Naga City, past the slumbering barangays and rice paddies that were lit up with streetlights. It was hot and filled with smoke and smoke. After an hour or so we came close to the bakery where Tinong had the scent of its stagnant breath of fresh pandesal was tormenting my hungry mouth. This was my cue.
I flagged a habal-habal, threw my helmet in and clung to the waist of the driver as we roared uphill on the motorcycle taxi. The highway wound round like a snake in Barangay Inayagan, along the Cantao-an border. The breeze blew upon my face bringing tinges of damp earth and wild guava. "Sitio Pangilatan, kuya!" I shouted over the roar. He looked, and swerved round potholes like a professional. Another twenty minutes later we came to a grating halt at the jump-off point, a miserable trailhead, characterized by a tattered signboard and a group of curious roosters.
No entrance fee. The only thing that is there is me, my backpack, and the mountain. I put on my boots, applied some sunscreen (a lesson I had learned in online forums), and put energy bars and extra bottles of water in my pockets. The path was likely to be more or less a smooth one, though there were some warnings: rocky, steeptish, merciless sun, no shade at all. Best time? rains are withheld between January and November.
It was magic to start with. The route wound through knee-long cogon grass and rustled along my legs. Birds twittered overhead,kingfishers glittering in iridescent blue, and their cries cut the stillness of the dawn. The air made my flesh cool, smelling of dew of the previous night. I was alive, and my steps were in time with my breathing. This is it,I thought. The start of something real.
An hour later the trail became argumentative. Rocks bulged out like recalcitrant teeth and I had to go on all hands and knees. Sharp roads burnt my thighs, the calves protesting. Sweat was streaming, and my eyes were stinging even with the sunscreen. No shade was spared, the sun was up in cruel hands and made its way to a furnace. I had stopped, gulped water--plenty, as the old man had told me to eat and chewed a banana to work off the bonk. Bikers do this I cursed, and picture how daredevils were riding amongst these boulders. Respect.
Doubts crept in. My water had gone half-way; legs shook as jelly. Some voice inside me sang, Go back. Views are overrated. But then a peep of the trees: the patchwork valleys of Naga opening down below, with carabaos and flashing rivers. I pressed on. The path flattened to a dangerous deception, causing one to think, but soon dropped into yet another chute of rocks. Here loose gravel chattered at the feet, and care must be taken, a single slip and I was on my back.
To friends reading this, follow the pieces of advice: Bring a lot of water (I had 3 liters and would have wanted 4 liters), sunscreen (SPF 50+), snacks (nuts, fruits--nothing perishable). Durability is the order of the day; rocks eat sneakers. And get up early--as I did--to beat the heat and possess that sunrise.
Two hours of grit then showed the peak. Then one last, lunging rush, and I pulled myself up into the summit, a broad, bald dome, of 360 degrees of glory. The horizon was rising from the sun, flaming the sky with oranges and pinks. Below went Cebu: the urban fringes of Naga were bleeding into green hills, the sea was a distant silver line. The wind blew victorious, and my head was tossed about by it while dancing. No mob, no filters, no - nothing, but pure, sweaty beauty.
I sat and journaled the rush for an hour. This was no mere increase but a roll call. Pangilatan was the instructor of patience, endurance in a world of interminable scrolls and instant gratifications. Social media offers entertainment, and only sweat brings it. And responsibility? I stuffed all the wrappers, buried my snack peels, left footprints which faded. Be a good laagan keep the loveliness thou hast come to. This peak isn't yours to ruin.
It was more difficult going down--knees clattered on the boulders, but the law played in favor of gravity. At the habal-habal I would thank my driver at Tinong for the pandesal. The ride home on the bus turned into a euphoria, body paining, soul lifting.