I Survived Mt Apo!!! (Part 1)

I have dreamed of conquering Mt Apo ever since I first arrived in Davao some 44 years ago. Due to certain circumstances however, I have not had the opportunity to pursue that dream. Now, I stood at the foot of Mt Apo as the first light of day creeped into the horizon with a pale, reluctant golden hue. Joining me in this quest to tame the wilds of Mt Apo were my wife, Wit; along with some of the Garcia next-gen gang composed of 2 of my kids, Aly and Josh, plus Win, Neesha and Toia. This would form that small group of cool climbers we would fondly call: the ‘Apo Hiking Society’.

Majestic Mt Apo is the country’s tallest mountain, lording it over the foothills of eastern Mindanao. To me, it has always been a constant reminder of nature’s grandeur. Its lofty heights also epitomize the goals and challenges we must hurdle in our everyday life. Going up Mt Apo is a rare opportunity I have always pined for. I have conquered higher peaks in the past, with jungles and storms, menacing rocks and slippery slopes. I have tamed wilder mountains with even more threatening terrain. I have hiked the plains of Luzon, and hurdled the mountains of Baguio… as a popular plebe knowledge goes. But the big difference is that I am now seventy years of age, no longer as nimble, and now far removed from the Scout Ranger who used to devour mountain treks like crazy. Now from a distance, the mountain looked back with a disarming smile. As though luring me to an uncertain embrace. Which somehow seemed to play tricks on my mind.

We left Davao City at 4am of what we hoped would be a beautiful morning in order for us to hit Kapatagan, in Davao Sur, at the light of day. Breakfast was a hurried ritual at the DENR office, with sandwiches and hot choco that tasted of the safe world we were leaving behind. We ate quickly, swallowing our doubts with words and nervous jokes that tried to calm each other down. We then took a final ride to our jump-off point a few more miles up the foothills. And then came the time to ditch our ride. We jumped off from the foot of the mountain at around 8am; our small party moving with a nervous energy that tried to hide its many fears.

Our initial walk went through picturesque rolling farmlands that led into the jungle’s throat. It was sunny and warm without any shade, thus making the jungle canopy a welcome respite. As we entered the jungle, the shade provided the comfort; with the canopy exhibiting a ceiling painted with nature’s green and yellow sun-splotches that seemed to welcome us with its cool embrace. We didn’t know it then, but a storm had been spotted moving menacingly somewhere north of Mindanao. And this would somehow affect our plans in the day ahead.

Lunch came somewhere within the jungle’s ribs – at Big Rock, they called it. It was a break that provided the simplest of necessities: some valued rest, some food and water to hydrate, and more encouraging words to keep us moving. The cold was starting to bite a little bit. And the wind had started to sing a haunting hymn.

And then, it was time to move on. By 3:30 pm, after roughly 7 hours of steady upward trek through shade and sun, through slips and slides, we reached Camp 1, a makeshift space of tarps and semi-abandoned shelter houses. The cold that we had welcomed hours earlier was now starting to nibble and bite. We dragged ourselves in, with a collective sigh of relief. And with the stubborn hope that a few hours of rest that night would be enough to steady us for the next day. We pitched our tents, praying that the side canvass would be enough to protect us from the now-bitter cold. The howling winds seemed to forewarn us of the struggle up ahead. And the air was already cooling in a way that felt intrusive, as if the mountain itself wanted to teach us a few lessons in humility.

That night, we tried to sleep early, a mandatory choice born of fear and fatigue. For some reason however, my stomach started to act up. That evening after an early dinner, I had to relieve myself twice. I had already visited the makeshift restroom twice earlier, making this a critical concern. Wit got alarmed, and asked if I wanted to opt out of the day’s climb. But considering all the planning, and all the physical and mental preparations we had put in for this, I vetoed her suggestion. Bum stomach be damned, we were going to proceed as planned.

The plan was to jump-off at midnight, and chase the sunrise that would appear if the clouds decided to yield. The world, however, was simply uncooperative and full of surprises. The clock ticked as the wind screamed, while light, sporadic rains started to drench our tents. Lucky for us, the rains had stopped when midnight came. We went on our way; but the wind – oh, the howling wind – sang hoarsely like a chorus of knives. And so, we jumped off; even as the terrain, the cold, the dark, the strong winds – and my bum stomach – were all clearly aligned against us.

And like rangers in the night, we walked on. And on. Through the thick jungle. Up treacherous big boulders. Unfortunately, despite the 6-hour lead-time, we could not reach the peak in time for sunrise. The mountain, in its ancient, indifferent way, insisted on its own timetable. And the wet forest and the uphill climb decided that we were simply too slow, and hence not worthy to reach the top in time for sunrise.

Morning’s breakfast found us at Boulder Face, where the rocks loomed like ancient sentinels, with their teeth of stone set into the ground as if to keep the world from sliding away. The air there was dauntless and cold. Coffee was a warm welcome relief, reminding me of my ranger days in the mountains. But the cold was clearly gnawing at my old, tired body. It was here that I felt the first true sting of reality pressing in with its cold, cruel fingers. I had already dumped two more times by then, a troubling tally that shook my pride more than any gale could. Still, my mind and body were a stubborn pair; and sometimes, there’s that pride that betrays you with a positive, yet totally delusional view that overrules any wise caution.

So we pushed forward, trudging along through a landscape that looked less like a trail and more like a monster obstacle endurance course. White Sand, they call it; a place that sits just a few hundred meters from the peak, stared at us with the seriousness of an overzealous guard. It was at White Sand where Wit and I finally arrived at a verdict. It came at the behest of the bitter cold and the unforgiving wind that seemed to cut through every layer of our skin like a blade. The decision, painful as it was, came without ceremony: abort. The peak would not be won today. The incoming storm, the raging wind, the freezing cold, the treacherous terrain, plus my dehydrated condition – these were the victors, for we lacked the right armor to overcome them.

The children, however, pressed on; still believing in the promise of a stupendous view at the top; while Wit and I slowly made our way down Boulder Face once again. The fearless kids would reach Crater Lake, the crater of this extinct volcano and the last stop before one last final push to the peak. Unfortunately, there the guides would finally speak with more serious clarity that needed no drama: There is no need to proceed to the peak, they ventured. The danger is real. The strong wind had now become a deadly weapon. And the rains, once it comes, would make the descent twice more difficult and dangerous. It was no longer merely about a photo with the dawn; it was now about life and its preservation, and the need to be able to come back strong and healthy, to climb again perhaps some other day. It was clear that the kids had done extremely well. And that there was no more need to prove anything. For now, the quest to reach the top was over. And the race to get down before the rains fell was on.

(To be continued… Coming down the mountain in I Survived Mt Apo Part 2)

Cover pic courtesy of Google Arts & Culture. Other pics courtesy of the Garcia ‘Apo Hiking Society’. For a closer look, just click on the pics.