ONCE
AGAIN, I FIND myself hiking alone. Moments like these are now few
and I love to take advantage of that when it comes knocking. Solo
walks along mountain trails is a good therapy for someone who has a
stressful day job and a hangover of last night’s waltz with
bottles. It is my way of removing the kinks, just a bit short of
reformatting myself whole.
I
don’t feel boredom because, instead of concentrating all my
thoughts in a running conversation with another, my mind focuses on
reading the lay of the land – the finer details – which always
escape the attention of a conventional hiker. Besides that, silence
is beautiful.
I
am a lefty and what does not work with the mainstream is quite
perfect for me. Just a plain maverick but not eccentric and mad.
Rallying myself to come up with this idea right after the heels of a
few hours of sleep, is quite daunting. And annoying too if you could
stand to leave the alarm screaming every ten minutes.
I
finally surrendered the bed at 8:00 AM of May 19, 2013 for the
business of more human functions. On the table lay a bowl of braised
pork which my wife left for me and I help myself to two servings.
After a good filling, I take shower, snatch the backpack and the
helmet and work my way to a back street where my motorcycle is parked
and proceed to Guadalupe.
Last
night I have good company with friends and acquaintances at the
Handuraw Events Cafe and it was cool. This morning’s heat is
different and it is reality but I am ready for it. The fever that
had came to strangle me two Sundays ago have passed away. I come for
revenge and the rain of previous days have softened summer. This is
some good weather.
I
park the motorcycle at Guadalupe. I buy fresh taro sprouts, gumbos
and eggplants from the roadside market beside the Catholic church
which I will prepare later as my noontime meal. I also procure a
half kilo of milled corn and two packets of instant coffee. I am
confident with my health, with my camp stove and my liter of water to
see me through the day.
The
third Philippine Independence Bushcraft Camp, which I am organizing,
is fast approaching and I need to assess the campsite but I only have
two hours before 12:00 noon. I fast-track myself to the trailhead by
hopping on a motorcycle-for-hire and skirted away “heartbreak
ridge”. Good riddance!
Down
I go into the now-verdant surroundings where, two weeks ago, was an
almost virtual wasteland. The teak forest have sprouted its leaves,
the ground is moist, more birds now sing, underbrush and grasses have
reclaimed their spots and the sun is not that tormenting anymore.
What a wonderful day to behold and sight the distant hills as living
greens took over of what used to be dull brown.
I
pick up a still wet piece of branch that had recently been cut and
abandoned by a wood gatherer and work on it with my William
Rodgers bushcraft knife. I need this piece of wood as my staff,
especially when I do the downhill stretches. My knees are not what
it used to be and, besides, I could use the staff as a weapon. Just
in case.
As
I top off on “Boy T’s Hell”, I am rewarded with an exhilarating
view. However, I do not come to make a poem out of beautiful views
but, rather, I come to find a much better route to a stream where the
old Camp Damazo is located. Two earlier routes I established are
quite difficult for unprepared individuals and so I need to establish
another much friendly one.
I
am not pressured and I take time to study a piece of terrain. I walk
from here to there and there to there and back, sniffing the air,
tilting the head to catch the faintest of sound, crouching to seek
other angles of view, studying shadows. I hear running water from
below, catch a scent of smoke and then I see a good slope. It is not
easy but, at least, it is much near to a narrow gully and, from
there, more gentle inclines.
I
espy a trail but I might be wrong. I walk further on and I am on a
very beautiful trail beside a stream. I follow it north and south
and it is a mere fifty meters long, the rest of it are claimed by the
stream. Locals, it seem, use the stream as a route. I see a
familiar rock face where water run in angles and I am not far from
the old campsite, which is located downstream. The stream is not dry
anymore unlike last May 5.
A
familiar X on a tree trunk point me the right path and I pass the
former camp from above. Lensa Trail is very peaceful and blooming
with green leaves and I see some upland marsh palms along the route
as well as many Indian rhododendron shrubs. The route curved
bringing me from one stream into another where groves of water bamboo
are found.
I
need mature bamboos for the bushcraft camp in June and there are many
strewn above a short cliff abandoned by firewood gatherers. I climb
it up and select dry ones. I work on it with my knife in tandem with
the folding saw of my Victorinox SAK. With that effort, I
collected three poles and bound it with green vines that I foraged
beside the stream.
I
prop my staff on a forked branch as my hands would now be
concentrating on the carrying of the three bound poles on my
shoulder. I leave the stream and climb up an ascending ridge. The
trail is good except where rattan palms abound. My shirt and my skin
gets snagged passing on one and I take a detour when a whole of
another block my path.
I
reach a hill with rocks all around. It could serve its purpose as a
latrine but it is too far from the new site of Camp Damazo. I may
have to find another one uphill and I found it as I move on. This
one is wide and about twenty meters from the “gate” of the
campsite with a lot of “private rocky options”.
The
campsite is now very wide; thanks to our last year’s occupancy and
a failed tree planting activity months after that. It used to be
thick with underbrush and with a lot of debris. I gurgle and swallow
a little liquid and another. I need rest and I have to make coffee.
I get my camp stove and my isobutane tank from my backpack and
install it. With a stainless steel cup, I pour water and prepare to
boil. Then I turn on my MP3 and play Tubular Bells III by
Mike Oldfield.
The
stove did not work so I turn hard the can but it got separated
instead and impossible to use now. While staring at the unboiled cup
of water, I notice black ants begin to appear and mosquitoes begin to
swarm. Ah, a human body emits carbon dioxide and these insects are
attracted by it. Got to move out of here quick.
I
stand up and get my packet of coffee, opened it and pour the contents
into the lukewarm water and stir it a hundred times until it is
dissolved. I enjoy my funny-looking coffee to the tune of Tubular
Bells and walk in circles with mosquitoes trailing me. Lunch is
out of the question and I get a glimpse of survival by continuing on
with my hike without lunch. Very good stove!
I
may have to forego of the meal and my body could afford that. No big
deal. I am used to it. It’s just a temporary inconvenience and I
could not help it but reward myself in new “discoveries” when my
body adjust to the situation. When I see a crossroad of four trails,
I am tempted to explore the western route. Not today. I am not
prepared. Maybe August.
I
pass by a natural spring and water trickle slow. This will be the
source of drinking water during the PIBC. It is cleaned of debris
and a wooden trough channel water above the ground. I do not need
the water as I still have a half full in my Nalgene. I am not
in a hurry. The amount of sweat are less and rehydration is not that
crucial.
I
cross a stream and up into a very steep path. This time I am
sweating but I don’t think I need water. I could have that luxury
later in the day. I climb and I reach a level ground and pause to
catch my breath. I just love the silence. I passed and counted
three hornet’s nests. I have plans to get their honey just like
the Aetas did during my recent visit to their village in Bataan for a
week.
I
reach a rise and I could hear motorcycles passing. I am now closing
in to a road. As I reach it, I pause again to inhale deep. I only
need to cross this road and all my exertions would come to a slow
gear. Across me is a meandering downhill trail to Lanipao. No need
to touch my bottle. Maybe later. The battle now is easy.
As
I touch my foot on the concrete parking area of the Lanipao Springs
Rainforest Resort, I retrieve my bottle and say “Hi” to the
owner. Two small swallows are all I need. After that, I make a
brief conversation with the owner. I need to reserve a cottage for
my party on June 12 and, that done, I resume to a store down the
road. I also need to reserve cold refreshments.
After
reaching Napo from Lanipao, I swig on my last ounces of water and
ride a motorcycle-for-hire back to Guadalupe. I get on my own
motorcycle and proceed to EZ Mart to meet Ernie Salomon. I need him
to fix my stove and to have a small chat with cold bottles of beer to
cheer up the conversations. I have done my mission and Camp Damazo
is ready for PIBC MMXIII.
Document
done LibreOffice 3.3 Writer
