The Moment of Truth: Going Up the Summit
At 3:00 AM, we reluctantly left the relative warmth of our tents and let the freezing winds whip at our bundled up bodies. We started the slow ascent thirty minutes later, trudging away from the safety of our campsite.
Upwards we went into the cold and the dark. Up narrow paths and rough grounds laid with slippery stones, up dirt paths that had been stamped down by previous hikers. To our left, the mountain sloped dangerously downwards; a misstep could send one sprawling down a steep grassy incline.
“If you stumble off balance, remember to lean to your right!” Kuya Ram-mon said, a little too cheerfully given the prospect of a potentially fatal fall.
The ascent to the peak normally took two hours. I took my own sweet time, tired as I was from the undulating trail. Kuya Terry, the kind and patient local guide, walked steadily behind me, occasionally murmuring about anitos or spirits that were said to roam these pathways. When I asked if he believed that, he laughed and brushed it off. We still needed to pass through, in any case. Once or twice, I questioned the sanity in this whole endeavor – walking in the darkness while bracing ourselves against freezing temperatures and waiting for a rare view of a sunrise over a blanket of clouds. We were at the mercy of the gods; we were entering their playground after all. We didn’t need to, but there we were.
Halfway up the final ascent, I stopped and stared gloomily at the muddy trail that still lay ahead of me. When would all the walking end? What if I slipped and fell down to be eaten up by the darkness? Kuya Terry, sensing my growing panic and anxiety, took my arm and pulled me gently, encouraging me as we climbed side by side. That was enough to get me through the last few steps.
Finally, with cheers from my own companions, I made it to the top. We came a little early at 5:30 am and the winds were stronger there. We huddled in a small grove of high bushes and passed around cups of hot coffee as we waited for night to fade into daylight.
When it was close to 6:00 am, dawn broke over the horizon. Over the mountaintops was a layer of rolling clouds. Glowing faintly above was a smear of orange that gradiated to a soft, peaceful blue. We stood up, offering our bodies and exposed faces to the strong winds and the blossoming light of a slow-rising sun. The icy coolness made the wait harder to bear, but we stood our ground as white clourds spilled over the awe-inspiring landscape and delicate rays kissed the tips of mountain slopes. This was our reward. This was the clarity amidst the insanity – looking down from that great height like giants, feeling as if we owned a piece of paradise.
On the way down, the views were just as beautiful. I wanted to skip and run across trails, but an old injury from a run prevented me from doing so. The threatening downhill slopes were now on our right side, but all fears of falling had melted away with the darkness. We had come with a prayer, and the prayer was granted; in fact, I think we had gotten more than what we bargained for.
“You guys are lucky!” we told the first-time Pulag hikers in our group. It was true, luck was on our side that morning.
Or perhaps the gods had smiled upon us and allowed us a glimpse into the sacred grounds they considered home.
