I (Barely) Survived...

Mt. Pulag or at least 2,600 feet of it.

For yes, no one in our group is able to reach the summit because rain, courtesy of the LPA that originated from the Visayas, and possibly of global warming, and the cold weather (10 degrees?) forced us to think of nothing but surviving, nee living. 

So in a sense, this rather condescending reply to the entry that announces this adventure:

"don't worry, jules. chris, mel and father guy won't let you go if they think you can't do it. in mountaineering levels, your trip would be considered a fun climb. A 3-hour trek is nuthin', dude! ENJOY!!!"

is wrong.  In your face again, dude. :) 

However, on further thought, I have to admit that it is not entirely wrong, as the utterances of this person usually are, but, to say the obvious, only in part.

For this trip is no fun. That is when you are in the midst of it. No, not at all! Not if there is water everywhere the entire time; not if all the preparations you made against the cold are ineffective; not if the body heat of your companions is the sole thing that is making you all warm; not if freezing water is flowing under and into your tent; not if your shoes, socks, jockey, pants, t-shirt, sweater, jacket, bonnet, backpack, tent, blanket and raincoat are soaking wet inside and out. 

No, not even when you are beginning to witness adventure films with people's fingers and toes falling off because of the weather that you have seen in the coziness of your living room coming alive right before your eyes nor when you are fighting against the temptation of despair and picture taking is not anymore part of your immediate consciousness.

These prove that you are very wrong, sir. Which, gladly, are not the last words on the matter.

For afterwards, when we were again at the safety of the ranger station and even up to now, the habit of reflection assisted me in realizing that indeed the trip was fun and therefore that the aforementioned quote is essentially right. 

With humility and gratefulness, I realized that physically, emotionally, and psychologically, I can go beyond my own perceived limitations and that for two and a half years now, I was with companions--admin, colleagues, and students, who are capable of the same thing.

The past three days, I found myself in a cacophony of situations that I am unfamiliar with. I am used to living frugally but the experience 2,000+ feet above sea level was beyond frugality.  It was, so far for me, the closest I ever had to physically dying.  I feared for my life.  I feared for the lives of my companions.  I remember telling Brian, "this is more than what we bargained for" and to Mel, "I am feeling afraid."

Maybe I overreacted, but I did so quietly.  I whispered my fright to these two, to Kog, and to God alone. In wet clothes, I put up my tent with numb fingers and drove its doubly cold four steel pegs into the icy ground. I did so with only the beam of my tiny maglite held by Kog to guide me. I decided to set it up under the wooden shed that was our cooking and eating area, as well as the guides' place for sleeping and not in the open grounds of Camp 2 because our two local guides said that, given our situation, it was the best thing to do.  This decision made me courteously wait until everyone finished their dinner.

I fell asleep at around 7:30 pm inside my tent which was made relatively warm by me and Mark's, my tent partner, body heat.  It was a deep sleep and later, feeling strangely cold and damp, I woke up to Mark's expressions and cries of agony.  I thought it was morning but my watch showed a mere 11:30 pm.  I thought my time piece was broken but it was not.

Mark, who was already shivering decided to leave our tent and join the boys on the ceiling of the shed because, as he rather loudly lamented, the floor of his side of the tent is unbearably cold because of the rain water flowing underneath it.

Alone, going back to sleep while being warm became my sole concern.  I need to sleep so as not to concern myself of the time remaining, of getting bored, and despairing in the process, till we were blessed with sunlight.  I thought that maybe if I move, I could generate enough body heat to make the inside of my tent warm again. This thought was clashing with my body's reluctance to further expose itself to cold.  I was able to pull out enough courage in me to sit up, redundantly rearrange my things and my makeshift mattress of towel, sleeping bag, dry shirts, and blankets.  As this solved my problem in part, I worked on my primary aim.  I decided to alternately sleep on my right and left sides using my upper arms to cushion my lungs against the cold ground.  It was difficult but I was able to sleep, although in fits and starts--until it was morning and companionship, camaraderie, and concern for the earth became my weapon against our condition.    

As I was descending Mt. Pulag with the cover of my tent as raincoat and looking like Gandalf and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I had the chance to evaluate the trail that we took the previous day. I was led to wonder how I was able to accomplish the feat of climbing up the second or third highest mountain in the Philippines.  I then remembered that when I felt like my lungs were bursting and my legs were giving in, I decided to not mind my pains and instead look around and enjoy the details of my surroundings: the wind-driven clouds, the fog-covered ravines, the moss-covered trunks that extend to wind-twisted branches of the trees, and the night-like darkness underneath the vegetation untouched and unseen by humans.

It wasn't nuthin, my friend the dude.  In a way, it was everything.