An Aborted Glimpse of Heaven

The Wait (04.06)

As I prepare for yet another climb, I avoid being giddy with anticipation. I try my best to temper my excitement. It has been my experience to have been very hopeful and excited about a lot of things, putting my all into them, my hopes and dreams, my routines, my prayers; even those of the people I love, only for matters to turn awry and catatonic, leaving me with the hollowed-out shells of my grand aspirations.

Last year I climbed, and now another mountain is at stake. My preparations now are somewhat on a larger scale, compared to last year's, in terms of expenses and equipment. I have to travel farther than last year, and this justifies the bigger logistics. I prepare by reading the reflections of others who have gone before me. I do not look at my mountains as mere destinations in a travelogue; they're episodes in my life, each with its own set of deep reflection and insight, including a sense of gratitude for their very existence. I'm just one of the many who are given the chance to experience a mountain's majestic splendor. I do not set out to conquer them, they conquer me instead. The hikes and trails are like preludes to a kiss, and the kiss gives rise to enduring desires. From and on one, I can look upon things wonderfully differently. The sun, harsh in the lowlands, cruel and unforgiving, a bane when conducting my business, becomes a benevolent, sought-after orb at sunrise, that comforts bruised souls.

I await my turn.

An Exciting Trail

Things do conspire to rob me of my dreams. I prepared so much for this climb. I neglected some more important things, including people. I was cranky out of too much excitement. It is my ugly trademark. I'm hell-bent to do something and nothing, no one, should get in my way. As punishment for my wickedness, I think, I now have practically nothing in my life to be hell-bent about. And so maybe I invent importance for an activity like climbing mountains, which to some people seem trivial and absurd, and to some, something as exciting as going to a mall and window shopping.

I thought this climb started out on the wrong foot. It has made me several thousand pesos poorer. I lost my jungle cap on my way to the airport, a newer one identical in all respects, except the color, to the one I brought with me to my climb last year. That old reliable one is still with me. Then my flight was delayed for almost three hours. This I didn't mind a lot. I didn't have plans (or the money) to book a hotel room, as assembly time for climbers was early morning the following day. I just stayed outside the airport building in Davao and waited for the appointed time to go to the assembly point. I had a very nice conversation with a family waiting for their 6 a.m. flight to Manila. They were there at the airport very early because they came from a far-away town in South Cotabato and public transportation was unavailable during the early morning hours. It was mostly about trivial, everyday things, but it gave me an insight into a family's daily struggles. Families do have many things in common. I bid them farewell when it was time for them to go inside the airport. I don't remember their names now, but still remember their faces. Fate might be so kind as to bring us together again one of these days.

We assembled around 5 am at People's Park in Davao City. By daybreak, we were on our way. The trip to Kidapawan City was long and bumpy, it made our bottoms sore. But we didn't mind. Excitement ruled us. We had breakfast at a diner near the boundary of Davao del Sur and South Cotabato. I had rice and a ham omelette. They were good. I ordered extra of the same things for my packed lunch on the trails.

Jump-off was at Agco, which we reached via a quite steep mountain road. The landscape reminded me of the Benguet landscape up North Luzon: Occasional small houses dotting the sides of the road and slopes, with free-range chickens, and vegetable gardens. Facial features of the natives were different, though, but their stares of curiosity, or acceptance, or resignation, or mild annoyance, or a combination of all these, were a common denominator.

The first part of the climb was beside a raging river, Marble River. The trail crossed it several times. We did it through makeshift bamboo bridges. I was nervous at the crossings. My acrophobia tried taking hold early. But I prevailed. The trail then went through thick rain forest. It was unforgiving. Steep ascents and inclines were its consistent, prominent features. Most of the time I clung to roots and protruding rocks, my heart pounding, and my breathing labored. There were moments when I wondered about my reason for being there. During extreme inconvenience and hardship, thoughts of family come to mind, the comforts of home, and love's familiarity.

Dehydration and leg cramps ruled my first day of the climb. Three of us got left behind. I was ahead of this climber and the "sweeper." I was all alone up front when darkness fell over the rain forest. When finally I could no longer see sufficiently well to safely follow the trail, I decided it was time to use my flashlight. Its beam illumined only the few meters ahead of me, and beyond that was overpowering darkness. The many strange sounds of a forest at night conspired to instill in me despair and the fear of the unknown. Danger from whatever form could be lurking in ambush. I tried my best not to think of these things. But more than fear and despair was the loneliness of being left behind in a vast, dark unknown. The description is beyond words. Genuine understanding can only come from actual experience. Fate remained kind, however, and a search party of two porters were dispatched for us left behind. As soon as I saw the lights from their head lamps, a sense of relief naturally followed. I then finally made it to the first camp site after around seven hours from the jump-off point.

The First Camp Site

The first camp site is called Co-ong, and it was in a small clearing after an arduous, steep climb. A stream ran beside it, and it was our water source. In the wild, you have to trust what Nature gives you. The wonderful murmur of that stream lulled my tired body to sleep. The night was quite cold, and I huddled and shivered in my tent. My legs and arms twitched; I dreamt of the trail I went through, straining for footholds, and clawing at roots, rocks, and earth. The dreams were powerful enough to awaken me several times. But, overall, I rested well.

We started early the following morning. We had breakfast at around 6. Sauteed mixed veggies, rice, and instant noodles. Food like these taste very good in the wild. Within the confines of a house, they are ordinary fare, with very predictable tastes. I don't know, but outdoors, early morning, and in a jungle like this one, the taste buds are attuned to hitherto hidden flavors in food. Or, I was simply famished to be discriminating.

I was a bit sad leaving Co-ong. It was a beautiful introduction to spending the night in a rain forest. Of course, to others it could be worrisome or inconvenient, but, thankfully, for me it wasn't. I've committed that place to memory: A clearing, much like a desert oasis, that offers respite for an exhausted body, with a brand of kindness only Mother Nature can provide. It is but one of several special places I've discovered in this climb.

From Co-ong to the second camp site, Lake Venado, was a four-hour climb on lovely but difficult terrain. One thing I regretted in this climb is the necessity of keeping up with a schedule, robbing me of the chance to genuinely appreciate the beauty of the trails. The pace of organized climbs is dictated by plain economics: The longer a climb, the more expensive it becomes and, consequently, less money for its organizers. When I go back to Mt. Apo and its trails, I'll go alone, with only a guide to show me the way. I can then proceed at my own pace, take my sweet time to gaze at and absorb each beautiful thing along the way. I won't be out there to break records anyway, and even if there were any left to break, I know I'm not the person with enough character to do it. I'm no mover or shaker. Never been one. I've always been content to be just one of Life's bystanders. One time I even dreamt of my own bystander ghost looking at my own bystander body in a casket, in my funeral wake, watching the proceedings of people coming and going, and milling about, talking about and discussing a multitude of things, most probably trying to decide in their honest selves whether I'm someone to be missed or not, whether what they knew or heard about me were true or not, whether I accomplished great, meaningful things, or only mediocre and trivial ones. As a committed bystander, I'm able to answer that last question with certainty and resolve, a departure from my life full of vacillations.

The trail to Venado was as steep as steep can be. There were many instances when I had to crawl on all fours, clinging to big, exposed roots and protruding rocks for dear life, and trying to find suitable footholds. Two of the most memorable (and intimidating) features of this trail are the sheer rock wall, and the 60 to 70-degree wall of loam and loose rock. The former is climbed using two separate bamboo ladders, a shorter one and a much longer one. One starts out on the shorter ladder, and on reaching its end, transfer (very carefully, if I may add) to the longer one. I can't seem to recall now how they were fastened to the wall. They looked to me like the bamboo scaffolding used in putting the finishing touches on Hong Kong skyscrapers. This appearance I didn't find confidence-instilling at all. I went to the extent of asking one of our guides if there was another trail, another way that skirts this impossible wall. There was none, he answered. Being literally pushed to a wall, or being cornered, is something I've spent a great part of my life avoiding, but facing that wall made clear only two choices: Give up and turn back, or proceed. I decided on the latter. On reaching the end of the ladder, I was, more or less, expecting some measure of relief by way of a flat surface, but I discovered instead a very steep, narrow, slippery trail, that went on for another 60 meters or more, and flanked on the right by a deep ravine, its frightening chasm only partially obscured by sparse vegetation. The chasm motivated me to proceed quickly, on all fours, clawing and burying my gloved fingers in the earth for a good hold.

The latter, the other prominent feature, is climbed by holding on to a thick rope of abaca twine, using both hands and all the might and prayer you can muster. Here, you come face to face (and I mean literally) with a wall of slippery and mushy loam, with a smattering of protruding rocks that offer sparse foothold. One instruction (more of a warning, I now think) that stood out from all the rest, and specific to both bamboo ladders and rope, was, "You may let go of anything except the ladders and the rope!" Letting go meant serious injury or death.

The Second Camp Site

Lake Venado was a most wonderful surprise, like a pricey present in unassuming gift wrapping. It struck me with more than sufficient awe to forget the difficult climb in excess of four hours. It came without warning. The trail ended abruptly in a blindingly bright clearing, a high-altitude plain I estimated to be two square kilometers, more or less. On coming out of the trail, I came face to face with what looked like a rice field, but was actually marshland with tall grass. At the height of the rainy season, so we were told, Lake Venado extends it waters and banks, and fills maybe a third of the plain. At this time, though, the lake was confined to just one corner, flanked along one of its sides by a mysterious-looking forest. There's nothing really mysterious about it, I'm sure, but my imagination just runs wild from a concoction of similar scenes from movies, books, magazines, and even calendars. One of the guides said that when one is lucky, a deer can be spotted drinking from the lake's bank. It wasn't our lucky day. But one of the two porters sent to "rescue" us on the first day of the climb, told me he was startled by a deer unexpectedly illuminated by the beam of his head lamp. I was quite sure, I told him, that the deer was more startled than he was. "Venado," by the way, is actually Spanish for "deer," and it was given this name because of its shape.

Several hundred meters from the lake was our second camp site. It was sunny when we got there and we took advantage of it by unpacking wet clothes and stuff and hanging them to dry. We also rested and prepped ourselves for the climb to the summit, loading up on drinking water and trail food, and listening to instructions and reminders from our guides. Spirits were high in spite of the fact that we just came from a climb lasting over four hours.

An Aborted Summit

We then started out for the summit. I now wish we were not beating deadlines, like flight schedules, hotel bookings, transport schedules, and the like. We could have taken in more of the experience. We should have stayed the rest of the day on that magnificent plain, and went for the summit dawn of the following day, so that we could've hoped and waited for the sun to slowly peer through clouds, touch our lives, and renew our spirits. But we didn't have such luxury. We raced against the organized climb dragging on and becoming unprofitable, of expenses piling up. My buffer was good for only a day at most. On simple analysis, I've come to the rather bleak conclusion that for the multitude who live in man-made, concrete jungles, with manicured grass in perfect linear order, and plastic-looking palm trees, the enjoyment of natural, God-given beauty is rather expensive and often unaffordable. If the locals only knew and appreciated what they have, then they would not have looked at us as well-heeled, well-equipped city slickers, but rather as rabid, unfortunate, misshapen, envious denizens of oversized ghettos. Then they would've treated us differently. They would've snickered at us with loathing, disgust, and suspicion, as potential grabbers of their beautiful piece of earth.

The trail up the summit was through a forest, a kind of gateway to wonderful, sought-after things. Its canopy only grudgingly allowed some sunlight through, resulting in a soothing, damp coolness. It was quite muddy, too, but by this time I was so used to mud and having muddy shoes, socks, and feet, that I didn't make any effort to skirt mud pools. The only thing that worried me was having muddied shoes and stepping on moss-covered rocks and exposed tree roots. Slippery as cooking oil on a Teflon-coated pan.

On exiting this forest, the final trail to the summit presented itself as one, long, continuous, steep incline. It didn't have even just one or two pauses of flat stretches. You breathed frantically, initially out of excitement, then later out of exhaustion, with relief expected only at the summit itself, if ever.

Many of my dreams have been at the mercy of nature, circumstances, men, and my own limitations. The mountain was fickle, and was able to command the clouds to hug it tightly, to pummel the slope with rain and wind, to instill fear and doubt, and a certain forgetfulness of purpose. The terrible elements turned my bravado into a love for dear life. It metamorphosed into a fear of wounds and injuries. Before I even became fully conscious of it, I decided against the suicidal, foolhardy, and impractical. I decided to give up my dream. Next time, if ever it will come, I will forge ahead no matter what.

Benjie's Vacation Place

Instead of on Mt. Apo's summit, as I originally planned, and as Benjie would've probably wanted, I scattered my share of his ashes on the waters and one of the banks of Lake Venado. It's prime real estate not even the richest could buy. It's not for sale. At least for now. Benjie has become one with the lake, and he's surrounded by some of the most magnificent views for up to when they'll last. It's safe to say at this point that they'll last for a very long time. It'll probably be so long that he'll grow tired of them, and move back to the underwater panorama of the Pacific, where the bulk of his ashes are by now, carried by currents from its starting point somewhere off the Monterey coast in California. Of course, I know all these are merely symbolic. It is our nature to append the relics and rites of our mortality to the afterlife, to offer a semblance of continuity to something we really know nothing of. Even with the sum total of human knowledge, we really don't know what transpires after the heart does its final beat, or after we take our final breath. Benjie might be living out one of my wishes when I, too, pass on: To be in places I've never been in this life, and in places where no man has ever been, to distant worlds and dimensions Man may never reach. The view from the lake may turn out to be mundane after all. But offering it to you was heartfelt, my dear brother, and I know you've always been partial for small, simple, and wonderful things.