Try everything stupid at least once in your life. If it feels good, Do it again.
To this day, I live by that code. To be sure, it has gotten me into more trouble than I sometimes could handle but all in all, it has been a value system that has served me well.
Just before December started, I imagined this was as good a reason as any to go with my friends to Mount Daguldol. To those of you not in the know, Daguldol is a mountain located off the beach line in San Juan, Batangas. What drew me to the trip was the fact that it was right beside a lot of beach resorts and the assurance that the mountain would be a manageable climb, if not an easy one.
At this point I feel compelled to tell you not to trust anyone who tells you that mountain slopes are not steeper than 45 degrees. Odds are very good that they failed their trigonometry class.
In fairness, the trip started out to be promising despite the lateness of our trek leader. It starts out the way any typical outing starts out I suppose: Breakfast at Jollibee, Good conversation, Promises of drinking our brains out when we get to the top of the mountain and what-have-you’s. (And like oh-so-many naive first-time mountain climbers, you discover too late how wrong you really are.)
The trip started out uneventful enough, I even enjoyed re-reading Phil Jackson’s The Last Season, A Team In Search Of Its Soul. After all, what better way to prepare for a climb than to relax to the Zen Master’s words of wisdom? 4 hours after departing Makati, we found ourselves in sunny San Juan, Batangas. A quick lunch, a stopover at the local barangay hall for registration, a quick purchase of lambanog and then we were all set to conquer the mountain. Bright smiles all around, excited faces and people who geniuinely seemed to be having a good time were all abound.
Little did I know this would be the last happy face I see for another 5 hours.
We started our trek along the San Juan beach line. Our trek leader was gracious enough to let us rest along the way because of the difficulty we had walking on the sand. (Imagine yourself carrying a backpack almost half your weight and trekking through the sand in Merrel mountain shoes) At the time, our spirits still seemed relatively high although we were already starting to hear the girls grumble about the endless sand trek. When we got to the foot of the mountain, Anthony told us we would be facing the hardest part of the climb.
Again, let me assure you that mountain-climbers have a very skewed perspective of physical difficulty. The chances are good that a guy who enjoys climbing mountains would have a different perspective of physical difficulty than say, a twenty-eight year old asthmatic who has spent the better part of his years reading comic books and playing video games. And please let me also add a kudos to my stone-faced liar friend Anthony (who also happens to be our trek leader): You fooled us all you little fucker.
As promised, the trek to the first stop was difficult. For me, it was worse. I was
surprised I didn’t fall down dead at the first pit stop. The path was a twisting, rocky and semi-worn path that was deceptively difficult. I say deceptively because you’d think at first that you could make it up the slopes, but by the time you get to the pit stop you just want to jump down the fucking mountain and get your miserable life over with. Needless to say, I was out of breath by the time I got to the first pit stop.
YES, THIS WAS JUST THE FIRST PIT STOP.
Imagine hauling at least a 50 pound backpack up at least 8 floors of grass, rock and dirt. Factor in asthma, a lifetime of being a wimp and a whiner, having little or no exercise whatsoever and you have one miserable backpacking nerd. It seems that 28 years of the nerd lifestyle finally caught up with me. As I lay there thinking I was dead or dying on the creaky, wooden makeshift shed, I was endlessly cursing Anthony for convincing me to go on this god-forsaken trek. I leveled with the guys and told them I couldn’t go on. I was out of breath, my legs were shaking from the strain, my heartbeat was doing the mamba and I was pissed at Anthony for making me go. While I thought my unfortunate journey would end there, they convinced me to continue by making me trade my pack with Gerard and carry his significantly lighter load.
So up we went.
The lighter load definitely helped, but I found that the trek only got harder as we got higher up the mountain. It didn’t help that we were chasing sundown because we’d have to get to the peak before nightfall. My fears were further exacerbated by the realization that the 45 degree pipedream was really more of a 50 degree nightmare. (YES THE 5 DEGREES DO MAKE A DIFFERENCE WHEN GOING UP A GODDAMN MOUNTAIN OKAY?) Still, despite the strain, we managed to make it to the second pit stop. It was a nice enough place. There was a cool
river running through it, nice wooden chairs and even a hut to rest your weary legs. What made the pitstop especially painful was the fact that I was looking at a 60 degree slope that would be our next assault. I finally managed to muster enough courage to ask the mountain guide:
“Manong, eto na ba pinakamatarik na aakyatin natin?” (Sir, is this the steepest part of the climb?)
His answer almost stopped my beating heart:
“Ah sir, madali pa po yan.” (Yes, you’re going to fucking die…) (That isn’t the actual translation but it sure sounded like that to me)
After that mortifying revelation, we continued with our trek. Sure enough, the long journey to the next stop only served to expand my cursing vocabulary. With every step we took, I had more and more stuff to scream about and curse our trek leader with. At that point if he stood closer than two feet from me, I would have thrown him down the ravine.
He was smart enough to stay away. (At least his judgment of my temper was better than his goddamn trigonometry.)
The next stop would be the famous Halo-Halo stop. I never realized Halo-Halo would taste so good. Then again, after what we went through, shit would taste better than bread at this point. Yet, by now, the view was already spectacular. If you could climb a mountain once in your life, take time to enjoy the view. It’s one of the best feelings you’ll ever enjoy in this life.
Halo-halo consumed, we dropped by Mang Lizardo’s Place ( a famous refuge for mountaineers trekking through Daguldol) and asked them if we could leave some stuff behind to lighten our load and then we were off again.
As the sun was fast descending in the horizon, we had to pick up the pace. We were cautiously setting a faster pace so that we could arrive at the Summit in time for sunset. Like weary warriors, we proceeded with the treacherous mountain assault. I started to develop a deep appreciation of what kind of trek Frodo and Bilbo had to go through in their adventures. (I now have a newfound respect for fat Hobbits who trek for a whole year to a dangerous mountain just to drop a stupid ring in.)
All the while I was merrily cursing and lamenting the fact that I traded this disaster for the Mensa exam.
After what seemed like hours of wading through brooks, stepping on horse and cow shit, trekking through muddy paths and slowly dying of the physical strain, we finally reached the first peak. At that point, I was ready to drop down and roll in the piles of horse shit that were scattered through the peak.
But it was there that I understood the whole point of conquering the mountain.
While it is rarely ever about the destination than the journey itself, I realized at that point that I was somewhat on top of the world. (at the very least, Batangas) The view simply took your breath away. Watching the darkness slowly enveloping the mountain peaks as the sun descended in the horizon, I was out of words. I simply had never seen anything like that in my life.
But all of that came crashing to a halt when our guide signaled us to proceed.
What the fuck? I thought we were here!!!
It turns out that the campsite was on the other side of the grassy knoll. Recovering from my brief WTF moment, I was happy to see that the trek to the campsite would be mercifully short. Sure enough, we got to the campsite just as the sun was setting. We managed to put up the tents and settle in to prepare for dinner. Interestingly enough, we managed to scrounge up a meal of chicken/pork adobo and Pork Sinigang. (YES, PORK SINIGANG. FOR THE LIFE OF ME I DON’T KNOW WHY THEY WANTED TO DO IT BUT I SWEAR TO GOD WE HAULED 2 Kgs OF PORK UP THE STUPID MOUNTAIN) The cold mountain air and the dark night served as the perfect backdrop for our best meal in the whole trip. Of course you have to realize that after walking for 4 hours and 30 minutes, the taste of food doesn’t really matter. Boiled Cow Dung would probably taste like gourmet well-done steak to the weary mountaineer.
But of course if you think our adventure ends here… You are sorely mistaken. It turns out, this was only the beginning.
As the evening wore on, we eventually settled in and an alarming thickness of clouds was building up in the air. Not one to be daunted, our trek leader planned for us to wholly consume the Lambanog that we bought at the foot of the mountain. To be honest, I was not really keen on that idea to begin with as I didn’t want to be nursing a hangover on the way down.
It turns out the cold mountain air does wonders to change one’s mind about alcohol. (On a personal note for those who are not alcoholic, being way up high in the mountains is a surefire way to start the habit.)
By the time we got set up outside our respective tents, our nightmare would begin. At first there was the slight drizzle, most of us though we could take it but just as soon as we decide to brave the drizzle out, the drizzle becomes a slight pour. Forced to take refuge in one of the tents, our Alcoholics Anonymous reject of a trek leader begins passing the lambanog. As always I took the butt of the ribbing as is customary when I’m with this group. (or any group for that matter now that I think about it.)
As my friends merrily decided to have fun at my expense, I truly wondered why I decided to climbed this stupid mountain.
But the temper was eased with the alcohol I suppose because I went on ahead and laughed at myself anyway. And there we were up several hundred meters above sea level, having a good old smashing. And yes, I was thankful that they brought the lambanog. Eventually we got smashed enough and we decided to call it a night. All of us were sorely and desperately looking forward to the beach that was waiting for us the next day.
And then Nature decided to go ahead and fuck with us some more.
By the time I woke up, I felt something cold in my legs. It was already raining hard and the wind was whipping furiously at the tent. At first I was too smashed to notice but eventually I woke up to the realization that the tent was flooded!!! Yes and I mean Noah flooded. The cold was creeping up my body and my legs were shivering like crazy. I decided to wake Fort up and we eventually settled on taking refuge in the broken down old hut that we cooked our food in. When we got there, however, we realized just how dumb that idea was when we found that the open air was colder than the water and there was no place for us to lie down.
Desperately looking for shelter, we decided to split up and take refuge in what we thought to be water-tight tents. I guess I was out of luck when I got into the other tent and heard the ominous squish when I stepped inside the tent. By then Fort had already gone into the other tent and it was too late to knock on their door so to speak. Eventually I found myself sitting in the bigger tent and cursing this God-forsaken weather. Realistically, what are the odds of your first mountain experience being this bad?
I wanted a bonfire. I wanted to sleep in the cool mountain air and be woken to the light of the sun rising in the coast. This was not the camping trip I envisioned. For the whole time I sat there shivering in the cold water, I was plotting the many ways I could throw the engineer of this whole nightmare trip (Anthony) off the mountain.
Restless yet tired, I could not sleep or lie down without having water on my back and/or the tent slapping my face. I could hear the Mensa organizers laughing at me in my restless sleep:
“Yes dumbass, you ditched us for this. Seriously, we don’t know how someone as dumb as you had the balls to try and apply for Mensa anyway.” For some reason, my nightmare was eventually soothed by the image of Anthony flying down the mountain without a parachute.
So there I was shifting, rolling in the water and mud trying to get sleep. From across the tent I could hear Errol blissfully snoring despite the fact that he only had a blanket, he was wearing a thin shirt and shorts and his body was submerged in about half an inch of really cold rain water. This was the first time I realized that Errol could have slept through Armageddon and not realized that the world had already ended. No wonder he has trouble showing up for work earlier than 10 AM.
So there I was rolling around in the tent contemplating the different ways to jump off the mountain when I saw the most beautiful thing a man suffering through a mountain trip gone wrong could see:
The Dawn’s first light.
I swear to God I heard Beethonven’s Ninth Symphony playing as the sun’s first light slowly crept into our tent. The storm was starting to blow itself out and the people in the camp were starting to stir.
When I got out of the tent, I was flabbergasted at the sight of the other mountaineers walking around their camp half-naked. Eventually, they explained that walking around in wet clothes in the cold air was worse than walking around without your shirt on. Sound as their argument was, I didn’t listen. The air was just too fucking cold for my skin.
As we waited for our guide to come pick us up, we had breakfast and told tales of our stormy adventures in the tent. Unfortunately, I never got around to throwing Anthony off the mountain.
Eventually it was time for us to head down the mountain. Interesting to note that when we had our breakfast, we thought it would be a sunny climb down but just as we were finishing up packing, the drizzle started again. I immediately realized this would be a looooong trek down.
And it was. We slipped, we slid in the mud. We waded in the cold water. We fought our way down the mountain. And yes, it was just as difficult to get down as it was to climb. By the time we got to the last stop near the beach, I was just too pissed and angry to talk. And I guess people sensed my fury because everyone just wisely kept their distance.
By the time we got to the beach, most of us were just too spent to appreciate the beautiful resort that we were staying in. We were tired, muddy and sore by the time we got to La Luz beach resort. People who saw us probably told themselves, “Oh look, the savages have come down from the mountain.”
I don’t want to spend too much time detailing our stay at La Luz as we only mostly did two things: WE SLEPT AND WE ATE. And yes, we ate like we were starved for seven days. I basically just bit into everything in sight that I wasn’t allergic to and everyone else, and I mean everyone else in the group, did nothing less.
So there, I survived Mount Daguldol. I got bitch-slapped, beaten down and I was sore for the next five days but as God Himself is my witness, I survived the mountain. More importantly, I survived it without murdering our chronically-late, alcoholic, lazy, fat, cigarette-smoking trek leader. And now, he’s my housemate. (Yes, he’s as much of a pain in the ass as a housemate as he was on our disastrous mountain trip.)
And here I am two months later writing about what was arguably one of the greatest and funniest adventures of my life so far. Looking back at it in hindsight, I appreciate it more now than I did at the time I was doing it. Now I could finally say that hey, I climbed a mountain and I survived. I don’t know that I could ever bring myself to do it again but the whole experience was just so surreal. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, this has to rank in the top 3. Will I ever do it again? I’m not completely sure than I’m physically capable. But hey, who knows?
All I know is that I climbed a mountain and I survived. Beat that with a stick Mensa.
P.S.
I dedicate this blog post to amazing and makulit survivors of the Mt. Daguldol experience and the the embryo we unknowingly climbed up the mountain with. ( Aleth, when your kid gets to read this someday (the censored version of course), it might make for an amazing story for his/her friends at school.)
