera a pair of plastic bags and a thicker resealable bag just in case it rains or if we had to cross waist deep water. When that happens, the camera gets wrapped up in plastic and shoved into a dry bag. This in turn will be shoved into my water resistant back pack. This method has so far gained my confidence. I'm not so sure of it though if ever the bag becomes completely submerged - which does happen.

Packing Light
If there is anything I've learned from my Bicol trip, it would be the virtue of packing light. For this trip, I've foregone my flash unit and backup camera. I was meaning to bring a reflector and experiment with outdoor portraiture but decided against it at the last minute.

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I've brought only the essentials: my Finepix camera, a tripod, skylight filter, circular polarizer, my Opteka 0.45x add-on lens and an extra set of batteries. All these except for the tripod went inside a padded belt bag I bought at the mall for 400 pesos.

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These make up my basic outdoor photo gear. If I must bring more, I'd want to bring along neutral density filters and other creative filters for landscape photography - in particular those split neutral density filters to prevent the sky from burning out. It has also come to my attention that certain bag liners do come with a silver lining which can double as a nice reflector for portraiture. Bringing photographic equipment that can double for another purpose is ideal for trekking where weight is a major consideration.

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Now, if I were to be allowed a certain amount of decadence, then I'd want a Hassie with a nice prime 17mm lens if you please. Seriously, I wouldn't mind the weight.

Quiet Water Runs Deep
After hopping from one boulder to another for about two and a half hours, we encountered the deep pool locals call Tutan. I don't know if the people we've spoken to were being serious about this because "Tutan" is only a syllable away from the vernacular "Kantutan" which means to have sex. Needless to say, the introduction of the site to us resulted in sniggers among the less mature members of the group.

By the time I arrived at the pool's site, members of our group were already screaming at the top of their lungs as they jumped off boulders and into the crystal clear water of Tutan.

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The pool was surprisingly deep - about 15 feet deep at the center. Huge boulders the size of small buses lined the pool with only their top most surface showing. Blocking the cascades upstream is a large boulder wedged between smaller rocks beneath the surface. It makes a perfect platform to dive into the pool or sunbathe.

2006_0521bagsit0058A rock formation on one side provided a tiered platform for diving where the highest point is about 20 feet from the surface of the water. A good and secured push is required to clear outcrops above and below the surface of the water. Looking down from such heights was exhilarating - especially when you're psyching yourself for the jump.

Some of the platforms are located in such a way that backtracking is more dangerous than jumping. It is a great motivator for acrophobics to finally jump if you ask me.

Exploring the depths of the pool revealed thumb-size silver fishes and pinky-size shrimps swimming about in schools. Some of us contented ourselves observing these perky creatures as they dart about submerged boulders.

It might come as a surprise to some but snorkels and goggles are standard gear for some mountaineers. As for me, I have a special place in my bag for goggles. Now, to make room for flippers...

Watermark
If ever you've gone out to look for a new home, you've probably been advised by relatives or friends to check the back of the sink or the wall behind the refrigerator for watermarks. If present, these show how high flood water had risen in the past. Generally, you wouldn't want a house that displays these marks.

On this trek, I couldn't help but notice what looked like watermarks and scars that can only be created by a raging river at levels far above the top of my head. For one, driftwood is pretty unmistakable and seeing large chunks of these wedged between boulders 12 feet above where we were walking was not really that reassuring.

I haven't witnessed a flash flood so I cannot help it if my visualization of what can happen is a composite of footages from the Asian Tsunami and scenes from the movie The Day After Tomorrow. Adding to my anxiety was the heavy rain that fell when we resumed our upstream trek from Tutan.

For all we know, there could be a major downpour upstream and in the mountains that drained into the river. For all we know, a raging body of water could be heading our way just around the bend. I kept myself pretty much preoccupied looking out at front and plotting escape routes through the maze of boulders just in case the unthinkable does happen.

I noticed that the sides of the gulley were pretty steep; and were pretty much vertical for about 5 to 8 meters in some stretches. Looking at it, I can imagine the banks of the raging river cutting through the gully and etching these deep vertical walls. I imagined huge boulders being washed out from the side of the mountain and after losing its grip on the soil, tumble like a rubber ball into the river.

Perhaps it was a shared anxiety, because as we progressed and as the level of the river rose, I noticed our group trekking ever closer to the slopes of the gulley and away from where the river rushed.

Tulak Palayo sa Kampo
After about two hours from Tutan we reached a bend in the river with a course sand bank at the inner elbow and a line of sharp rocks on the other. We have reached the campsite. Though camping at the sandy bank was tempting being so conveniently close to the water, common sense saw us pitching our tents way up beyond the banks.

The water was again surprisingly deep - though not as deep as Tutan. Just around the bend was a cascade which provided a constant yet soothing noise at the campsite.

Just before dark, I found myself exploring further up the river by myself. I had this inkling that I might find an entrance to an underground stream over yonder where I made out a slight depression on the side of a steep incline. Though the river and its flow were obvious, there are streams flowing into the river from the slopes straddling it for which their sources are unbeknownst to us.

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When I found myself face to face with my indentation, what I found was just that. But at the center of the unusually clear depression was a sandy patch with concentric white bands at the edge. That made me wonder: do we have quicksand in the Philippines? I inched closer towards the banded edge and decided to dip my toes into it and see. After making sure of my footing, I gingerly dipped my toe in.

It was a complete waste of time. It was just that: a patch of sand. Walking back to camp, I vowed to trace that river to its source one day.

Saan Yun?
To get there, join a responsible and MFPI registered mountaineering organization, internalize your BMCs (Basic Mountaineering Course) and learn by heart your LNT (Leave No Trace policy for climbers and trekkers).

Once you've got that out of the way, get a map and explore!

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Too many people have asked me not to divulge the location of the site or provide instructions on how to get there. If you've been following what I've written in this blog, you are aware of my frustrations with irresponsible backpackers. They will enter the wilderness without a care in the world for the trash that they leave behind. Worse, they would etch rocks and trees that had been there even before the birth of their grandparents with their meaningless nicknames and stupid personal phrases to live by like: "Punks not Ded" or "Jhun loves Jhane".

Go see my Pico de Loro entries and take a look at the mindless markings on the rock formation. You will come to understand the reason why many mountaineers assign to themselves that role as wards to these places of tranquility and beauty.

If it was very hard to get at, then I wouldn't hesitate to publish an itinerary. Usually, the fools I'm referring to here don't have the resources both monetary and physical to get there anyway. But this hideaway is relatively easy to get at hence our hesitation. We don't want another disaster like that of Pico de Loro, Famy, and Majayjay where every Jhun, Jhane and Jhenny have left their indelible mark on every rock, tree and cranny.

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I'm not denying anyone their right to enjoy what is also theirs. It is not exclusively mine to begin with. All I'm saying is don't ask me for directions to Bagsit River.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Pahabol

(Something that is submitted late, Pahabol. Root is habol - or chase)

The hardest thing about keeping a blog is finding the time to actually sit down and write. The next hardest thing is finding something to write about.

It is inevitable that the first few entries would turn out to be an outpouring of sorts. Like a typhoon, it is hard to understand where all the water and wind could have come from and no way of telling when it will stop. But the calm never fails to arrive.

So before the calm arrives, I say go to where the beer flows, and go quick while it hasn't run out!

There are a few entries that I should have posted ummm... about two months ago but was not able to because I haven't completed the write ups just yet. It is pretty much useless to post it in their corresponding dates because it will appear at the bottom of this page and most likely people would have lost interest half-way down before actually seeing them. On the other hand, it is pretty much deceitful to post it at today's date because...because...that would be lying! So to appease my sensibilities, I came up with this: I'll post to link to my entries dated a month or two months back.

Here is a post on my write-up and pictures of my Mt. Pulag Climb last February titled, Pulag Revisited. Either click on the hyperlinks or click on the images below.

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Here is another post about my Pico de Loro climb on the same month titled, Pico Redux.

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If you haven't noticed it, I have links on the bottom right column linking to all posts related to hiking and mountaineering. I've also made available the section linking to some of the short stories I've written. Hopefully I can come up with more. I have a number of sketches so lack of material is not really a problem. The problem is time oh precious time.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Be Cool

Mt. Isarog and Mt. Iriga
Camarines Sur
April 11-16, 2006

Becool Card

This quaint Holy Week break was spent in the Bicol Region. It started with a rushed Tuesday afternoon and ended with a very lethargic Sunday morning.

What can I say about Bicol? It is such a clean, fresh and relaxed place to go to. We visited Pili, Isarog, Iriga and Naga. We went through some other towns but the names escaped me.

The people are proud of their identity. You ask them a question in Pilipino and they will answer back in their local dialect. We learned that we must be specific in saying that we can't understand for them to speak Pilipino. And when you hear them speak Filipino you'd wonder what the fuss was all about because they speak better Filipino than your mother.


Interestingly, if you tell an Ilonggo in Bacolod City that you can't understand them, they will reply to your Pilipino in English. I guess the provinces are reluctant to adopt the Pambansang Wika. Come to think of it, Pilipino is mostly Tagalog which probably spurred this resentment. However resentful people might be, as long as they speak it then it is ok.

But whoa! We've encountered elder Bicolanos who spoke a dearth of Pilipino and showed no sign of comprehending our babbling. It is good that Pilipino is compulsory in primary school.

The towns we visited had the same pattern as most towns in the Philippines: look for the church and you will find the town center, local government offices and most of the more important establishments like banks, market, restaurants and of course, parks and amphitheatres.

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I was particularly impressed with Naga City and Iriga City. These cities show the mark of good urban planning. They have large public open spaces in what seem to be the center of the City and from this, large wide roads radiate. It is easy to find anything and public utility vehicles are accessible without being a nuisance to traffic.

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Hit the beach and you will find the water surprisingly warm. I was tempted to go for a swim at night but remembered that huge sharks love warm waters - I think this was from a complex I developed after watching too much Animal Planet.

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Food is excitingly cheap! For 30 pesos, you get a nice helping of ulam and a huge scoop of rice to go with it. Hit the markets for great cheap food. I thoroughly enjoyed this particular dish made of clams sautéed in coconut milk and chili. The laing offered were equally exquisite. I learned from this trip that you can cook laing in as many ways as there are cooks to cook it. Suffice to say, no two establishments in Bicol offer the same tasting laing.

If ever you find yourself in Naga City, look for Ice Blinkers. They make the powder-iciest Halo-Halo ever! It is one of the best ways to spend 60 pesos in this world.

2006_0415Bicol0289There is only one complaint from this weary traveler: it seems that everything you can put in your mouth is spiced with chili in that Region (except for the Halo-Halo of course, but I did detect a faint zing to it. Hmmm...).


Bicol Region is a rolling valley huddled by Titans! Over the horizon you will see towering volcanoes from all directions. Some are active and some bear the masochistic scars of a violent past where whole mountain sides seem to have been blown off. It is here that the southern tip of Luzon tapers off and the Visayas begins.

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Many picture opportunities await a photography enthusiast in Bicol. The food is colorful, tropical flowers abound, and there are dormant and active volcanoes for the more vigorous camera wielding bunch.

2006_0415Bicol0070I was dying to climb and take pictures in and around Mayon and of Mayon. But looking at its beautiful conical shape capped by grey smoke, one cannot help but ponder about ones safety and future. Sure, I have life insurance but still, I have all the reasons in the world to not want to be vaporized by super hot lava or be broiled to perfection by superheated gas. Even something as mundane as asphyxiation is close to reality in the slopes of an agitated volcano.

Restrictions are in place and a six kilometer no go zone around the base of Mayon is in effect. Such things are not put in place on a whim. It is good to pay heed to signs lest the last 10 minutes of your life ends up in a reality TV show.

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The reason for our Bicol trip was to climb Mt. Isarog in the province of Camarines Sur. At 1,966 meters above sea level, I was expecting an awesome view of the inactive volcano's crater and the valley floor below. But as fate would have it, Isarog was whimsical that morning and would not reveal her girth to us from her summit. Heavy clouds blanketed the summit and we did not even get a glimpse of the surrounding ridges leading up to where we stood.

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Though the summit is a great place to be, and for which many single-mindedly affix their imagined target when climbing, it is not the whole mountain - the summit is not Isarog.

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Whether perhaps I will still be thinking this same way if the summit offered a view that kicks you in the gut with beauty, I don't know. But I have always tried to see a mountain in as many points of view as I could.

Documenting more and seeing more would have been easier if I was a notch more fit and had carried a much lighter pack. Summing up what happened to me in a word: destroyed - I was destroyed by that mountain. Exhaustion and pain blinded me, that is why I could not manage that much shots of the trek.

We started the trek from Brgy. Consocep, our jump-off point. We took the Patag-patag trail which was explained to us as not being the traditional route up the mountain by our guide and climb organizer, Alex of Kadlagan Outdoor.

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During the briefing, he explained that the trail is relatively new and that we will be passing through pristine areas. He asked everyone to be light on their feet and be careful with the thick mosses that grow on the branches along the trail.

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The trail was called Patag-patag because according to Alex, there should be 2 portions of the climb where the slope will even out (patag meaning even or horizontal). I don't know what he was talking about but the whole thing from start to finish felt like an assault.

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If you plan to climb that trail, the way the volcanic slope is shaped will guarantee a steady ascent up until you reach the summit. Climb light and favor ridge runner bags over tall packs. The trail is tight and Isarog will require you to go low, get a leg up high, skip and jump and what have you.

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Somewhere near the campsite, the trail will meander around fallen trees and you will need to parry and weave around thick moss laden branches. If you love nature, you will cringe at the snap and crack that will follow your wake through the mossy forest if you insist on a tall pack.

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After Isarog, four of us from a group of about twenty five decided that we haven't had enough of mountains. So shunning white sand island beaches and placid lakes, the four of us took our heavy bags, bid farewell to our transient companions and made out way to Mt. Iriga.

Mt. Iriga was a disaster waiting to happen. Looking at the breadth and elevation of the 1,470m volcano and aiming to climb it in four hours without backpacks, under a blistering sun with no water source along the way, was being a touch too optimistic.

Mt. Iriga is very accessible. Just catch a ride to Iriga City and contract a tricycle to take you around. The jump-off is about an hour on foot from the city center.

Just a word for climbers, everyone who wishes to climb Mt. Iriga is now required to secure a permit from Brgy. San Roque, Iriga City. The military maintains an outpost leading to the trail and they will not let climbers in without a permit. A recent incident which saw a large portion of the mountain burnt because of local activities had ticked local officials. Now, in an effort to preserve the mountain for ecotourism, they have made access to it relatively limited. All fine with me really, as long as it keeps the vandals, litterbugs and arsons out.

2006_0415Bicol0148I don't recommend haggling with the military manning the check points. They seem uppity and suspicious of oddly dressed climbers. If you have Arab or Indian features, don't take a chance, get the damn permit. One of our companions who remotely looked Indian was being eyed and scrutinized more intently by the officers than us.

Mt. Iriga showed two ironic and poignant scenarios in climbing. One is, you can see where you want to go, but looking at it from where you are is disheartening because you can actually feel the heat of the sun draining your energy every step of the way and yet, the point where you want to go doesn't seem any closer than it was half an hour ago.

The other is that you can't see where you are going as you weave through and get lacerated by two storey high cogon, and the seemingly never ending ascent drains your morale and strength. When I was a kid, I had a pumped up imagination and one of the things I was thoroughly engrossed about was how it was like to be a bug in the middle of our garden amidst a never ending forest of Bermuda grass. Little did I know that in my adult life I would find out the hard way.

While the sun scorched us, the cogon hindered our ascent as lines of cut or broken cogon stems stood like phalanxes stabbing our limbs and body. One of my biggest fear was that of being impaled if I slipped and landed squarely on a fat stem. My next concern was being struck in the eye and blinded by them.

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Cogon is simply grass - but on some mean steroids I'd think. We've encountered ones about two stories high and resembled a bamboo more than the grass that they are. They have leaves three inches wide and sharp enough to bite and cut your skin like a razor. Worst, they have this fur that sticks to your skin and itches. Depending on the stalk's condition, the fur would either rub off like dust or actually dig in like tiny thorns and draw some blood from you.

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Apart from all the hardships that this mountain had meted us, the view from her top most ridge was exhilarating enough for her to be forgiven twice over. It is at her peak that you will be told by sight the story of Camarines Sur. You can trace with your eyes the boundaries of the valleys as they lap at the hem of Mt. Isarog, Mt. Mayon and Mt. Malinao. You will see low ridges boxing in this fertile valley and learn of the origins of the lakes. At this vantage point, you will understand the relationship of humans with nature and how their pattern of settlement is the same from lake to lake, from river to river.

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Descending was uneventful except that it was the only time that I discovered that the summit ridge was sprinkled with pitcher plants, and I've learned that a grown man about my size can down three huge buko (coconut) all by himself. That last one was a surprising and enjoyable revelation.

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When we reached the military check point it was dusk (we went down the same trail we went up). We had a little chit-chat with the residents and soon made our way to the only place where we can wash up: the irrigation channel.

2006_0415Bicol0296It looked like an estero to me but I was appeased by the sight of neat looking locals dive bombing from the side of the road. Besides, I couldn't spot trash and the water didn't smell funny. So like dressed chickens we crossed our fingers and took a dip hoping we weren't bathing in another town's runoff water. If it's any assurance, the water was clear even in the dying light for us to see our knees in chest deep running water.

Normally, local residents would welcome mountaineers into their bathrooms to wash up - sometimes for free and sometimes for a small fee. The community there we surmised however, had no running water as we saw no tap in one of the bathrooms we entered. Plus we saw people carrying water containers across the road. Courtesy dictates that we shouldn't have to give people reason to say no.

One word of advice for travelers though: if you are not sure if you are done with your wandering, never go near a terminal where a bus going home can be chanced upon. The pain in your knees and thighs, the soreness you have been feeling in your back, the scratches and what have you will very much make that bus seem like the best place on the planet. It was this mistake that we saw ourselves back in Manila when we should still be finding our way across the base of Mt. Mayon in Legaspi.


ITINERARY
Mt. Isarog
Patag-Patag Trail
Brgy. Consocep, Ocampo, Camarines Sur

April 13
Day 1
5:00 am ETA, CBD Bus Terminal Naga City from Manila
6:00 am Registration of participants
7:00 am ETD, to Brgy. Consocep
8:30 am Brgy. Consocep, Jump Off point,short briefing
9:00 am Start ascend to campsite 8-9 hrs climb
12:00 nn Lunch along trail (packed lunch)
4:00 pm ETA, Campsite, set csmp, prepare dinner, socials
10:00 pm Lights Off

April 14
Day 2
4:00 am Wake Up Call, Prepare Breakfast/
prepare for assault
5:30 am Start Summit Assault
7:00 am Summit, take pictures...
8:00 am Back to Campsite
9:00 am Campsite, Breakcamp, Prepare for descend
12:00 nn Lunch along trail (packed lunch)
4:00 pm ETA, Jump Off Point
4:30 pm ETD to Naga City
6:00 pm Naaga City- Side trip na!!!

Water load 3-4L

Bus terminal to Naga City, Bicol is in Cubao, bus fair is
P500-P600 air-conditioned.
Time travel- 8-10 hrs from Cubao to Naga

IT by Alex (Kadlagan)