We are 16 in the group, plus two guides. We are as varied as the
ecosystems within the national park where the summit is located.
A big number of us are journalists. Mostly writers. A painter-artist. A
photojournalist. A community broadcaster. A post-grad student doing her
masteral thesis. A dive instructor. A 21 year-old dropout who is trying
to find himself, and who has climbed this summit dozens of times
already. A health worker and three medical interns. And finally, a 13
year-old high school boy, a budding violinist who wanted to experience
mountain-climbing for the first time.
We have two local guides, since most of us haven’t climbed this summit before.
But no porters. We carry our own payloads, which are not heavy anyway. The
final ascent is steep, but we don’t need special equipment. Just two sturdy feet,
strong lungs, and maybe a walking stick.
Day 1.
After an entire day’s travel partly by wheeled vehicle, partly by hiking, we
arrive at the ranger station at around 4 p.m. We set up camp, prepare
food, eat a late combined lunch-supper, and organize the teams for the
actual climb. Two in our group volunteer to stay behind to mind most of
our camp gear, which we won’t carry to the summit.
We adjust for some delay, since the vehicles couldn’t reach the camp
through the main road due to rains. The vehicles have to detour a long
way off, and arrive sometime later that evening. Meanwhile, we kill
time by visiting a nearby indigenous hamlet, where kids are playing a
sort of tag football on the village green.
Two Swiss friends with us notice similarities between this flowering plant,
which grows luxuriantly on the lower sub-alpine slopes, and what they
call their own native alp rose.
From 10 p.m. to 1 a.m, some of us try to catch up on sleep. Others do final
checks on their gear, while still others warm themselves around the campfire. I
rest inside my tent. Unable to sleep, I check for the possibility of a cellphone
site signal. Sometimes there’s a faint one-bar signal, sometimes
there’s none.
Day 2.
At 1:30 a.m., we are roused from our tents by the climb master and the
guides. It’s time to start the final ascent. We assemble in front of
the main cottage, put our line in order, listen to the final briefing,
then start the hike.
We intend to reach the summit in time for the sunrise, but also
consider the option of dividing the group into two – a fast group
who can easily reach the summit for the 5:30 am sunrise,
and a slow group who can walk at an easier pace.
I can go with the fast group, but I can also go with the slow group as
needed, to help whoever needs help. I’m particularly concerned about the
13 year-old high-school boy, who is yet untested for endurance. But he
assures me he’s all right.
The forest is combined coniferous and stunted broadleaf. At first, the
trail is smooth and wide enough for two persons to walk abreast.
Gradually, the general terrain becomes steeper, and the trail itself
narrower and rocky.
At 3 a.m., we arrive and rest for about 15 minutes at the 1/3 marker.
This is a sheltered structure and narrow campsite area. The
stunted forest appears to dance like grotesque shadows as our
flashlights slice through the thick darkness.
I check on the boy, offers him chewy candy. He is annoyed by my attention.
He insists he’s all right, and trades jokes with the medical interns.
We continue to climb as one group, although a few are starting to slow
down. The climb becomes more difficult as the steep trail stretches
before us before it is lost in the dark slopes.
At 4:15 a.m., we reach the rolling grassland plateau, and rest for a few minutes
at the last campsite. The hike is easier on the thighs now, but requires
nimble footwork because of so many hidden ruts. The wind has picked up
considerably, and sudden gusts occasionally throw us off-balance.
I’m right behind the boy, to make sure he doesn’t slip. His flashlight
batteries begin to fail. I give him mine, while I replace his batteries
in mid-stride. I can hear his labored breathing, but he doesn’t utter a
word of complaint.
At around 5:15 a.m., we approach the last
major ridge before the final steep rise leading to the summit itself.
Everyone is really tired now, the strong ones among us take some load
off the slower ones, but we all plod on to catch our appointment with
sunrise.
We see the eastern sky gradually lighten into a watercolor wash of
deep blue blending into gold and vermillion. It’s the glimmer of pre-dawn.
The team leaders call for a quick stop to consult each other, whether to
keep the whole group intact or to break it into two groups, the fast and slow
groups. We decide to reach the final ridge as one group, rest there,
take all the sunrise photos we want, then later proceed to the summit at a
more relaxed phase.
At around 5:30, the sunrise is evident although the actual disc of the sun
has not yet peeped out. We are now at the gradually sloping ridge just
a hundred meters below the summit. Everyone is enjoying the view, busy
taking pictures, having their pictures taken, or just huddling together for
warmth while resting their legs.
B., the broadcaster, announces to everyone that today is her birthday.
Half-kneeling, she is ecstatic to watch the blazing colors of dawn shine
through the silent sea of clouds. We all greet her, but our cheering is hushed,
out of respect for the mountain. The terrible wind carries off our shouts anyway.
I notice my camera battery flashing near-empty. In my hasty preparations,
I had belatedly charged it to half-full only. I take a few pics of the boy,
then the camera goes dead.
It's 6:30 a.m. The group reassembles for the final assault on the summit itself.
Most climbers decide they are too tired or preoccupied with taking photos to
continue. Only seven of us plod on: the guide, the health worker,
the three medical interns, me, and the boy.
“Are you sure you can do this?” I ask him again.
He shrugs his shoulders and says simply, “This is what I’m here for. To reach the summit.”
I’m amazed at the boy’s quiet endurance, careful footwork, and patience.
The final climb literally takes our breath away. The panorama of
early-morning sky, sea of clouds, mountain tops rolling like waves and
stretching all the way to the horizon, is indescribably beautiful.
The guide is first to step on the small mesa-like shelf, covered by sparse
tufts of stunted grass, that comprises the summit. Two medical interns
are next. The boy comes in fourth. The health worker and the other
medical intern are fifth and sixth. I’m the last to clamber up.
I look around me, and enjoy the feeling of being on top of the world.
It is an intensely exhilarating feeling.
All six of us join hands in a victorious group pose as the guide takes our photos.
We can barely hear our own hoots and shouts of joy because of the continuous
roar of the cold wind.
For a first-time mountain climber, the boy takes it all in with such cool aplomb.
His smiling face also shows exhilaration, but he is more interested in banter
with the female medical interns. He is softly whistling Schubert’s Marche Militaire, for which
he won first place in his violin category just the day before we began
the trek.
For the purposes of this blog, I will call the boy Jiggy.
Meet my 13 year-old son.
Jiggy and I conquered this summit together. And both of us will remember
this moment forever.
(Note: We have pictures of us on the summit shelf itself, but sorry, I can't post them here. The group spent the rest of Day 2 relaxing at a campsite at the edge of the summit plateau atop the massif, holding informal discussions on climate and biodiversity, taking more photos on a very relaxed hike back to our camp, and holding an impromptu bonfire party that night. Accounts of Day 3 and 4 will be reserved for future blogs, if I can find the time. Lol.)
