Notes of A Dirty Old Mountaineer

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Quasimodo

You know that cliché shot – badass, multimillion-dollar contract action film star slowly making an appearance by walking out of that rise on the road, blurred by the hot fumes of the pavement. His leather pistol dangling by his side, wide-brimmed hat tipping down low. It is a cliché as old as cinema, a cousin of The Explosion Walk, and it works all the time. Only for that day, it was a stocky young man in a waway hat who had figured in my vision.

Three months had passed since our Tirad Peak hike and the misadventures surrounding it were almost wiped out now from our memory. In the next 48 hours we would be overwriting whatever clean slate we had with something much worse. I had my reservations about dwelling on the subject again but this is an honest journal and thankfully we would have none of the same misfortune involving local guides on our subsequent hikes.

I was again with my two regular hiking buddies Dirty Harry and Liquidator in this dilapidated sorry excuse of a bus out from Dangwa on a hot Good Friday morning. Whatever calories I might have stocked up on hours ago from Good Taste had been consumed by intermittent bursts of adrenaline as I imagine hurtling myself out of the windshield while I rode shotgun with the daredevil Kankana-ey driver. Dirty Harry and Liquidator were far in the back buried in boxes of live poultry. I was lightheaded when we got off the bus at the Kibungan municipal gate.

And then this kid in the waway hat. We had to figure out for ourselves that he was the assigned guide for us as he approached in his filmic entrance. We had asked him, but he just gave a grin and we took that for a yes. For the entirety of the hike he would be giving that menacing grin with his tobacco spit-stained crooked teeth, not making eye contact as half of his face would be shadowed by the brim of his hat (I later saw his eyes were misaligned). He would just launch on a low, continuous muttering every time we would ask him things. At times, I would ask him random questions just to get him into that state and annoy my two companions. Liquidator thought he acted like Gollum and was convinced he would kill us in our sleep. Dirty Harry on the other hand thought Quasimodo was more apt as he was wearing green, had little of a neck and had pants cut off just after the knee. But he also thought we would be killed in our sleep. I am all for benefit of the doubt, even if a number of villagers we would pass by had to shout ‘Ingat kayo dyan sa isang yan!’. After all, it was a joke common among Filipinos who would see friends in the company of unfamiliar guests.   

But Kibungan Circuit was such a beautiful hike that there was no effort freeing ourselves from all of our doubts about him. Never mind that he insisted we settle for Version 1 – we told him we were physically ready for Version 2 and that we were willing and able to add hours or days just to tab more miles and notch Mt Oten and Mt Tagpew, but his incessant mumbling told us he was not fit for it. So on we proceeded to what we would downgrade as just a relaxed hike, or ‘chill climb’ in local hiking parlance.  

We set off in a steady pace, and my two companions were all awe every step of the way. We passed by the cemetery, and the local who was tending the graves had to give out another ominous remark – apparently another warning to watch out for our guide. I was glad that my companions were too absorbed at the scenery to mull over the same worries again. The cemetery, which was sitting on a plateau, pans in a cinematographic way as you walk along the road while the nearby peaks at the background hung like painted cloth in this huge theater stage. I swear I could hear the The Ecstasy of Gold! Rest in peace, Ennio..

Packs down for early lunch in the first village we stopped by. You would think that we would get a lovely scenic spot for lunch but the guide pointed at a small corner of a cemented wall with about six inches of shade from the overhang of the roof, and then just left. Dirty Harry was furious after fully grasping the idea that the guide had meant for us to take our lunch on that spot. We moved to a more comfortable location, which was a charming Cordillera hut and shared our meal and coffee with the owner who was in his twilight years but still spoke fluent English from the Commonwealth era. The guide came back two hours later, still dazed from his siesta.  He had that troubled look that meant we were becoming too much of a burden already and he would show it once more come morning when he came back for us, two hours late again, at the Buga Campsite. I was glad we did not have to share tent space with him for the evening as he crashed in a nearby hut that was also the last water source. I had my whole A-type tent for myself, with a belly full of chicharon and Hainanese rice. Liquidator was up all night in the other tent, beside himself and his iPad all the time from the abundance of cellular signal all throughout the trail.

Speaking of strong cellular data signal in the vicinity, I remember running into the Bakun-Kibungan Traverse Team on our way down from Mt Tagpaya on the second day. I had initially considered joining them but could not yet find it in me to return to Bakun and wanted this hike to be all Kibungan. They were in high spirits, and were on their way to finishing their route opposite of us. About an hour after we had parted ways, we then ran into the tail of their group who did not appear to be as ecstatic and were in no rush to catch up. They told us they were sticking to the original itinerary after being voted off by the majority to cut their hike short by one day, suspecting everybody had spent all their power banks due to the abundant cell signal all throughout and were in a hurry to recharge batteries at the municipal hall. Five years ago, I would not have thought how the dynamics of a hiking team could be altered by this aspect of technology.

Meanwhile, Quasimodo would always advance ahead of us so he could stop by and smoke a cigarette while waiting for us to catch up. I would chase him and ask if he had another stick (to test him, because his cigarette pack was showing by the back of his pants, as was his buttcrack- insert coin here), not doubting he would say he had none left. We would repeat this process for a total of four times before we reached Tanap, where Quasimodo’s friend of a van driver was already waiting for us ‘for a reasonable fee’. I had my ViewRanger app open and could point to where we could cut the hike back to the municipal hall from the terraces, but Quamisodo insists he had contacted a van already. Reluctantly, I agreed because half of me would also like to see the exit from Lungsad Falls. I forgot how much we paid for it, but I asked the van driver in private when I had the chance if he was on his way back to Baguio as well and struck a deal. I knew Quasimado was up to something again, knowing that we had already missed the last trip to the city.

Back at the población, the washrooms were all occupied by the Bakun-Kibungan Team so I decided to gather everyone instead for a little snack by the adjacent grocery store after paying the guide fee. As we walked to the store, Quasimodo made the offer for us to get the same van back to the city for two thousand pesos. I did not reply. Moments later while having our snack and sodas, he would make the offer again, so I spoke directly to the van driver to clear it up as we already made a deal for six hundred pesos only. Quasimodo went back to the van driver in a mix of Kankana-ey and Iloko, and then back to us practically begging to just pay 1,500 because it was already late. I told him and the driver that if the terms were to change, we were better off spending the night at the municipal hall. The van driver told Quasimodo (from the little Iloko that I could decipher) to just shut the hell up as ‘kwarta na magiging bato pa’. Feeling defeated, Quasimodo let out a wail and threw his arms in the air like some vessel dispossessed of demons. I honestly thought he had given up right there, when, upon seeing Liquidator paying for the snacks, he asked the storekeeper for a fresh pack of Marlboro and sniggered at us, motioning to put it in our tab. Liquidator snatched the pack from Quasimodo and said something along the lines of an expletive and kanina ka pa ha!

 All pics in this post by Dirty Harry, Canon EOS 60D

Quasimodo, in the green shirt, fortunately with his buttcrack covered at this moment

Mt Tagpaya

My Canon G12′s sd card conked out early into the hike and was dead weight since

A lot of segments were like snippets of Bakun, this one reminded me of Mt Kabunian

This was to be the last time I would be wearing this brand, in the following months I would be signing up as Ambassador for two other local hiking apparel companies.

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THE BOY GENERAL

There was this nagging voice inside my head during this ‘history hike’ that I found too hard to ignore. That since I was walking in the shoes of the rayadillo, I will not be crashing for comfort in some manicured campsite to slurp hot Jin Ramyun nor will I be locked in snuggle fest with my warm blanket. Instead, I will be curled like a ball on cold bare earth, sharp rocks poking my back and unable to get a few minutes of shuteye due to heightened senses. I will be waiting for enemy bullets to come flying over my hair and if I were not to come out of my shithole with guns blazing, The Boy General is waiting to practice his Bulacan brand of poetry on me, the relative smallness of my balls (or lack thereof) is his subject.

Truth is, there is no other way you could take this historical trail without imagining yourself in the shoes of our ancestors. Knowing that they walked the very same path puts one in the same perspective as tracing Rizal’s last steps from Fort Santiago. So let it be said that I was utterly beside myself during the entire hike, for I got to be Carlos Celdran (Walk This Way Historical Tour) and Gideon Lasco (Pinoy Mountaineer) at the same time. But then maybe my hiking buddies saw nothing more than just a mere reincarnation of Contemprato in me.

Contemprato was the local wacko from our town who was said to have lost his mind from some war-related trauma. During the eighties, kids would loiter on rooftops to watch him fight an unseen enemy around the local Parish church grounds. He would dive, dodge bullets and shoot with an invisible rifle in what would appear as a choreographed act. And since I was experiencing Tirad Pass to the full, there I was, two hundred fifty miles away from home, at times finding myself diving, dodging bullets and shooting with an imaginary rifle. Sometimes getting hit – may tama ako! Daplis lang, malayo sa bituka! – but able to carry on, much to the amusement of our local guide. I would tell him to wipe the smirk off of his face because the damned Texas Rangers were still in hot pursuit, and we were running low on ammunition!

All the amusement seemed to dissipate however, once we got to the Tirad Pass monument. In spite of the festive mood typical of Philippine campsites, there was a heavy cloud hanging about. Lying here once was a boy of twenty-four who fell from a sniper’s bullet. A boy who made a name for himself from fighting with valor one fierce battle after another, and winning on every occasion save for this last stand. Stripped of his clothes, belongings and dignity, left for all the crows to feast on.

I wondered if all the campers scattered around the monument knew of all those details. Amidst the tired limbs, the whiff of tinola and cheap brandy in the air, the loud Bluetooth speakers- I did not think it would even make it as a passing topic for drunk backpackers.

The larger group already settled by the campgrounds around the monument was unaware of my thoughts and was in fact delighted upon my arrival. This was because they had run out of booze and I was their hero of the day and not The Boy General. I called them earlier on a number I got from the local tourism after checking out if there were any other groups scheduled for a climb, hoping me and my buddies could hitch a ride. Unfortunately they had already left when I made contact, so I asked if maybe they had room for three more on the way back and you probably have an idea now of how the liquor came into the picture. 

But we never got to ride back with them and the liquor never got paid. By summit bid the following morning, my group had to wait for two full hours at the lower ridge while they took their sweet time taking pictures at the summit of Tirad Peak, a small pointed rock that could hold only a few. We took our own sweet time at the summit during our turn as well. It was one of the best summit experiences I have had in a while, mishaps notwithstanding. It was so good that we were far too detached at the possibility of the other group breaking camp in such a hurry and leaving us without a ride back to the city. But a wave of nonchalance was already flying by and me, Liquidator and Dirty Harry decided right then and there that maybe we should tell them by text that they could go ahead without us. We ain’t chasing them now after waiting for them for two hours at the summit. So fuck it, like all of our other previous climbs, we would again leave to luck our ride back home. Our guide was not sure how we were going to do it though, knowing how scarce small motorbikes at the jump-off were. But we made it back to his house at the exact time his neighbor was backing up a monster jeepney, ready to go back to Candon City on a sudden errand. I had the whole seat for myself and nothing but Ilocos empanada on my mind for the whole ride back.

Watch your six!

PS;

I am not done with the whole liquor debacle yet. The worst part was actually at OUR campsite. A site that I had deliberately placed far from the Tirad Pass monument where everybody was, to savor some peace and quiet. The larger group’s local guide had actually stolen one bottle from the stash that we had bought for their team and decided to drink it all by himself- at our designated camp kitchen. He was already drunk when he came over, talking gibberish and had incoherent nonsensical outbursts. He was spitting everywhere for the entire evening. The ground where we had planned to lie on should the tent’s heat become unbearable was now full of spit. Soft pine needles for natural bedding, but full of gob and phlegm. Liquidator forgot all about it and came out of the tent crawling on all fours, looking for something. I woke up from his howl, let out a soft chuckle, and went back to sleep.

Wasted the following morning, the guide was not able to control his group who had overstayed at the summit as he was down in the lower ridge with us, mumbling again. Some friends say, I actually attract these types.

The actual climb happened on Jan 7-8, 2017 and still follows the chronology of my hikes. We wanted to ‘start the year right’ so it was scheduled this early in the year.  A lot has happened since then- I have seen the movie, read the book and the mountain has since claimed another life.

Below are some more pictures;

L-R; Dirty Harry, Liquidator and Me at the summit

Shadow of the sharp peak of Tirad

 Summit, Tirad Pass Welcome sign, Some beach in Candon.

For two hours I had been looking left and right: left at my watch counting down the hours and right, at the peak waiting for the other hikers to come back down

It was really Edo noodles, not Jim Ramyun, that we brought here. Along with Vigan longganisa purchased earlier at the market.

One of the reasons why we stayed behind was to appreciate this monument in peace..

Doing the 'syano pose only to realize I was looking down- UP the barrel of Gregorio del Pilar's revolver. Anyhow, two hooves up means rider died in battle, one hoof up says rider was wounded but lived, all hooves on the ground- died of natural causes. It was a myth but a pattern ensued and latter-day sculptors seemed to follow the trend. (copied from my iG post, too lazy to edit)

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Customize your Tribu

I have to hand it to the guys at Tribu, they really are relentless in their pursuit of being the most innovative outdoors apparel out there. My reviews are piling up one draft after another, but this one has to come before the rest as it is coming in real hot. I have not fully appreciated the rugged beauty of my new Tribu Armour shoes yet, and it has greatly shined in my recent hikes in spite of all the obstacles I threw in its way. I had thought it to be the culmination of all their efforts, but it appears the Tribu brand is just getting started. Just recently, they launched a new approach to getting the outdoor sandals that you want, and they made sure that you get the one you really want, down to every last part of it, right on the heels of the success of their recent line of Outdoor Shoes.

I placed the order and got started, navigating their site was a breeze but to be honest, I was not expecting such great interactive interface. Remember how you shop online for those high-end custom sunglasses and how the sellers make it easy for you to imagine your end product? You hover your mouse and every part of the product is interchangeable with the options they have? It was practically the same thing, placing in a large image of the product- the Subanon Sandals in this case, and shifting the colors of every customizable part of it as you click on the available options in thumbnails. In this manner, you get a picture, in the most literal sense of the word, of how the item will look like. You will have to forgive me though, I tend to navigate towards earth tones and you might have recognized that if you have read all my previous Tribu posts. But there is virtually no limit to the combination of colors on your palette. You can stretch your imagination and express your personality and it would show in the design that you come up with. There are camouflage straps, rasta, tribal- almost every subculture there is to the outdoors scene is represented in the options as you go along, and there are endless colors to match those as you can also customize the footbed and the outer sole!

I will have to come back to this post and update it as to how I got to arrive at my design, so that I may walk you through, step by step. But in a nutshell, it really was as simple as an online shopping activity where you add it to your cart and get the item delivered in just a short time. For now, you can watch the unboxing video that I did- take note that it comes with a free keychain, a discount coupon code and a large sticker that I outright slapped on the side of my Nalgene bottle. I will meet the mountains with a Tribu of my own design, and I am stoked.

Watch your six!

Rob G

21 July 2019

Mactan international Airport

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The Last of Tibig - Banoi

Dirty Harry’s prudent mother must have noticed that the unopened Emperador bottle which kept showing up in their house along with her son’s dirty cook set every time we came back from hikes was, in actual fact, one and the same bottle.  So she took it upon herself to rid us of the misery of ever bringing it back up and down another mountain again without a single drop being consumed. She went out of their house and handed the liquor over to the tambays.  

I had already quit spirits back then, but the ridiculous yearning to take it ‘old school’ when we were just starting out – tall packs and all, we felt that the brandy had to be in the checklist. With wisdom I have come out of that fascination and we never brought that bottle back up the hills again. Nobody was interested in opening it anyways. We took our drinking to the plains however. The years that followed witnessed our post-climb meetings over grilled liempo and red horse, usually done a week or two after our hikes, discussing strange occurrences that appear to have been a series of unfortunate events we were leaving in our wake. Something odd seemed to be happening to each mountain we had just climbed. At times, it ends up in the temporary closure of the concerned mountain. Although there was one case in which the mountain looked like it would not be opening again anytime soon.

While those events took place during our more active years, our hikes have dwindled since and those memories eventually became just passing topics in our recent meetings. Until we sat down together for beer on my birthday, this same month two years ago (coincidentally, this was to be my next article if I were to follow the chronology of my journal). We had just done separate hikes of Tibig and Banoi a week before because the authorities would not let us do a traverse lest we pay another thousand bucks. Bringing up this topic to a circle of inebriated friends was like opening a can of worms.

I remember lamenting at how Liquidator, who I consider to be one of my most intelligent friends, taking delight only in profound conversations, had the audacity to sit down and light another cigarette for small talk with the lady at the Tibig registration, a lady whom I had just debated about expensive and mandatory fees and one who had just pulled out the this-is-how-we-do-things-here card on me. I settled on climbing only Tibig before the argument could turn out ugly, there was no way we would be paying another thousand pesos for Banoi on the other side, just because it was ‘already a different mountain’. I had resigned myself to plan B, which was to sleep over in some resort, and just do another dayhike from the other side by the following morning. As an introvert, my senses were screaming from all directions to get out of this nasty and awkward conversation and just pay the damned fees and get on with the hike. But Liquidator, oh how stylishly had he pulled out another cigarette stick and settled himself on a comfortable bench, chatting with the locals and establishing rapport we no longer needed! To his credit, he just did a long drive to the jump-off, and he treated us for burgers, so pardon me for being insensitive if he had wanted to relax a bit. But we can relax on the trail! Away from these greedy folks! Oh how I loved to choke him on a sleeper hold that day!

I was on a rant during this birthday celebration/post-climb meeting, much to the amusement of my friends, Liquidator included. We were closing the topic off with sighs of relief from the thought that we were never going back up there again. And then I browsed my phone and saw this announcement posted in one of the local hiking pages. It was the resolution that created the permanent closure of Mt. Tibig. I passed the phone showing the jpeg image of the scanned document over to my friends who happen to be my hiking buddies as well. Liquidator and Dirty Harry, who were with me during that climb were dumbfounded. We did not hex the mountain of course, but it felt like we left an ominous fart again, just like old times.

 Watch your six!

P.S. Not sure how this post turned out to be a bit spooky, all the same, Happy Halloween!

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New Tribu Shoes - out now!

I am heading off to the beach to take a breather from the mossy and pine forests, but as I did my last minute shopping I passed by Tribu’s new line of footwear and could not help but offer some initial thoughts. The pictures online do not do them justice, the products appear more vibrant physically, and looked so alive it could have jumped off my hands! (see pic at the bottom)

Though I may need at least a year of use to provide a proper footwear review, from the breaking-in process to how the sole wears out from repeated use, there are things that can be considered while selecting a product. And for Tribu’s new line of shoes, I twisted the body to get the feel of the midsole and I was confident it was in the acceptable range of stiffness from the feel of it.

Tribu’s choice of rubber material, based on my very long experience of using their sandals, has always been about REFINEMENT. It was perfection done from years of experimenting and selecting the better ingredients until the desired results are achieved, from the optimum tensile strength, abrasion resistance to satisfactory resilience. I compare them to a family dish that has been passed over from one generation to another, with little tweakings done over the years until it becomes the bestseller should the younger descendants decide to open a café.

The outsole design is another matter though. There are three different sets of models and evidently the Tribu Armour has the most aggressive pattern. Its upper mesh is also made from SoftArmor™ and it has become my personal choice when I make my purchase. It appears to have been made for fast and light expeditions though I do not mind taking them to the city as they look casual as well.

Now, there will always be the skeptics I am sure. And until we have shed our colonial hide, local products will always be in a tight spot in the battle against foreign brands. My logic is simple, if you support local brands, the benefits come full circle to the end-user because you also finance the research and development which then translates to sustained product improvement. I will suggest that we all give it a try, but that lacks imagination and foresight. I suggest that we give it a try and then provide the makers the feedback they deserve. Good or bad, I am confident they will listen and then take those insights from your real world use and bring them back to the drawing board on their next production.

Anyhow, for the gram counters out there, below are the individual weight of each model:

Tribu Extreme Urban - 296g/piece

Tribu Armor - 355g/piece

Tribu Blaze - 375g/piece

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Bakun Shake

I remember the precise moment. It was the perfect marriage proposal photo op.

Amidst strobic rays of the midday sun from the intermittent play of clouds, on top of the iconic Mt Tenglawan carrot rock, a young girl sits knees down with her head buried in both hands, shoulders bouncing from helpless, emotional sobs. A few feet below, a fine young gentleman projecting gallantry in his half-kneel stance reaches out to her in dismal plea to take his offer. A steel crucifix rises above the silhouetted couple, the majestic Cordillera range is the backdrop.

Picture perfect, save for the fact that the two individuals were really not what you would call, well, a couple.

Down by the lower ledge, Team Alabok is caught in an awkward, suspended warp. Apparently, Rean- who was the aforementioned fine young gentleman had a wife who was not happy with the scenery. He had rushed in a selfless attempt to assist Mayeh down from the rock. Mayeh had suddenly let out an emotional stream upon reaching the top of the rock and Rean was the nearest who could help her. As to why Mayeh had cried – either from the difficulty of the ascent or from a swift wave of vertigo, we would never know.

“Ma’am, kunan natin picture si ser kunyare nagpo propose.. di ba yan ang mabenta sa FB? Daming likes nyan! Ok lang ba ma’am?’” quipped Kelvin, the one team member who had launched a thousand witty lines for the entire duration of the Bakun Trio climb. Silence broken, the affair turned into one raucous laughter.

I could not fathom how one year had redefined the demographics of an organized climb. Just a year prior, the median age group I was with during the Akiki-Tawangan hike was in the high thirties. For this summer climb that I joined, I was already the oldest at 36 years of age. We had jumped onboard a DIY-KBB endeavor, almost entirely unfamiliar with each other. Roy Gella had spearheaded the event, and in a tireless effort to replace last minute cancellations (mostly those who were active in the private chatrooms), had trimmed down the members to what we would eventually call Team Alabok.

Ours was a cold beginning, in spite of the warm ride courtesy of the bus aircon’s breakdown right when we left the Cubao Victory Liner terminal. We did not really ‘hit it off right from the start’, so to speak. We picked up one Rupert Arceo from Baguio, and a certain mountain biker by the name of Adriel Paglinawan along the trail going to Mt Lobo, our first mountain. Only on top of Mt Lobo did we truly get to let go all pretensions and become comfortable with one another. One look at the smiles on our faces in the group summit photo and you could say that we had known each other for a long time. But Adriel would digress. He would always consider himself as adopted, not knowing he was as bonafide as everyone else. For what it’s worth, he could have been the catalyst that shaped the friendship that would define the whole sortie. Everyone just started talking when he came on board.  

One summit down, two more to go. I was in no rush to climb down, and so were Mayeh, Deya and Charles. We shared a lot of talks on the long breaks during the descent, and prior that last hanging bridge we also shared the same moment of that first glimpse of the dreamy town of Bakun - a mesmerizing hub of a plateau sitting in the midst of majestic geological wonders that seem to have popped out from the pages of The Hobbit.  Some lady we passed by appeared to have been unmoved by all our manifestations of awe. She was not having it, and outright dismissed our excited admiration of her town. We were told that the scenery we were having was meager at best, (‘hindi pa po malinaw yang view na yan..’) for a haze from a recent forest fire was still lingering by the rock faces, and that the townsfolk were praying for rain days before to wash out that haze in time for our arrival!

The same sentiment was to be repeated by another guide on the way to Mt Tenglawan by the following day. Mt Tenglawan, which, by the way was a different beast altogether than Mt Lobo from the previous day, prompted us to start an hour earlier than originally planned. And there was justice to that move. As the town of Bakun sits on a plateau, one had to contend with the fact that nearby mountains had to be climbed by going down a rather deep gorge first. And that also meant having to climb it all again to get back to the base later in the day. Energized by all the fun in that proposal event, I would like to believe that I gave it my all on the descent, and virtually alone at that. My usual MO, letting the fast ones advance and hiking solo in the middle of the pack just in time to hear the voices of the sweeper team on my rest stops before treading back again was a real introvert’s delight. There was one unforgettable moment where I just stopped under the pine trees, kicked the needles on the trail to form a heap and just spread-eagled there like a kid in grammar school on his first conscious experience of snow. While I was at it, I opened my trail food-  I was on a Cream-O Brownie Crunch craze at the time- and just poured all of the bits into my mouth while lying down. All in the relative solitude and serenity of the Tenglawan trail. But my adrenaline would come back firing on all fours when I noticed I had lost my bearings, I backtracked for at least three times until I was satisfied with my GPS readings.  

Going back up the town was a real agony, and all the time I was just thinking of that Bakun shake which we had by the side of the municipal hall on our first day (which was just yesterday, but seemed like ages). Unfortunately, daylight had just closed on me, and so had the fruit stand where the shake was made, so I headed straight for soda. The sweeper team had arrived, with Mayeh in tears for the second time in one day.

By then, we had already been sharing the comfort of the Municipal Hall with another climbing group, who, by all things holy, had chosen to convert the backyard to a filling station. So I took the trouble of moving to the communal restroom out in town instead of using the one at the back of the hall. After all, for a couple of strides I get to wash down my tired limbs with natural spring water. It felt like iced water, and all pain went down the drain with it.

Mt Kabunian on the third day proved to be the most difficult, because I had already exhausted almost every ounce of my pride on the first two mountains. What little pride I had left was the thought that I would never be coming back home with just ‘Bakun Duo’ under my belt. Other hikers choose to just hang around by the municipal hall and wait for the entire team on the third day, a thought I dismissed all too quickly, however tempting. I had no regret, for this third mountain turned out to be the most beautiful of the three. Kabunian is a tapestry of different Cordillera flavors, a repertoire of hanging bridges, stone steps, rolling grassy lumps, coffin parade all cast in a crucible of local folklore.

I was last to summit, but I am just glad to have summited at all. And while I crawled (in the most literal sense of the word) the last steps to the top, I could hear voices of my teammates doing the group picture but begging each other to wait for me, because I had the better camera. Even though I had already told them I was a novice, and the possession of a dslr was borne of chance. 

As Kabunian was an out-and-back hike (backtrail in local parlance), I saw it as an opportunity to redeem photo-op chances, especially at the thriller trail when I had not recovered yet on the way up. Having left the camera to the sweeper guide, I charged down the stone steps on to the famed foot-wide dead drop and did some kind of a tacky pose. But Miss Lady Guide was not shooting. Hand signals proving too futile and already leading to a communication breakdown, I walked back in regret to a spot where I could engage her in a shouting match. I lost right away at the faint audible sound of ‘ser, memory card full..’ A couple more exchanges and we succeeded at the decision for her to scroll right and delete several photos of fried chicken.

We left the town of Bakun in the afternoon with a heavy heart. Such is the response when you have stayed too long in an enchanting community. I recall only having one stopover on the way back to Baguio, and that was when we relieved ourselves from all the dust that had gotten too much to bear and we could no longer recognize one another inside the monster jeep. And thus the name Team Alabok, to which this journal post is dedicated to.

PS

This was our ‘summer camp’ and we have gone our separate ways. But we kept in touch, at least in social media. Since then, I had been doing ambassador work for both Headware and Tribu. Roy Gella had done legendary long distance ‘die-hikes’, along with Albert Asonio. Albert had also made a name for himself by winning consecutive raffle draws in a famous online outdoor shop, and his winning streak may not be over yet. Deya had been successfully organizing one big climb after another under the banner of Diwatang Gala, and I had rejoined her just recently in a ‘reverse traverse’ of Mount Amuyao. Mayeh manages an online shop. Mr and Mrs Rean, Midge and Kelvin had focused on family but have still been hiking occasionally- something I deeply relate to. I sat with Kelvin on the bus back to Manila and we found out our daughters were of the same name! Charles had been part of a Lagataw hike hereafter, but had since been swept off his feet by a special lady and decided to re-channel his energy to romance, along with his outstanding video editing skills. Adriel is still the mountain biking and exploration legend that he is. Rupert had set foot on the Himalayas, ticked Annapurna off his list, snow and all.

Team Alabok

Charles on top of the Carrot Rock

Going up Mt Lobo

Random bridge 

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DEC 25, 2017

I brought my daughter today to this small patch of land inside the Velazco compound beside our house in Cavite. On our way back from the church, I figured a little reminiscing would not hurt, especially now that I do not come here that often. I had told her that this tiny slab of concrete where we were standing on was once where I built my ambition of global domination through music, along with three other guys, 23 years ago. What used to house cement and gravel had become our sorry excuse for a music studio. Inside of it were not just instruments, but big hearts and big dreams. I was indestructible, headstrong, ready to take on the world. My music would slice the heavens in half, if it were a sword. Being in a band these days may seem common place, but not in the early 90's. We did not have note-for-note instructionals in YouTube. Tabs were hard to come by as you would have to take the bus to Raon just to get one, some days you would come back home empty- handed. Worst, there were no hand-me-down instruments, as there were but a few who played before our time. In a radius of a thousand miles, you could finger count with one hand who knew how to bend a string. But like they say, artists who lament at the technological limitations of their time and how the youth of today are spoonfed with user-friendly dslr's, CorelDRAW, online thesaurus, Pro Tools.. are insecure. Maybe I am today. But where I was virtually transported at the moment, I was proud. The world was mine for the taking. I estimated where I would usually take my place, beside a Carvin amp next to what was once an iron door, and closed my eyes. I imagined being so angry at the adolescent world, holding my Kramer spider guitar and playing rhythm to Megadeth's Train of Consequences with all the passion my black heart could muster. We sneered at the Eraseheads, anyone could play their simple inuman chords. We were with the more technical side of heavy metal. Nobody in our age bracket could play as fast, heavy and tight as we did. A considerable following would wait for our slot, even if it was raining and we were last on the bill. It was my time. Nobody paid attention to the basketball varsity stars when Pinoy Rock exploded during the early 90's. The basketball stars had to learn how to play guitar to even get a speck of spotlight. And so at least during those years, they followed the rockstars, and begged for a few chords. The bleachers were empty, but the auditorium was always full. I had, at one time, about the whole school under my spell, singing Enter Sandman while I played. When I die and if there's any truth behind that legend where your life plays backwards like a fast movie reel, that concert is where my flashback of memories slows down. And then reality rears its ugly head. Slapped with the truth that I am now a washed-up has-been whose glory days are far behind him. Stuck in the suburbs, workin' 9-5, rollin with the punches and tryin' to make a living. At least I have these memories to hold on to. And repeatedly share to my daughter, in the hope that she doesn't lose grip if ever faced with the same predicament. Of fighting for dreams. Of the harsh realities of life. At least one fourth of our band has 'made it internationally', and is still out there, fighting the good fight. The only thing I yearn to these days, is to put out an original opus, post it here and maybe get 500 likes. Suffice it to say, maybe I have not given up at all.

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A Lifetime of Tribu

One corporate Christmas party after another, I find myself almost placing a pair of local outdoor sandals on items I wish for the mandatory exchange gift giving, only to retract. I had been considering another brand aside from Tribu since I already have one and thought it was high time that I give other brands a shot. But I end up asking for a book instead since whatever brand of sandals I had on my mind at the time always churned out negative reviews, and the owners would always come full circle to Tribu. It would seem that other brands had given up on their masters while my own pair, a Tribu brown Yakan, is already on its twelfth year and showed no signs of letting up. It had been through dense jungles, dead corals and barren wastelands. It had been bequeathed from one user to another in both my ancestral household and in the farm. I still saw the trusty old pair last weekend, and the only aspect where it manifested deterioration was in the loss of its iconic Tribu curved shape as it had now flattened out. The traction in the sole was still gripping mad though, and the straps looked like they would never come out in this lifetime.

The business of footwear in the outdoors is a sensitive topic and discussing its philosophy of use is a diverse undertaking. But one could not help but give out his two cents on the matter, if only to regard what best works for oneself. As for me, it all boils down to two things, personal preference and brand reputation. I say preference because your brain actually does the walking for you, and each step taken and the manner in which it is executed has been decided between the ears upon the mere sight of where you will be landing your foot on. Our Guiting-guiting guide Raymond had for years, traversed the entirety of the notorious mountain in Planet baller slip-ons (and probably a Chinese copy at that), a testimony to the fact, even if it goes against the grain. Bestowed by chance or by choice, he could have been barefoot for all he cared.

As a matter of personal preference, I would not take my Tribu’s to the trails but I need sturdy camp sandals for when I have to move around, wobbly lightweight flip-flops just didn’t cut it. I expend too much energy on other muscle groups in the feet when I try to adjust my footing just so some flimsy ‘lightweight’ flip-flops won’t break on rugged terrain. Energy I could have saved for the following day’s hike. And when in survival camps, moving around is not limited to just locating a latrine or a nearby water source- you would have to do scouting for firewood and other resources, so much so that a different scout pack with essential items is also designated for the task. This is where my Tribu sandals come into the picture, where the relative weight is more than just an acceptable trade-off for the durability.

Which leads me to brand reputation. Regardless if I have broken in a Tribu sandals or not, I know that it will always rise to the occasion. And in each household member’s BOB (Bug-out Bag, or Go Bag for the uninitiated, the kind where you put survival items and just grab as you go during an emergency evacuation), you will find a pair of Tribu sandals, and never those tacky Brazilian latex flip-flops. I already have too much on my mind when I am ‘switched on’, neurons firing in every direction, senses heightened to eleven and I do not want a pair of slippers for burden on an emergency scenario. At least with Tribu, I can have my peace of mind even for just that one aspect, and focus on things that matter more.  

I guess you can call this as my testimonial to the brand. I feel a certain kind of kinship with Tribu as it came out of the market in the same year I climbed my first mountain. I have mentioned my admiration for the brand on my prior review of their pants. It stands not only as a world class builder of products that can truly compete in the international market and rightfully claim that Pinoy Pride label (which has been misrepresented repeatedly of late), but also as an icon of one success story rooted on humble beginnings.

PS;

I am now rockin’ a new pair of Tribu Laoag and will be back after I put it to real world hard use!

For parting words, allow me to quote Doc Arvin Sese, overall survival guru and a passionate bushcraft aficionado, who would always say ‘In the outdoors, take care of your feet more than you take care of your mouth, as your feet are your only way out!’ I have taken that as mantra, as sacred scripture, and have since not forgotten a pack of foot powder, extra dry socks and a pair of Tribu sandals!

Shake N’ Bake!

-Robbie

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Headware - Always Keeping Your Head Up!

I am forever stuck with these tubes. What started out as an indispensable item to keep my long locks in place has now become an enduring obsession. As some of you who have been privy to my other social media accounts, I have struck a partnership with the Headware and Tribu brands and they will be with me on my future outdoor endeavours as well as on the journals I will be posting here. My recent review of the Tribu Byahero Trek pants got me in their crosshairs and I was fortunate to have been plucked out to become their Brand Ambassador. I will forever be grateful. But in my heart of hearts, I was for a brief amount of time, skeptical. How can I write an honest piece of review if I were to reciprocate their generosity? I might as well take the Headware bandana out to an extended dayhike and let all my doubts sink.

I got in touch with my old college friend and now Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc qualifier George Javier to finally commence our long-delayed Makiling Circuit adventure and put to test my very first Headware (I will be writing about the circuit soon). Out on my fourth unique Makiling hike, I kept on noting on all the differences from years of using cheap tube bandanas and I wished I had gotten good quality Headware right from the get-go. 

I had been heavy on generic ones in all of my previous hikes, the kind you find in ambulent vendors selling for around 75 pesos only. And for years I thought they were enough. But how did I get to the tube bandanas to begin with? I have not had a haircut for several years since my return to the outdoors, and as my hair grew to chest length, I found that a simple tie was not enough. I spent a great deal of effort putting my hair into a tight bun only to have it messed up shortly once it snags on a branch along the trail. And the agony of having those strands fall literally on my face is unspeakable, the act of tucking back loose hair repeatedly behind the ears a practice in futility. Might as well do everything all over again.

  With a seamless tube bandana, it takes just one pull from the neck up and I have all of my hair in one place. But the ones I had were not proper bandanas and the many uses I needed them for just did not end with keeping my hair secured. Now that I have been sporting shorter hair, I could not make a ski mask/balaclava out of them as those generic ones just stretch to an extent. I could make a face mask, alright. But I just stop breathing if I pull the back of it over to the top of my head to convert it to a ski mask. I compared the cheap ones I had with my hiking buddy’s Day of The Dead Headware and I felt I had to get one. I knew for a fact that they could stretch as far as torso girth as they have been famously known for having served as tank tops/bandeau for women in erstwhile Survivor reality game shows. Still, I thought the trade-offs did not justify the relatively more expensive tag on the Headware brand.

As I took notes during the Makiling Circuit hike, I have observed that Headware was considerably longer in length. I thought it did not matter then but I just recently came from a Cordillera hike where the cheap bandana that I used fell short just before the collar when used as a dust mask, exposing a small area in the neck. It gave me a nasty sunburn pattern that could have become ‘choco batok’, so to speak, albeit in the wrong place. Headware, on the other hand, extends past the lower neck and can be tucked inside the shirt collar. 

Headware is also not too heavy on cotton and is actually 100 % polyester microfibre, enough to make it more elastic and quick-drying. Its trademark Wicksorb® fabric worked wonders during the more humid part of the hike and I was very thankful for it. We came out on the Batangas side by mid-morning, on some open farmland with less tree cover and I pulled my Headware up for more protection. It did take in some dust but I later shook it off just by flicking the cloth during one of our breaks. But the torrential rains that was for the finale proved to be too much and I seriously think no such state-of-the-art fabric could have been too quick-drying for that. I noted though that I was not squeezing that much water from my Headware as again, it was not heavy on cotton. All the mud in it were easily rubbed-off as well. Given the predicament we were in, after hundreds had participated during the National Mountain Clean-up Day, let it be known that when I refer to Makiling mud, it was not just mud but, MUD, SWEAT AND BLOOD (limatik, dig?) AND MY HEADWARE BANDANA TOOK ALL OF IT IN ONE DAY. The mountain threw all of its defenses out and I was spent. But my Headware was there to put that single positive note to an otherwise long and tiring day. Needless to say, it was the one outdoor item that was the easiest to wash. The following day I was back in the metro rockin’ it out again still looking brand spanking new. It still has not faded to this day

Which leads me to how I admire the artwork in it. The long range of designs are not just eye candy, but they cater to different passions far and beyond. You could be rastafarian, rockstar, patriotic, even commando with the many camouflage patterns they offer. My personal favorite still remains to be the Bushido Headware with the samurai mask in front and the Japanese rising sun at the back. I just chose the Logo on my first use as I thought it deserved all the exposure, even if only to my friends. 

I hope I can come back with more - this was just an initial review. The guys behind the brand are amazing people who put a lot of thinking on what they make. I am bound to replace my malong with Headware Kokoon, and my shemagh with their Scarfie and will be back for separate reviews. Until then, watch your six. Headware is available in major sports outlets and on Amazon.com.

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Lord of The Hills

Embers. Like musical instruments they are an auditory laxative with those magnificent sounds of crackling and serpentine hissing. Observed inside a sphere of stones that was the ceremonial ground, embers constantly remind of the adage ‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust’. Earth.. Several  disciples fed more dead twigs to the hearth as flames rose up in tongues. Fire.. The others heaved their way to thrust in their bamboo vessels, careful not to spill its contents. Water..   A sacrifice to the gods they attempt to conjure. The culmination of the day’s learning.  Billows of smoke were parted from a gust of some rogue wind, Air.. exposing The Teacher in their midst. There he stood in his element, smiling in the manner that one does when something has gone horribly wrong to his liking, as if to wallow in such wicked sensation.

Grey hair. Red skin. Endless limbs. Towering presence.

No, he is not the Gunslinger.

Quite the opposite in fact. The list of names he goes by- The Apache, Trailhawk, The Chief.. are mostly appellations to the Native American blood meandering through his very veins. And while the Comanche’s legend had it written in stone that they were lords of the plains, the Apache who had graced the occasion with his presence had completed keeping tabs of the mountains in his home province. Mountains puny by alpine standards enough to be called hills. But them hills were his own. And this particular Apache, is Lord of The Hills.

 But there was comic relief to the above ominous prologue. A few minutes after those outdoor cooking sessions took place I was back somewhere along the tree line, in a makeshift picnic bench that served as our mess hall, sharing laughs and gourmet salami sandwiches with The Teacher, Sir Jing Lavilles de Egurrola. Ridiculous online figures in the communities we drift through in our sorties proved to be much more delightful than trading war stories.  But he has work to do for the remainder of the Basic Wilderness Course, and I had errands back at home.

Years ago, at the transition of the boards from independent forums to Facebook, I made an effort to reach out to Sir Jing, author of Warrior Pilgrimage blog and founder of the only bushcraft guild south of Subic. I had told him that I was an avid jungle survival practitioner from the early 90’s and was bound to make a reunion with the outdoors but had not seen an organization in Luzon dedicated to the craft. It was very timely, he said, for in a few days he would be heading north to accommodate an invitation to bring his syllabus to Mt Balagbag. The dates were to fall on subsequent celebrations of several birthdays in my family, my daughter’s included. I did not make it and have not apologized since. Every time I would look at the online photo albums of that event, I would lament at the chance that I missed. Thanks to CLIMBER, and I was finally able to meet The Pinoy Apache in flesh. I grabbed the invite, paid the fee, packed in half a dozen knives and breezed through countless checkpoints at the onset of the 2016 Commission on Elections Gun Ban.

I owe the pleasure of meeting the man in person to Jay Z who had offered me a special ticket to CLIMBER’s First Basic Wilderness Survival Course which was supposedly limited only to their BMC graduates. Whereas the Basic Mountaineering Course they offered was structured in a Team Teaching format where several educators specializing in certain skills rotate teaching duties, the syllabus of the Survival Course was lifted off of Sir Jing’s earlier endeavors within the Camp Red community, his Bushcraft outfit from Cebu. It was obviously tailored for a different target clientele but still delivered by none other than the man himself who is the finest non-aboriginal primitive living skills instructor in the country today.  To say that I am a fan is an understatement- I worship the ground he walks on. And so do many others.

Having arrived early at the Spring of Life Adventure Camp in Antipolo, I had a good headstart to familiarize myself with the surroundings. It had facilities which had seen better days. But much of what was in it, dilapidated all they may be, had probably been etched upon the memories of those who had taken the earlier BMC’s hosted there. It was to be etched in mine too. Dazed and weak from the early departure and long ride with no coffee to prime me up, the introvert spirit inside of me was squirming like that of a kid in his first day in a new school. I was engaged in chatter with Melo Sanchez, and then they came in droves – Lester Susi, Jay Z, Sieg T’Ron, Bong Magana, Ven Ap,– all the Corleones. Sir Jing obviously was Il Padrino.

I took a bold step and approached the man. And while I knew that my mastery of the Tagalog dialect was without peer, I found myself having my ass handed over to me on this cold January morning by an old Cebuano guy who would be struggling with the dialect for the remainder of the day.

“Parang nahinog ng panahon itong pagkikita natin”

(Looks like time has ripened this meeting of ours) was Sir Jing’s amiable retort right after I shook his hands and told him ‘Finally, ser’.  I felt that the day ahead was a promising one. But then I looked at his hip half-expecting to see his iconic Tomahawk hanging there and found none. I guess you could not have it all in one day. And then he proceeded to ask what had happened with the link to my blog as apparently it was no longer directing him to the proper site, and I was embarrassed. Truth be told, among many other great things, Sir Jing actually supports other bloggers.

We had transferred to the covered hall to commence the workshop. A proper introduction was delivered by outlining Sir Jing’s previous jobs, and how he came to be who he was plus other trivial details about his past private life. To cap the testimonial off, I was credited duly, much to my pleasure, about an apt description I recall throwing online about him being ‘the finest non-aboriginal primitive living skills instructor in the country today’. We believed it then, we still believe it now . Even after the emergence of other survival schools in the local scene.  

The hours that followed were proof to it. It did not surprise me at all how Sir Jing had mastered delivering his talks. He had probably done this countless of times before. What did surprise me was how he had revised sharing his knowledge to novices as I knew for a fact that he had been, for the larger part of his daily life (both online and off),  in the community of skilled practitioners of the craft. His crowd for the day was made largely of beginners in the outdoors. Another unexpected development was hearing how accessible his course outline was. You could call it politically correct to an extent, knowing him as a hardliner who would throw off LNT-thumpers under the bus in no time. But for the day, I heard him give advice about having to forego dining on endangered species even in a survival scenario. I took that part with a grain of salt and sprinkled it on some uncataloged reptile skwered over a nice fire pit..

Speaking of fire pits, hot coals were sizzling from the drippings of liempo fat outside of the covered function hall. We halved the day with a feast of Pacing’s style grilled pork belly cooked to perfection over the charcoals ‘courtesy of Fred Ochavo’ - a witty attempt at humor I am sure Sir Fred would not relish.

On to the open field the sessions moved. As much as I would like to have this journal post as a singular tribute to Sir Jing, praise is in order as well for the organizers of the event. And it was not for the sole fact of pulling the strings to fly in Sir Jing from Cebu. I admired them, for the day at least, for becoming one with the students. While I am not too big on the notable names of the local backpacking scene, I have been around long enough to recognize I am sitting with some prominent folks. Granted that the business of Survival is an entirely different league from backpacking, some of the disciplines actually do overlap. And granted too that the day’s mantra was to ‘never stop learning because life never stops teaching..’ I found myself eating a hefty serving of humble pie. We were all students that day. Even the distinguished trailblazer Lester Susi was sitting out front and taking in the lessons with an outstretched hand holding a recorder. I guess it goes without saying that his long white locks and handlebar moustache had probably clocked in more hours in the wild than anyone on board.  And then there was Sir Billy, CLIMBER’s rope guru, who appeared to be mumbling to himself the exact same names of edible plants being shown while spoon carving. He must have had an advanced copy of the syllabus and memorized everything beforehand. But later on he told me he grew up in the back country, exposed in the boonies of Marinduque at a young age. And yet there he was, still sifting through and picking on little details to add to his wealth of knowledge.

I wish I had also met the other personalities who had opted to attend on the second day- Ma’am Sydney Orendain, Sir Erick Suliguin. I had an overnight pack and was self-contained but could not RON. I left with the thought that Sir Jing had just broken barriers, and many other groups would soon bring him back to Luzon in no time.

Postscript;

Almost exactly a year after this Basic Wilderness Survival Course was conducted, Sir Jing had commenced, and eventually completed the first ever thru-hike of the whole island of Cebu. The trail, which ran the entirety of the island’s spine, was also the product of his own project, aptly named The Cebu Highlands Trail. It was his crowning pride and glory, and further cements his place as one of the most important men in the local outdoors scene. In line with that, his online journal made it to the Bloggys Philippine Blog Awards as a finalist. A book on Ethical Bushcraft in the tropics is in the works, and an invite from a top distinguished statesman to be educated in the primitive ways under his tutelage is being scheduled. As of the time of this writing, he and his team had just baptised another local pilgrimage path, that of the Camino de Santiago in Cebu. Needless to say, he is on all four cylinders, pedal-to-the-metal running on high octane juice of badassery to a road of opportunities paved before him. And yet I am humbled by the fact that he finds time to accommodate small events here in Luzon. Though he is not the type to conform to the norms of society nor is he bound by any debt of gratitude, he responds to summons with all the obedience of a fervent samurai warrior. Can’t wait to see what’s in store for him in the days to come. 

Post-postscript;

Many thanks to Phil Viray and Ven Ap for taking me in and out of the Camp!

Watch your six!

Some more pictures below..

The author with the Pinoy Apache..

Setting up your site in the wild..

Local plant identification..

Some of the Tuingguian Tribe hammocks of the participants..

Cooking vessel..

Distribution of Seseblades’ The Mountaineer knives

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Best Birthday Gift. Ever. A couple of weeks back I was celebratin' my name day, when, in need of a sizzling plate for the sisig I ended up rummaging 'that dirty area under the sink'. You could say this pan fell from there, figuratively speaking it felt like it came from the heavens. Dear Ol' Granny Lola Nene from San Diego had brought this home before her passing. The American Cast Iron Pan is a culinary and cultural icon, and I have always wanted one. In the same vein I have wanted a lever action rifle, sawed-off shotgun, a tomahawk or any Southern/cowboy item. Of course I could always buy one from eBay, but it does not come with the non-stick coating gathered from thousands of meals cooked for the family. With love. I guess it goes without saying I intend to season it some more in the same manner.. Shake N Bake! 

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Randolph Blue Flash Aviator - I often neglect sun protection and always end up with burned skin and migraine from too much sunlight. I was making an update on my ‘essentials’ of late and the need for eye protection came in top priority.

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Tribu Biyahero Trek Pants Review - World-class Outdoor Trousers That Spell Pride

I was suffering from spaghetti legs when I finally slid over scree in some precarious segment of the Tawangan Trail. A sharp twig jutting out from nowhere appeared to have arrested my fall, preventing me from falling over the cliff but piercing my trek pants in the process. My trusty ol’ Tribu Biyahero Pants held on to that sharp branch and at the same time, stopped it from impaling me through the groin area. The hole it left looked like it was not about to get worse, in spite of the material not being truly rip-stop.  

The pants are now in its fourth year and still serving its purpose.  

images grabbed from the Official Tribu website.

I had been a Tribu sandals user since its inception, but I did not know they build pants. In fact, the brand had a slow start when hiking exploded during the mid 2000’s.  A fellow hiking buddy was sharp enough to remember that the brand was missing in action but by coincidence, their stand-alone stores popped up and the label had been resurrected. We both got our Tribu pants immediately, and it was not a difficult call to make upon seeing the product.

The key, for me at least, in selecting any apparel is to strike the balance between aesthetics and comfort. The approach applies to the average individual. I believe that those who completely forego one aspect over the other are in the extreme limits. If style does not bother you, then by all means, go out there in floral shorts over tights. Conversely, you can hike in skinny denim if you feel it looks better in pictures. So long as you do not whine over your predicament on the trail, then no problem padre. Whatever sizzles your bacon.

Tribu appears to manage the balance between style and comfort. It boasts of a modern slim fitting form that rivals the cut of a moderate metro dweller’s chinos. The reason why I have not really gravitated towards the earlier locally made hiking pants is because they all looked like 80’s Gray V baggy pants. (Parang hiphop na genie in a bottle, although Lagalag has made vast improvements in their line) They made the crotch in a way that it was set too low to enhance flexibility, but in the process had also increased the chances of jock itch and chafing in the inner thighs.  The old timers always had to wear cycling shorts underneath as a workaround. While the slim fitting figure in Tribu seems to hinder a bit of mobility, the stretch panels compensate. I have heard other users of this same pair of pants grumble about the difficulty in stretching the legs on wide strides, particularly on scrambling rocks in long reaches. I have also experienced the same when having to step on a higher ledge. Asian males are born with big thighs, and the stretch panels only accommodate the butt and the knees for this particular model. You will have to select a bigger size if you still want this exact version and at the same time eliminate that drawback.

But those stretch panels truly shine. Obviously not an original idea, the spandex segments in the buttocks region and knees are a first in local products. The material in my pair had withstood countless buttslides and sitting on bare earth/rocks since 2012 and had seen zero damage. The knees have become stretchable and drag has been minimized. An added bonus to that fact is that it does not pull the bottom of the pants upwards when sitting in a crouched position, something that you do a lot in the outdoors. As it happens with other pants, it is always an inconvenience, albeit a minor one, when the bottom of the pants gets inside the collar and/or tongue of your boots as you crouch. Standing back up, you now look like a soldier in combat, not to mention you also lose the only practical gaiters that you have and absentmindedly welcome stones and dirt inside your shoes. So you always have to put back the bottom cuffs of your pants over the top of your hiking boots repeatedly. I have rarely experienced this problem since I shifted to these pants.

There are also countless minor details that make these pants worth the money. The integrated belt over a gartered waist has a clip-over buckle instead of a side-release which also translates to faster disengagement. There are bungee cords and locks at the bottom cuffs. The slash pockets are made of netting fabric but with a non-permeable end to catch some tiny valuables. They are considerably deep and I had no issues with any folding knife clipped inside it for hours- days on end. Back flap pockets are closed by serious Velcro for added security.  However, there are also areas for improvement. I just wished the side cargo pockets were big enough for me to stuff more gear, say for example, an Altoids pocket survival kit which I believe must always be on your person. The relative smallness of the cargo pockets renders them virtually useless. I also prefer non-convertible pants for the less attachments there are, the stronger they are made. Belt loops are also too small to hold milspec BDU belts.  

All things considered, I am truthfully satisfied with this pair of pants. It is the closest I can get to a Lundhags or a Fjällräven – two of my dream hard-use trekking pants, which are enough to blow my funds into oblivion (both retail at an average of 180 usd!). I do not know how these Tribu Biyaheros fare in temperate conditions, although it is breathable and all too quick-drying that I had to line them with thermals in my last Pulag sojourn. In the tropics, however, I can confidently say it stands abreast with Craghoppers- the kind that Bear Grylls uses in his shows. This is a world-class, export worthy product and I can buy another pair for its reasonable price.  

Shake N Bake!

Some close-up shots, clockwise: the buckle, emblem on the side, cargo pocket zipper pull, pocket turned inside-out

Some great memories with my pants;

L-R: to Tarak Ridge 2012, Tapulao early 2013, Isarog late 2013, Guiting-Guitna 2014

L-R: Arayat 2015, Akiki-Tawangan 2015, Bakun Trio 2016, Tirad Pass/Peak 2017 

These pants come in two different colors, Black and Khaki. The “black’ one is actually dark blue with black stretch panels, the khaki variation has dark charcoal grey stretch panels. It retails for about Php 1,550. I got mine from a Tribu boutique in SM Sta Rosa - unfortunately closed already. But it says in their website that they ship and at no cost for items above one thousand pesos.

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Putangher

Shocking pink was how my mother would describe the color on most of my little daughter’s apparel. I found ‘shocking’ laughable as it gave away the age of the user of the term. I grew up calling it Neon- the late 80’s had an abundance of it, from rubber shoes to the muscle strings dangling off of Ultimate Warrior’s arms. I think they call it Hot Pink these days. But it seemed inappropriate for the other 'less hotter’ shades in the color wheel. The mountain guide’s shirt still looked Neon green to me, with bold dark red characters stating DARAITAN TOUR GUIDE sprawled in stark contrast to it. It left a rather indelible imprint to my eyes, in the same vein that the song Pusong Bato booming from his loud speakers on the way to Tinipak River had kept clinging to my ears like some tenacious earwax on the commute back home.

Management of expectations notwithstanding, I was not to go on some hike-your-own-hike, no-to-the-commercialization of outdoors righteous banter. Something about this New Tanay amazed me, and I was just relieved that it was what had marked my memories of Mt Daraitan- IDENTITY.

I say 'new’ as I have known Tanay before, even from just tales. The sleepy town has its place in the pages of my extended family’s life book. My old man used to go out on hunting trips with his brother-in-law who had acquired a considerable area in Tanay and had actually tried to raise my cousins there. Before I left for the hike, my father asked if I could purchase some wild boar meat for him in Daraitan. I told him there were probably no game left there and described the transformation of the place into a buzzing tourist attraction.

Going to the town proper, I could not help but notice the conspicuous rows of Lomi houses along the highway as obviously I was not in Batangas. But Tanay had embraced the signature dish like its own, carving its own identity in the process and separating it from the rest of the other Rizal towns. And it would not end there apparently, for Daraitan, by means of another dish would further characterize itself from Tanay, as if the eponymous mountain rising from it was not identity enough. Like it had to be refined even more. But nope. I did not get to taste Putangher after the climb, even if all the Lomi houses in the barangay had them. Gut felt like there was nothing to write home about some sweet potato sprouts with lots of chili in coconut milk. At least that was what I was told. Acquired taste, probably. But reflecting on the country’s crisis of identity had me zeroing in on the phenomenon that was Brgy Daraitan. A model community, shouting out to the world of what it has to offer and refining an identity in a more vigorous pace. Much louder even than the town cradling it in its borders, which until recently had just announced a series of its tourist attractions, from the Georeserve Park to Daranak falls. If Rizal province were the cloudy white sap from the palm flower and Tanay was the alcohol, then Daraitan might just be the purest distillation of it.

Shake n’ Bake!

Photo by Dirty Harry.

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HAMMER OF THE GODS – Mt Pulag via Akiki – Tawangan

False summit. Emerging alone from the tree line where the mossy forest ended in the Akiki Side of the mountain, I thought I would be met with the prairie paradise that was the Playground of The Gods. I was anticipating rolling and undulating terrain stretching beautifully for miles, straddling the famous dwarf bamboo with a distant saddle camp in view. Instead, looming in front of me was this massive, grassy hill, blocking my view like a dead-end wall. Slithering several feet further up was the only visible trail, utterly declaring that the ascent was far from over.

The term ‘false summit’ did not even apply at that moment, I was only aiming for the saddle camp. But missing such a goal had ushered in an exact blow to my morale all the same from a psychological standpoint. For almost an hour I had been practically running the remainder of the mossy forest alone, expending all energy left hoping that every distant glimpse of the sky was a clearing beyond. But the trail seemed to never end. With no other option, I carried on.

I must be halfway up the grassy hill when I felt a sudden drop in temperature. The sensation was like a million needles piercing through my ukay gore-tex jacket. I let myself fall for only a mere foot in front of me to touch the bare earth of the track, thanks to the steep gradient, and stole a breather. In this inclined position I looked down through my left armpit and noticed the inverted tree line where I had just come out and how small it had become. And then it occurred to me, I must be quite high up and had not looked back for some time, the views were probably scenic already.

I had my lower jaw almost dislodged from awe when I turned about. To the west in my left was the setting sun, which, to my knowledge had already set several minutes ago when I was at the last rest station in the mossy forest, but knowing I had gone up higher in a relatively quick pace, I sort of ‘chased’ its descent, and was seeing it set still. To my right was an enormous bed- sea of clouds, slowly creeping in as if with ghostly arms, spooking the sun to hide from fright. The clouds could have also been the curtain, calling the sun’s magnificent show to a close. My mind was racing for a more apt allegory of a convincing tale for when I get back home, completely forgetting I had the power of video. It was a mistake I was to be thankful for, I could never have immersed myself in the moment while fumbling for camera. Finally, I was able to place it closest to being a gigantic cut-out cardboard of clouds, moved by an invisible puppeteer in this huge backdrop of a diorama theater. In spite of this amusement, a shrill thought cut across this field of exultant ideas. Alone in such elevation, I realized I had never been so high up further inland before. If some devil wind had chosen my spot to place in its track, I would have no chance of surviving a hit. There were no visible seas in the horizon, nor city lights below to mark my rise. There were only a series of less imposing ranges, hues fading in stages one range after another, like those in Japanese paintings.

I was broken out of my reverie when finally I saw my companions Dirty Harry and Variable Ray catching up, headlamps blaring out below in the distance. A few moments later I would be sharing my thoughts to them, shivering from the cold and from morbid notions of being helpless in such a barren patch of beauty. This is how I prefer to remember my first Pulag adventure. Sweet. Savage.

  Akiki , The Killer Trail

 Barely twelve hours had gone by since I broke fast at Ma’am Gina’s, best one I had in years in fact. Few people could tell how the Milkfish up north differed from the ones we get in the metro, but I could (I could not, however, tell apart what’s from Pangasinan or La Union, much more distinguish the ones from Bonuan to the rest of the bangus of other barangays in Dagupan). I was sure however that everyone noticed the heavenly crunch of the broccolis. I stepped back outside to reacquaint my olfactory nerves to the scent of burnt pine needles. The breeze caught me by surprise when we got off the monster jeep an hour ago, a rush of delight to my senses filtered in with pleasant memories of living in Baguio from a distant past. But I did not come here to sniff fallen pine needles, so we headed for chow. Besides, we were behind schedule.

The Akiki ranger station in Doacan had apparently been ushered in to the next century, now a detached edifice of modernity and a far cry from the shy cabin I had seen in the web, much to my dismay. There were about thirty participants and we were not crammed up inside fortunately. Filling in the seats and spaces close to the walls were individuals, adjusting straps, synching bergens, pulling up arm warmers. Everyone was getting ready for the task encircled around a single weighing scale in the middle. I hoped my quadriceps would not fail me for the day.

Nonetheless, I was loaded for bear. Carpe Diem, baby!

I put my heart out in an honest conversation with my Maker during the prayer huddle out front. The last time I was too proud, I nearly ended up leaving Romblon in a body bag. And humility doesn’t come hard in the Akiki trail. On the first high pass prior the descent to Eddet, you get the first glimpse of where Pulag is - an impressive peak terminating from a very steep incline in the far distance, all the while when you are still gasping for air from just the first minor uphill walk. Realizing how daunting the day’s goal could be, you break the undertaking in increments and take one target a time: the hike to Eddet River, the Pine forests to Marlboro Country and the short mossy forest going to the grassy summit area. But the Pine forest is the longest and most arduous one, and could be further broken down into two sub-sections as the first and second half of it differed in its environs. The first half commencing from the Eddet River is a trail of switchbacks through baby Pine Trees with less sunlight cover. It culminates in a wide swath of clearing marked by an exposed outhouse. I suppose everyone takes long stops here as just further beyond indicates another rise.

The second half of the trail hosts countless of age-old pine trees, planted millions of moons ago, and is probably the most visually captivating stage of the hike. The path is a soft bed of pine needles through and through and I had a good amount of respiratory calisthenics just sniffin’ the pine scent off the air. It all ends at the famous Marlboro Country, where longer periods of rest, augmented by huge volumes of water loaded, in bladders both organic and synthetic, tend to wear one’s adrenaline down. Normally, this is also where the temperature drops and a little drizzle is observed, and on to the mossy forest everyone scatters relative to the energy one has left. I had tramped the entirety of this segment in relative solitude just hoping the forest would end soon. Later I would find out that I was behind by only half an hour from the tail of the lead group. There were still a couple of more behind me, but for how long they would come out of the forest I had no idea then. And out of the treeline, as described in my opener, there was this huge obstacle that was as anti-climactic as the final moments of Die Hard 3. Beyond it though was a gentle downhill trot to the saddle camp. But by the time I got through it, darkness had crept all around, outlining the many peaks and ridges against the paler sky.

When out of exhaustion dinner seemed like an enormous task, I opted for hot chocolate instead and hunkered down, burnt lips and all.

The summit turned out less dramatic than the previous day’s sunset with the sea of clouds more pronounced, but I was thankful for the clearing. There were participants who had this first clearing only after five attempts and I was not about to whine. A huge crowd that came in from the Ambangeg side was cheering and clapping concert-style when the sun came out. We squeezed in for the summit marker shot. I fervently hoped for a quiet spot where I could bring my stove and fancy a decent brew while waiting for the sunrise, far from the madding crowd, but the summit is the summit.

On the way back to the saddle camp, I was occupied with the trail cutting through the dwarf bamboo field and was looking downwards when some good soul behind me had the moment of clarity to take my blinders off and showed me the Shadow of Pulag. It was a clear-cut, defined shadow of the summit tapering to a point after cloaking the campsite in its huge triangular mantle. I had only seen such thing on tv, in some forgotten tragic K2 documentary and I was spellbound at such a phenomenon. That a peak could be so grand as to cast a shadow on a large section of the Karakoram Range is one thing, to see a version of it in my island’s tallest peak so up close is another.

Bicol Express back at camp for the day’s packed lunch was indeed a fast one. The dish was so quickly executed from embarrassment that all the others going down by Tawangan had broken camp already and were all mounted up. A few rounds of gin and hot macaroni sopas courtesy of June Castalone and Roemer Casticon made for good breakfast, a shot in the arm for the long day ahead at the notorious Bloody Trail.

  Tawangan, The Bloody Trail

There is scant info on the web as to the grim names baptized to these trails. Whereas Akiki from the prior day already had its renowned acclaim for being the ‘Killer Trail’, being the more difficult route as opposed to the Tourist Trail of Ambangeg, local backpackers seemed to never have reconciled what the infamous moniker for the Tawangan Trail truly meant. Dubbed ‘The Bloody Trail’, I have not been enlightened to this day whether the name was borne out of the leeches that suck your veins dry or from incidences of armed robbery in the past. I would not like to find out the hard way, nor did I wish to practice S.E.R.E. skills from the hands of Cordilleran bandits that day. I just intended to get to the monster jeepney waiting for us at the trail’s end, and in the process, soak up in the mossy beauty of Tawangan.

But as much as I would like to say it was all moss, in actual fact it was not. Nevertheless, what the mossy section lacked in length, it made up for in quality. The splendor of it all did not only compensate for the brevity, but for the difficulty as well that seemed to escort it all along. The more beautiful the environs, the harder it was to negotiate the trail. I recall a few butt slides where I had to collect myself before I got up, simply because I had to pause looking upward, mesmerized by hundreds of hanging usnea- Old Man’s Beard. They were like a crowd of pale green Santa Clauses that had convened in an ominous gathering, staring down at me like an intruder to their realm and saying well, look what the cat dragged in. Regrettably, I had to pack in my huge camera for I was lagging. There were only eleven of us left completing this trail, the majority having already opted for Ambangeg.

I had caught up with everyone in an exposed rocky ridge that had to be the mark of the end to all the eerie ambience. From there it was a rolling park-esque trail, gentler to the knees, with the lichens dwindling down. I found this second segment of the Tawangan trail as the most established, straightforward and well-blazed. The third segment, and probably the longest, is the one that ran alongside Halong creek up to the cemented road going to the barangay settlement. It was there where I found the predicament that had injected a little adventure into an otherwise plain jane, smooth-sailing hike.

When again I ran into the lead group who were just leaving an uncomfortable spot where they had their lunch, I was told to take the left fork and commence from there. I bid adieu and waited for two more companions behind me, forcing down a short lunch into a nagging appetite before proceeding. Just a few meters up was a rest station, with decent makeshift benches and wide enough to cradle a few tents and I thought, why had manong the guide let everyone take their lunch in that sloping, cramped spot when just a few strides ahead was this perfect tambayan?? He must have not estimated properly or the benches were just jungle mirage. And then I took the left fork, to a steep unstable sandy slope terminating to a water source directly flowing down a creek. Bells were ringing in my head and my heart was pumping fast as I recalled having been told earlier there were no longer any provisional water sources. The trail seemed to crisscross the creek as well, in this deep gorge where no one was supposed to make trails. I imagined a raging flash flood and no escape route. Out of desperation I consulted my gps app, and there I found an anomaly. It said I had made a wrong turn but the mark it gave which I was supposed to follow was nothing but deep ravine (N16° 38’ 5.1 E120° 55’ 1.8). Having wasted a good forty minutes, I, along with Dirty Harry and Variable Ray decided to proceed on to the only sensible trail along the creek. To ease my tension, I had to track fresh footprints just to assure myself I was on the right trail, and behold, there were Salomon tracks, unmistakable as a fossil to a digger’s eye. I found it rather odd now that in hindsight, it was Sir Aldrin who said he had left stone signs, but it was Ma’am Sharon’s shoe tracks that lighted the way.

A few more stops for muscle ointment and eventually we got into the road with a visual of the dreamy barangay settlement AND the monster jeepney. Our ride back to the terminal! We figured we would add some more time for photo ops, assured now that we were not lost.

Reunited with the rest of the group at the barangay hall, we were received warmly albeit comically for we were the only three who wad been wearing the event shirt. We feasted on hot instant noodles, harder to swallow with disturbing news that had been served alongside it. A 7.8 magnitude earthquake had just struck Nepal and had triggered an avalanche from Pumori to the basecamp, but I had none of the coherence needed to process the news yet.

I had just completed what was dubbed as The Best Pulag Experience.

The feeling of relief, of having completed such a journey, was in no manner a memento of the famous Playground of the Gods. The summit was just a fleeting keepsake and a transitory image, whereby going in and out of Mt Pulag, I would say that was the Hammer of The Gods.

Watch your six!

Cross

P.S.

Special thanks to Sir Erickson Recto for organizing this event, and for going out of his way to absorb all the inconveniences brought about by the unexpected surge of fees in the park. Hats off to you, sir!

Much thanks also to the “Tawangers” - Sir Aldrin, Ma’am Sharon, Doc Mel TheSubcomandante Isprikitik, Jay Masauring (kabayan ko pala from Silang, Cavite!), Roemer Casticon, Joshue Angel, June Castalone (kapitbahay ko pala sa Sta Rosa!), Dirty Harry, Variable Ray.

Thank you also to some good friends met, Mr and Mrs John Barcellano (Congrats and best wishes!) , Kevin Jason Manuel (na officemate ko pala! parang manok sa umaga, ‘milky way shot!!’), Liquidator (nag ambangeg, ang daya!) 

Some more photos below;

The North Remembers..

Pine forest, 1st segment. Baby pine trees..

The author, pormaneering. Forgot who to credit.

Liquidator at the Pine forest, 2nd segment. Old trees here..

Come to where the flavor is.

An attempt at ‘please help me photoshop the sun into my fingers’ I would later get serious queries about this from friends who missed the joke.

Group meal number five.

Tawangers..

Inching closer to the mossy forest entrance of Tawangan..

Into the mossy realm..

Dreamy Brgy Tawangan..

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Help Pinoy runner George Javier conquer the Alps at UTMB!

Nais ko lamang ipang hingi ng tulong ang isang matalik na kaibigan na pinalad makalahok sa Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc (UTMB), ang pinaka prestihiyosong trail running event sa mundo. Sa 15,785 na sumali, 2.300 lamang ang nabunot at isa sya sa limang Pilipino na pinalad mag qualify. Sa 10,000 masl gain at170 kms na babagtas ng tatlong bansa sa Europa, mayroon lamang 48 hours upang ma tapos ito ng bawat kalahok, isang mithiin na bagamat mahirap ay isang karangalan na ang mapili man lamang. Nakakapanghinayang kung pang pinansyal na balakid lamang ang hahadlang upang maabot ng isang tao ang pangarap na ito. Bagamat ang palakasang trail running ay taliwas para sa pananaw ng ilan sa kumindad ng mga namumundok, nagtatagpo din naman ang ilan sa ating mga hangarin, dahilang upang marapatin ko ang pag post dito, sa tulong na rin inyong pang unawa. Si George Javier po ay tubong Los Banos, sa mismong paanan ng Makiling kung saan walang sawa syang nag eensayo at namumulot ng basura, paakyat ng Peak 2 at pababa ng Sto Tomas, bawat sabado, nitong mga nagdaang taon. Anumang halaga ay malayo ang maabot.

Below is the link:

Help Pinoy runner George conquer the Alps at UTMB!  

Maraming Salamat mga kapatid.

Watch your 6!

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Maktrav - The Lies of Sipit Trail and an Offer We Couldn’t Refuse

Congratulations, your favorite mountain south of the metro just got tastier and jucier.

Throughout the period since the Thug of Talamitam Hill started imposing forced guideship as if mandate from heaven, every little organized community straddling jump-off points in various weekend trails seemed to take the blueprint and pretty much ran off with it.

I thought that Talamitam was the lowest point. I really did. But it just kept getting nastier and meaner. Brgy Talisay in Malipunyo was in a class all by itself, they made it a point that you DO NOT sign the logbook if you opt to not get a guide, which was 1500 by the way, for a quick out-and-back dayhike. It was the classic look-away move. By relieving themselves of the knowledge that you climbed the mountain, (‘at your own risk’ straight from their mouths), they absolve themselves as well of any responsibility should any mishap come upon by you and your group, regardless if your pick-up truck is parked right smack in front of their barangay hall.

The officials at the Sipit jump-off of Makiling seemed to cater in a new era of ‘responsible’ guideship right after the unfortunate event in Peak 3 (hats off to the local backpacking community for respecting the privacy of the matter). While later I would learn that the rules they had set would change from one hiking group to the next, they succeeded in making it look like everything was in standard format. No camping overnight. Minimum 800 for the guide. No registration past 10 am. Haggling was not an option and I was rejected flat out. The clincher? Their declaration that there was a go-ahead from UPLB and that in the Forestry side, guideship is mandatory at an even more expensive rate of one thousand pesos, so consider yourselves lucky we were not that greedy. That was when I threw in the towel. By then it was evident that they had laid out an unbreakable set of policies and apologized for none of it. Those guys are just as cold and hard as they come. Never mind that I had the same accent and an unquestionable resume of rapport-building in the rural areas, I was colored as the same weekend warrior from the metro with shallow pockets, ready to pay for anything they charge.

And pay we did. The hours and all the pain it took for us to get there undermined the pride of driving home the point that the fees were just too much. You just let it slide and charge it to experience, so they say. But I could not make up for all the time lost from all the begging and negotiating. I knew I missed the chance to meet up an old friend along the trail. I was supposed to rendezvous in Lambingan junction with the trail running guru, Pulang Kabayo himself, George Javier, to congratulate him for having qualified in the UTMB (the mecca of trail running battles). Needless to say, we headed on in a relatively quick pace, thanks to the guide who, in spite of the pleasant character he exuded, had become much of a burden already. How do you strike a bond- a friendship of no reservation, to a guide who had just sprouted from such a bad start? Simple. You just don’t. After all that’s been said and done, our repudiation of their policy and their insistence of it had just but tarnished what could have been amity that could cross boundaries of differences. The guide was a kind man, but it was awkward all the time and we could not wait until Palanggana ridge where we agreed to send him back, never mind the fee. We told him we knew the trail from there, and paid the damned bill. For lack of change a discount of 50 Php was given. Thank you sir! We could probably feast on some quail eggs, 3 pieces for each us later in Calamba crossing. Godspeed!

It felt like a huge rock was taken off of our backs. Ironically, we slowed down and took our time to literally smell the flora and the fauna and reminisce our last Maktrav. Melkas camp was an even better treat, for there we had our first true brew since the beginning of all this madness. I took out my Kapeng Barako, filter, funnel and condiments and just plain shouted Death before decaf! again, to our tummy’s content. We threw in some conspiracy theories and some libertarian thoughts and it became the perfect afternoon break.

Repeat hikes are, for me, like the Holidays. Count on it, there’s always going to be some nostalgia involved and it makes it all the more bittersweet. You come home for Christmas and you find yourself feeling estranged from all the changes that have taken place since you last left the house. Yet quite strangely, you also feel so at home. I could say the same for that very spot past the Wilderness Zone. Makeshift benches have come and gone, firepits have sizzled and died out, grasses have been cut and cleared in all manner and locations –whatever the case may be, we always found ourselves sitting down and talking in deep, personal tongues. Like the adolescent boyscouts that we always were.

Not thinking that the above was enough loitering already, we could not help but hang around at Ate Glo’s some more (yup, everyone’s favorite lomi station by the Nursery). It was always a delight to catch up with her and her husband who we always just referred to as ‘Kuyang’, those lovebirds. We reported all the lies that we had to swallow at the other side of the mountain, which were met with scoffs and a parent-like dismissal to dust ourselves off and move on. We also informed them of the really blown-up habal-habal fare proposals from beyond Agila base, and this was when things got a little haywire. Realizing it was already late, Kuyang offered instead to give us a ride in his owner-type jeep, for whatever amount that the habal-habal riders had offered, not just down to the College of Forestry but all the way to Olivarez until we could find a ride to Calamba. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse. So we waited while he took the vehicle. And waited some more. Until after maybe 40 minutes, we realized something must have gone wrong.

“Ayaw mag-start! Tulak natin?”

I knew it. Understanding that by walking the remainder of the ‘dirt’ road, we would not make it to Sulyaw before they close the place and get that bottomless iced tea, we took the gamble. For the next hour we would be hauling the ten-ton monstrosity back and forth up the slope and down again to make it start, but no dice. Making matters worse, a neighbor compadre of Kuyang who had no knowledge to contribute on the table joined the frenzy and literally took the helm so all of us could.. heave! Turned out that he was nightblind, and kept sending the jeep veering off to the curb or close to hitting a tree every time we pushed! (headlights by then had conked out as well and we had only our headlamps). After countless attempts, Kuyang sent us off albeit very embarrassed.  

We ran off down the long and boring road to Forestry, taking stops in the darkness under the huge trees to catch our breaths and laugh at our demise. At a time when we should have been resting at home, we were dragging a heavy jeep, an effort almost the same as an hour at the gym! What a training climb that was. We made it safely to Sulyaw at 2315H, a couple of minutes after the place had closed. I pulled out my phone and realized I had forgotten to turn the GPS off.

Curiosity got the better of me and I checked back how the fiasco at the Lomi house had registered in ViewRanger. It looked like a cross between the most ridiculous crayola doodle and the Richter scale.

Watch your six!