My entire body hurts, even my normally quiet toenails are complaining. A few days ago I, together with eight other people whom I have met for the first time, and Jun Dio, a former student for 2 or 3 meetings when I substituted for their ailing professor in Literature, and with whom I share a kindred affinity for curiosity and creativity, embarked on an ambitious trek that, at least on a best laid-out plan, would take us across the Malipunyo mountain range, more popularly known as Malarayat, in around 10 hours and a handful of bumps and grinds.
But like in any best laid-out plan, everything must work out as expected to get the desired result. Now here lies the problem. The level of difficulty for a hike on either Malipunyo or Manabu is rated easy to moderate, but an attempt on both, with three minor peaks in between in a single go by a group of reasonably fit but mostly newbie members, under wet conditions and minimal preparation (this was called by Jun on a 2 days notice), easily bumps this trek into the "Are you serious?" category.
Like children who didn't know any better -- apparently, we were.
Led by our local guide Rey Lobo, our team immediately setttled into a chatty line as we slowly snaked our way from the slightly inclined rocky road at the edge of the mountain where an early morning blue sky made the grass on our feet glisten with yesterday's rain, up to the slippery single mud tracks that signalled the end of the road for most motorized vehicles, and finally to a path that took us over wet boulders either enveloped with delicate moss or bordered by giant ferns. Irregularly lacing the ground were giant root stumps, indicating that the sky above was now replaced by an impressive canopy of towering trees, with branches adorned by curtains of vines and beautiful parasitic plants that are prized as decoratives in lowland gardens.
Because I'd like to ensure that no one is left behind and I have the tendency to stop and inspect anything that calls my attention, I designated myself as the team sweeper.
Always eager for moments of serendipity, my eyes were peeled like airport scanners for interesting details such as intricate cobwebs made by clever spiders, luminous butterflies that slice the air with playful rainbows, gaudy flowers that host nectar parties for insect pollinators, fruits that look edible and dangerous at the same time, wild orchids and bromeliads that wrap around trees like verdant, thorny snakes, and oddly shaped or colored rocks, wood and debris that, with some imagination, form anything from a musical instrument to a frozen animal, or any random object that the mind can conjure.
My ears are also tuned in for the slightest rustle of small animals, the raucous cacophony of insects and frogs in wet bogs, and the melodious calls of birds searching for mates. But what intrigued me the most was the flirtatious sound of gurgling water, gliding and colliding with rocks as it finds its way downstream. I didn't see it just yet, but I knew that we were traversing parallel to a body of water.
I was the last to arrive at a rocky promontory where my hikemates have settled on top of boulders, resting and preparing for the obligatory selfie poses as white foamy river water eased its way through giant rocks, seemingly in a hurry to get away, leaving sprays of mist in its wake.
There was the unmistakable drumming sound of cascading water -- loud and nonstop. As I joined the group, there to the right was the most enthralling sight I have seen in a while: a beautiful waterfall with sparkling mountain liquid pouring down on a shallow wading pool -- perfect as a backdrop for a nice photograph.
But I had no time for pictures; that can wait;I had to do what I felt was necessary at the time. As soon as I parked my hiking bag on a boulder, I dipped one foot in the ice-cold water, placed the other forward, and then the
other until my face felt the soft dribble of cool water instantly washing the exhaustion away, my arms spread wide, palms open in thanksgiving for the refreshing shower that literally came from heaven. It was bliss in wet perfection.
I heard squeals of envy, "Wooow, parang ang sarap!" Apparently, it was only I who heard the call to immerse myself under the falls.
After a few minutes of having the wet pleasure all to myself, Sharmaine took off her baseball cap and waded in, screaming in delight in what I already knew was the feel of heaven. Claudine followed, doing the same.
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| And then there were two |
In a little while, half of the pack was under the water, with the boys still resisting, but not too long. Eventually, we were all -- except for Jun who took on the responsibility of preserving the moment in photos, and Rael (both eventually joining) -- side by side, screaming and hollering in delight like young children who had experienced bathing under the rain for the first time.
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| And there were 9 |
The water came from all the way from the top of the mountain, travelling through cracks and crevices just to reach this point, the least we could do was to meet it halfway. It was 10 minutes of shared, unexpected magic.
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Then it was time to continue our hike; we were just barely two hours into the 10-hour trek.
The path noticeably became steeper and the terrain more unpredictable, with only protruding roots and shrubs serving as handholds to protect the climber from a potential accident. The slick trail created by intermittent rain, as well as our wet shoes' diminished traction all but ensured that slipping and butt smashes would happen with regularity. With me bringing up the rear, our contingent was transformed into a 30-meter long conga line of grunting, yelling and cursing wet climbers.
All around us was pristine forest, dark and imposing when seen from afar, humbling and breathtaking when experienced up close. That a trail was carved at all in this dense jungle, including one that tunnels through a thick tangle of thorny bamboos, speaks so much about the creativity and determination of the trail maker to make something out of practically nothing at all; producing an adventure that is challenging as it is mesmerizing.
The problem with getting an extreme high at the waterfalls is that actually summiting Malipunyo comes more as a relief than a victory. There were no high-fives and primal yells. The 360 degree view of surrounding areas, including Lipa where we came from, San Pablo, Cuenca, Tagaytay and just about every major mountain in the Batangas-Laguna-Quezon corridor serving nothing more than an interesting conversation topic, rather than a must-selfie panorama, which it actually is.
Our conquest of the Malipunyo peak was so exciting that it lulled us to sleep after gobbling a quick lunch.
The hike to Manabu required us to retrace our steps until we reach a trail that connects us to it, which was easier said than done, especially that the trail was wet, muddy, slippery, and the shrubs and vegetation that one may use to arrest a fall or control a descent are treacherously laced with unassuming plants that have prickly thorns that can inflict anything from irritating itches to serious puncture wounds. Going down was slow and laborious, to say the least. And if I may add, noisy.
Sweeping for a 10-man group that does not stay close together can be a bit stressful and tiring, especially when I hear sudden yells from blind spots. I am relieved when it is followed by laughter or teasing, or both, which meant that it was nothing more serious than a quick roll on the mud, which happened to me twice, with one creating a particularly loud thud that Gibo, who was a few feet ahead of me, asked with an extended hand in case I needed help getting up, "Sir, okay ka lang?" I can only offer a rather embarrassed smile as my butt down to my legs were splayed helplessly on the ground, with only my backpack saving me from a total wipeout.
I like Gibo, he is a grounded kid, always mindful of his mother's reminders and his younger brother's safety as he negotiated the trail ahead of him. He is also quick-witted. Margie -- anointed the group's Trail Queen because she has registered the most falls, often punctuated by sharp but short bursts of screams, yelps, squeals or crisp curses -- made another two-foot slider, which prompted her to pierce the silence with the unscientific term for the female genitalia. She did this with such desperation and alarm in her voice that it was as if that this mysterious object was either missing or about to appear from thin air. Gibo seamlessly retorted: Saan? Margie kept the location secret though, so we continued moving down the trail, one sliding foot at a time, convinced that it was probably in a safe place.
After 6 hours of hiking, my body was already feeling the exertion, with aches and creaks appearing here and there, none of which was more bothersome than at the right side of my right knee, which stiffened and throbbed every time I stepped forward, and shot a jolting pain that travelled all over my right side when I had to bend it. It was as if someone who had an ax to grind against me, perhaps someone I mercilessly bullied in highschool, suddenly decided to stop grinding the ax and smashed the wooden handle on my knee instead.
When we resumed the hike after a brief stopover at another trail guide's hut, I decided that it would be best to relinquish my sweeper duties to Jun and slotted myself right behind Mang Rey, our guide. By this time, the sky had become ominously dark, crackling thunder rolling around the mountain range like a sadistic warden rattling his baton along the cells' steel bars. Rain was inevitable.
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| The tree in the middle are actually two trees that, for some reason or another, merged atop where they met. |
Mang Rey was afflicted with polio when he was six years old, leaving him with a slight limp. He also had involuntary movement in his left arm, which was constantly bent at the elbow, his wrist raised up to his shoulder. Because his head was slightly tilted to his left, Mang Rey appeared to be talking to someone on an imaginary phone, except that his hand kept swiveling at the wrist, his fingers almost balled to what resembled a half-hearted fist, with thumb and index fingers slightly pointed outward as if holding a precious stone, and the other three fingers delicately trapping a spider in a small gap between the hand.
With thunder booming and the sky turning even darker, it was a bit disconcerting to see Mang Rey's hand twirl counter-clockwise at the wrist, his two independent-minded fingers suggesting a retreat. After 7 hours of walking, we were closer to the end of the hike than its beginning so there was no way we were turning back. I didn't want Mang Rey's hand to play mindgames on me so I decided to look down on his feet instead as they continuously moved one step ahead of the other. This, unfortunately, reminded me of my aching knee.
And the rain fell. In light, intermittent trickle at first, then in vigorous regularity that lasted until we went down.
We exited the forest to a trail bordered by shoulder-high grass. Now there were no longer trees to shield us from the rain. The only consolation was that had the sun been up, then we would be at its blistering mercy. Instead, it was cool and pleasant. We were hiking in a sea of clouds not unlike the famed airscape of Mt. Pulag.
Finally, after eight hours we reached Biak na Bundok, the penultimate peak before Manabu. The regular downpours from the previous weeks have turned the cogon grass verdant and lush, which appeared bathed in mist as clouds embraced our presence and clothed the entire surroundings, including the neighboring peaks and the air where the sky should be with a delicate silhouette of gray gossamer. It could have been more mesmerizing and calming, except for the fact that we were drenched, tired, and desperately running out of daylight to accomplish our mission of scaling Manabu before heading back to civilization.
It was on this peak that it was decided that our next destination would be Barangay Talisay, where we kickstarted the day, instead of the final summit of Manabu.
We were on our way down when I began to hear voices from my toenails, particularly from the bunch from my left foot. Because I had to alleviate the pressure from my right knee, I consciously shifted more weight to my left, especially when going down a trail, which my toes did not exactly appreciate as they had to carry most of the weight. Soon enough, I knew at least one toenail was broken as pain impulses echoed in my brain every time I had to put weight on my left foot. Then it began to talk: Ick... Ick... Ick! Not to be outdone, my left knee came out with its own distinct language: Aarrgg... Aarrgg... Aarrgg!
Soon, I was trodding under the rain with the chorus Ick-Aargg...Ick-Aargg... Ick-Aargg...Ick-Aargg playing in a crazy loop in my head. It was not amusing.
But I was not the only one hurting. All around me were undying declarations of pain: Ang sakit ng paa ko, Ang sakit ng hita ko, Ang sakit ng likod ko, Inaantok ako, Ang sakit na daliri ko, Ang sakit ng kamay ko, Ang sakit ng tinik ko...
Claudine though had a bigger problem. She told her parents she would be out to shoot a school project. So aside from dealing with her collection of pain, she also had to device a fool-proof plan to convince her folks that she did what she said she would do.
But I had to give it to these kids. While everyone was feeling some form of discomfort or another, none was complaining or swearing to give up mountaineering and all its self-inflicted torture altogether like many their age readily would.
Conversations turned to lighter things when the trail leveled to an unnoticeable descent, notably of the creature comfort variety: what to eat and where, what to do and how, who to be with and why. And yes, of course,because the next day was a Monday -- the constants of reality: school, work, daily grind. We completed the 10-hour trek one peak short of our goal. But no one seemed to mind.
My knee and toenails have stopped talking since. We all are now back in our respective realities, each consumed with his/her own pursuits and missions in life. But for ten hours on that particular Sunday, we shared this:
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| First row: TJ Lamang, Gibo Mejillano, Rael Villavicencio Tan; Second row: Geraldo Mejillano, The Wet Biker, Sharmaine Castillo; Third row: Vanessa Carino, Claudine Catipan, Margie Maughan; Dulo: Jun Dio (Sorry sa mga taklob ang mukha, ito lang pic na ito ang kumpleto tayo:) |
Photo credits to Sharmaine Castillo, Gibo Mejillano and Jun Dio
