BUSHCRAFT BUHISAN XXXVI: A Happy Free Spirit of the Woodlands

I AM SUPPOSED TO be in Bohol today, October 18, 2015, but a strong typhoon battered the north of the country and the Coast Guard has released a stern advisory on sea travel. My wife thought it not wise to proceed on and so she had all our tickets refunded against my wishes. That would also confine me to an inactivity on a Sunday which I find so alien now in my system.

I always go out to the backcountry every Sunday be it in the best or under inclement weather or be it with companions or alone. Every Sunday is allotted for a walk with nature and I have good reasons for that to the dismay of the wife, who understood and allowed me despite her protestations. If she would have not, the bed would have claimed me as an everyday companion and I would be a medical case.

The moment that I learned of the shelved trip, I absently assemble all the things inside my Lifeguard USA rucksack. Included are two small pots and one-fourth of a kilo of milled corn, small plastic bottles of cooking oil and salt, an AJF folding trivet and a plastic chopping board. I will go to Buhisan alone to look for a good place to train ladies for the audition of “Expedition Philippines” and to look for things to help in their training.

Yeah, I am carrying a heavy load for such a trifle activity. Even my wife noticed that. She reminded me about my load which is unusual for just a day hike. It is already late and I do not have time to disassemble the contents of the bag. I would have to carry this load instead as a training load in preparation for Segment IV of the Cebu Highlands Trail Project which is just four days away.

By the way, Segment IV is an exploration hike that starts from Mount Manunggal, Balamban and ends at Caurasan, Carmen. It will be on the dates of October 22 to 25, 2015. It is more than fifty kilometers long but the very rugged terrain, the total lack of knowledge of its trails, absence of information and guide and the inherent risks to personal safety make this my most challenging journey for the Cebu Highlands Trail Project.

I will be alone today and I commute to Guadalupe. I will forego about the cooking and proceed instead to the business of survival hiking fare: bread and water. I fill my water bottle full and stash just two pieces of bread. My mind is still unclear. Yes, I will go to Buhisan but which route? I settled for the longest. Okay, even if it is already very late – 08:45 – the cool weather is stacked in favor of me. I will pass Heartbreak Ridge.

I climb the flight of stone stairs to the ridge and stop by the last store to buy a single sachet of 3-in-1 coffee. I get my AJF Gahum knife from the bag and hang it from my 5.11 belt while stripping the Canon IXUS camera off of its pouch and slide it inside the right pocket of my khaki Blackhawk pants. The long pants is heavy but I am unfazed. In fact, it gives me confidence to prowl the bushes.

For the fifth time, I am using my new Merrell Geomorph shoes. This would be the final break-in test before bringing it to the Segment IV hike. I will not be in a hurry today. The ground is wet and limestones are slippery. I am still very careful even with good shoes. I may trust my equipment but I always respect nature first. You cannot be too sure. Never underestimate a wet trail.

I pass by the steel tower and go on the tunnel vent and beyond without stopping. I am sweating even if the skies are cloudy and the winds blow constantly at 18 kilometers per hour. This is the good thing when you hike in the Visayas in the worst weather affecting the north. But when we get one bad typhoon, expect our brothers in Luzon to enjoy favorable weather too. Tit for tat.

One of the things why I am out of the comforts that my home would have provided me on a Sunday is that I also want to field test a portable iCOM VHF radio with an extendable Skyprobe antenna. Communications is an important part in explorations and the radio equipment would be very vital in my day-to-day progress, as well as receiving weather updates. I stop for a while to communicate with my Base Support Team – the Eagle Base – using the station frequency of Ham Radio Cebu.

Some of the weeds are in bloom and I captured this in camera. There is so much to learn in local vegetation. I may know some but 99-percent of these remain incognito. My thirst for more knowledge about plants is an ongoing process. Because I do not walk on mountains just to benefit my health and my self-confidence, I stop often to enjoy nature's beauty at closer range possible and I appreciate it when these are in good health.

I am very fortunate to walk on a trail where nobody knows except locals. I am also very fortunate to pursue on a journey without companions for human noise drown out natural sounds. Few people would engage on lone hikes and these few people have found harmony in themselves and with nature. I prefer being alone not because I want to but because I owe my existence to my close links with the natural world.

One of the privileges why walking alone is beneficial for me is I could act like a fool without causing anyone to worry or laugh at me. It seems crazy but I have some good reasons like testing my new Merrells. A wet trail is a hazard in itself if taken downhill and this is terrain where shoe reputations are made or unmade. Well-worn limestones too. I deliberately step on one and my shoe lose traction and I fall on the side of the trail.

Been expecting that slip. I shrug off the leaves that stuck to my clothes and went on my way. Picked up dried wiry vines that had already been neatly rolled by a farmer and tuck it securely on the side of my bag. My tummy is acting strangely and immediately my eyes scanned a big-leafed shrub and an animal trail. You know how it goes when no one is with you. Come on, use your imagination. I picked up a warped old 45 polyvinyl disc and keep it in my bag after I have finished my nature call.

I met a local with a heavy sack over his head and I gave the privilege of the trail to him. Despite gaining little in his progress by the heavy weight, the man took time to ask me why I am alone today? I answered him honestly and he went on his way grinning. I saw a woman splitting firewood with a bolo from a distance and she smiled when I gave her morning greetings. I talked to another local with a sack of coconuts over his head and asking me the same question. He gave his name as Ronald.

I reach the place called the Portal at 10:45 and I savor my first sips of my water. Meanwhile, my mind is working which of the seven routes would I take. I chose one that goes deep into jungle which leads to a stream. The trail is beginning to vanish as the vegetation claimed the bare grounds. Some parts have been washed away by water making my walk quite dangerous. The Merrells never failed me here but my sense of balance begins to irritate me.

It could be caused by different factors: 1) Lack of breakfast, 2) overweight or a 3) shifting backpack. I considered all three but I suspect the bag. It is overloaded by useless weights and the insides shift when I move. The bag is of old-school design and does not have a waist belt to hold the bag still. I use my hands when I need to as I weave along a tiny ribbon of ground which sometimes went missing for a time.

The last time I passed by here was in December 2014. That time I was leading people into the streams but the path that provided me through there had been missing or that the vegetation had really gobbled it up for good. I am now in a quandary if the other trail that would lead to Starbucks Hill would not be found also. I changed plans and take another trail but it led me to a familiar hill and to a community which I want to sidestep at.

I am back to square one and I start from there to Creek Alpha instead. A great transformation from the original plan. Reaching the community took a lot of my energy which no bread could compensate. I can now feel the burning hunger. I can never discipline a brain that automatically sends signal from the stomach. Well, it can wait for I intend to go slow to keep the mind from dictating its wishes on me.

I reach Creek Alpha at my own pace at 12:25 and I would go downstream to where a trail would lead me to another stream. The water is clear and briskly running in the fulness of its existence in a rainy season. Ahead are footprints of children and adult alike, distinguishable by bare and sandaled feet on sand. My senses peaked up a notch upon learning of people ahead of me. The sensation of hunger is now totally gone.

Meanwhile, my close observations on plants have led me to an exposed rootcrop of an Asiatic bitter yam (Local name: kobong) and I plucked a piece intending to propagate it on my backyard. The thorny vines make a good obstacle for burglars and strays. As I proceed on, I saw a small stream that connects to the bigger Creek Alpha. It looks good even if going above it takes a little climbing. I found a small pool and, above it, more climbing.

I go back to the main stream and found the trail. I reach Creek Bravo at 13:20 and take a short rest. I see the groves of water bamboos (botong) above me are recovering from its desecration of two years ago and, I believe, a single pole is ripe for the taking for another bushcraft camp should I host it back here. I take another trail bound for Camp Damazo taking dry twigs for firewood along the way. I may have to boil water at the campsite to dump the contents of my only sachet of coffee into it.

I reach the camp at 14:20 and begin a fire between a trio of stones. Camp Damazo is still the best place to do these trainings for the ladies, even of the auditions itself, because it has a clean source of water nearby. Likewise, it could now host another episode of the Philippine Independence Bushcraft Camp since the vegetation had already stabilized. It could host more people this time since there is a wide level ground a few meters away from camp.

After I had my coffee, I continue my hike at 15:20. The natural spring which had provided the camp with reliable water had become a small stream. Strong rains had caused the enlargement of the hole and washed away the bamboo trough that I had placed there in 2013. Its source came from another stream some 300 meters away, which I called Creek Charlie, whose water passes through permeable rock, sand and clay.

I push on and cross two more small streams, the upper parts of Alpha and Bravo, and climb up a steep trail that passes by healthy stands of stinging trees (alingatong) beside a stream. I reach Baksan Road and cross it to view a firewood gatherer’s version of a Nessmuk triumvirate. It is a heavy US-made axehead with a thick GI pipe for a haft; a local blade – 20 inches long – whose handle is bound by strips of rubber; and a stainless kitchen knife whose blade had metamorphosed into a mere sliver due to constant sharpening.

I take an easy stroll down to Lanipao enjoying the full bloom of the plants until I reach it at 16:50 and down some more to Napo which I found at 17:30. I got a motorcycle ride back to Guadalupe and changed to dry clothes while at the parking area of the Catholic church. I spend the rest of my day for a couple of cold San Miguel Beer bottles at a watering hole frequented by expats. Cheers! Mission accomplished.

Document done in LibreOffice 3.4 Writer

A JOURNEY OF THE SOUL

IT IS 16:50 OF APRIL 17, 2014 – a Holy Thursday – when I start my solo walk to Mount Manunggal.  The van dropped me at the Transcentral Highway which I rode at the Citilink more than an hour ago.  I go on a half-day of work for this occasion so I could engage on my personal sojourn of righting my soul before my Maker and this year’s Lent is the most profound time for this.

Mt. Manunggal will just be a place where I will spend the first night and the jumpoff point where this penitence hike will start.  From there, I would walk on trails and some roads, cross rivers and valleys, climb mountains and saddles, and rest wherever my feet would take me.  I would follow the route I blazed with five others more than a year ago ending at Guadalupe on the third night.  Maybe.

That time we were many and I was fully provisioned.  This time, I am alone.  I would be fasting during daytime and will try to overcome the obstacles with less.  I would eat my food during darkness, cooked in primitive fashion without the convenience of a modern gadget like a stove.  I have to ration my two liters of water from two bottles for drinking and cooking only and the pots would be cleaned when there would be spare water.

As I walk on the dirt road to my first campsite of the first night, I silently utter a prayer for blessings, strength, protection and guidance for this journey of the soul.  Hanging by my side openly is my Chipaway Cutlery Bowie knife.  The shadows are getting long and soon it would be darkness.  There is a slight drizzle and it is cold.  I pick up a green bamboo pole and carry it with either hands.  It is 18:20 when I reach the place called the “parking area”. 

There is an unused structure undergoing a painting job.  While it is closed, its frontage is sheltered and a better alternative than camping near the Magsaysay Monument under the grip of gusty winds and a slight shower.  Here, I could sleep off the ground using the scaffolding and platforms made by workers as my cot and there are scraps of partly-moist coconut lumber that I could use as firewood.  Comfort with less can be achieved by using your common sense instead of being hooked closely with gears and then feeling sentimental about it. 

While I am occupied with my things, I feel something eerie as the hair on my back stood on its edge.  I look behind and I see a big black dog standing a few meters away from me.  I do not like surprises at this hour.  I imitate the menacing growl of an angry dog and the creature walked away.  I cannot explain how it suddenly appeared without being noticed by my five senses.  It took a “sixth sense” to do that for me.  How strange?

I make a tripod of sticks and forage firewood, splitting this with my tomahawk.  When, after a considerable bout of blowing a flame to life on moist wood, I cook milled corn in a pot suspended from the tripod.  Leaving that I prepare the viand.  I fry garlic and onions in oil and add a few wood mushrooms (Local name: kwakdok).  I pour half of my supply of mixed vegetables into the pot and stir it.  I pour water and let it boil then I just add salt.

I begin my simple dinner after a prayer.  I just eat half of the one-fourth kilo of the milled corn I cooked tonight.  I set aside the rest for breakfast tomorrow.  The sliced vegetables are crunchy and I liked that.  The soup gives warmth inside me.  It is raining lightly and it is very dark save for the glow of my LED torch.  Soon I will rest on the bed I made but, first, I will pray the five decades of the rosary. 

I split more wood after the prayers so I could use it for tomorrow’s breakfast and feed some to the fire for the rest of the night.  Fog enveloped me and it is cold.  I retreat to my bed.  I tossed and turned trying to chase sleep.  I hear a lot of strange noises.  There are, I believe, a lot of lost souls here on Mt. Manunggal.  For the rest of the night, I am on a “conscious sleep” until a man on a motorcycle pass by at 05:20 of the next day.

I hurriedly rekindle the flame of last night with so much difficulty until I get a flickering finger.  I boil water for coffee and then fry strips of eggplant smeared with egg.  I am not able to cook three-fourths of the sliced eggplant as the flame died on its own despite a considerable amount of time blowing it alive.  I leave it be, eat my light breakfast, break camp and leave at 06:50 for Inalad.  It is now Good Friday (April 18).

I pass by the Magsaysay Monument where the park caretaker, Leopoldo Bonghanoy, and his family lived.  I proceed immediately to a trail after acquiring water but I was warned that vegetation had claimed the path.  The heavy clouds of last night begins to evaporate and a promise of warmth begins to trickle in as my hike shoes pursues to negotiate some of the trickiest stretch of the trail going down to the valley of the Bangbang River.

The Bonghanoys have used part of this land where I traversed as a farm and pasture but, beyond it, thick vegetation obscures the trail.  It passes by woodlands, grass and brush and steep soft ground.  Nobody had used this route for a long time.  I should know because the feast commemorating the death anniversary of the late President Ramon Magsaysay was held just last month and there are no traces of footprints where there are supposed to be.

I forage Indian rhododendron leaves (Local: yagumyum) for cleaning the pots to save my supply of water and cut a forked branch from a Mexican lilac tree (Local: kakawate) as my staff.  The stick is most welcome, aiding my balance and getting the load off my ancient knees.  While I pass by thick grass, something big moved underneath and I jumped off the trail.  It is a rather large python and it got me excited!  I move away as fast as I could.  No hero stuff.  No pictures this time.

Winded, I continue on but my senses now are on a high notch and so is my pace.  The staff becomes a liability when the trail narrowed and it saps my strength carrying it.  It is seven feet long, the forked end snag on vegetation.  It can play its part though as my “cross”.  I step on a wet limestone and I fall on my butt.  Got to be careful next time.  Then I walk on another steep but soft ground and the stick becomes relevant again.

I cross several brooks until I reach the edge of a mountain settlement.  When you are among people again, paths crisscross each other and it temporarily disorient you for a while like I do until I get to follow the ones I remembered.  There are no more clouds and it is very warm.  The coolness of the higher elevation on an early morning was temporary and now this is reality.

When my right foot got buried in soft mud while crossing a brook, I used a lot of strength to get it off.  When I pulled it out, I staggered exhausted.  I rest for a while sitting on a rock contemplating if this personal mission is really worth it.  I am tempted to drink a good amount of water but I stop myself of that idea.  I soak my military-type meshed shawl with water from the brook and wipe my face with it.  Wow, the water is cool!

The blue house, now long abandoned, is a landmark and that is where I am going.  I will not be going downhill but up.  With enough courage, I push myself up on my feet knowing that I am now engaging in a very difficult battle against my mind.  I should be able to reach Inalad before 12:00 else a delay would mean that I am not up to the challenge.

This is so different than the last time.  My pace is a drag instead of a steady gait.  My bag weighs like lead as I approach the upward trail.  Is it pride that pushes me on?  Bravado?  Pride may have something to do with it especially when you announce this journey in public on Facebook.  But when you are a man you stand by what you said.  I am committed to finish this, unless a voice upstairs says otherwise.  So commitment is the right word.

I finally reach the blue house.  Why the owners abandon this big structure is beyond me?  Anyway, I could rest for a while here.  It is now 09:20 and I need to recoup my energy.  I feel a burning hunger inside me.  I cannot spare anything to chew on but I have coffee.  Immediately I make fire using dry pieces of bamboo and crushed dry palm leaves so I could boil water in my stainless steel cup the hard way.

After I had taken coffee, my confidence returned.  I stash pieces of the dried bamboo and dried leaves in a plastic bag so I could use this as fire kindling later tonight.  It had been raining days before, which is quite rare during this season, and I am not sure if I could find dry wood just like last night’s.  I drink a good amount of water too because at Inalad, I could have more of this.

I go down the steep trail following it into a valley.  The Bangbang River curl and cut across the land and it gives life to the farms.  By now, there are houses and one of these sells bread.  I buy one piece of bread and nibble it slowly while washing each swallow with water.  It is a hot day and sitting under a scant shade is already very welcome for me.  Before I go, I buy one more piece intending to consume it at Inalad.   

I cross Bangbang River on bare feet.  The staff had served its purpose well and I planted it on the river bank.  From hereon, it will all be uphill walk.  The sun will be at my back.  That piece of bread I had eaten some minutes ago will be my only hope.  I cross a small stream and pass by farms.  Shades are now few.  I closed my mind from the heat and the monotony of breathing takes over my attention.   

Slowly, in my laboured steps up a trail, I gain elevation and diminish the distance between me and Inalad.  At 11:50, I reach the saddle of Inalad.  This is the boundary between Cebu City, Toledo City and Balamban.  The Transcentral Highway pass by here and it is also a farmer’s market.  A lot of stores are open for business.  Cold soda drinks and hot food are available but I want none of it even though my body craved for it. 

I sit down on a cool place and close my eyes.  People ask me many questions.  I honestly answer all.  When I am alone, I close my eyes again.  I make the sign of the cross and pray.  Three hours from now, Jesus will be crucified.  Before He will leave this world, I confess all my sins to Him like the thief at Calvary who asked of forgiveness.  I am a great sinner myself and I spill tears while I am in the middle of my prayer.

I feel His presence and I tremble in awe.  I have discerned that this is the highlight of this personal quest and I am “released” of whatever troubles I may want to seek for myself on this journey.  After I had said the prayer and opened my eyes, I prepare myself for the rest of this day’s trek by securing water for my empty bottles. 

I see a coffee-vending machine across the street and I put a coin into the slot and take the filled cup.  I will need coffee to pair to the bread I bought at Bangbang River hours ago.  After that coffee break, I close my eyes and take rest for a half hour.  By 13:00, I cross the Transcentral Highway into a part of Toledo City. 

I follow a dirt road under the heat of the sun.  The shawl partly cover my face but I remove it everytime I meet people to give a smile, to nod or say a greeting.  I am going to the village of Tongkay.  This place is nestled in another valley with a river running across it.  There are some houses along the road and foot travel is sparse at this time of day.

It is 13:35 when I reach the village and I sit on the shade of a small store listening to a radio program about the Seven Last Words of Christ.  I am all ears to a long oratory describing the part where Jesus was heard to have said “I am thirsty”.  After 20 minutes, I walk to a public school where there is a ford at the back.  I cross the river stepping among stones and climb up a long ridge.  The trail is in good condition, very shady on some long stretches.

But I am already very tired.  The steep slope add to my misery.  I can feel a tell-tale sign of a heartburn and that is a bad omen.  I take it easy, careful not to push myself hard.  I will rest and pitch my shelter once I will reach my campsite.  I found it at exactly 15:00 after a long uphill struggle.  I relish at the idea of finding this place during Segment 1B of the Cebu Highlands Trail Project in October 2012. 

It is the only level ground around here that could accommodate more than five tents.  It is shady with lots of dry wood.  I opt to pitch my shelter at the place where I place it the last time I was here but, first, I will have to make a tripod, forage dry firewood, make fire and drink coffee.  Ah, coffee always tastes good when you are thirsty, cold or tired, even on a very warm sunny day!    

When my fire and coffee are now secured, I make my bedding.  I place leaves on the ground as a cushion.  Then I look for a straight pole and place it on the whole length of my planned shelter.  You know why I do this?  I will make it sure that I will not roll over.  I will also make sure that my body will be confined to just one place and save my body heat in the process.  Then I place a used advertisement tarpaulin over it as my shelter footprint.

I tie one end of a flat rope to a tree while tying the other end to two trees in a Y-fashion.  This becomes the ridge for my Apexus taffeta sheet in which the corners are secured by notched wooden stakes that I carved with my William Rodgers bushcraft knife.  When that is done, I make a seat made of cut poles across the fire and burying stakes so it would not roll forward and backwards.  

I cook a small amount of milled corn then next is the viand, which is similar in preparation as that of last night.  I have a lot of daylight hours to do all these things and I feel relaxed doing all.  I listen and watch many birds.  There is an abundance of bird life here.  One wild hen even made its presence felt by calling for a mate which two roosters answered from afar. 

I waited for dusk before I start my simple dinner.  After the meal, I wipe the rhododendron leaves on the insides of the pots to remove grease.  I prepare more firewood to keep the flame burning and ward off mosquitoes, ants and other insects.  I retrieve the rosary and pray the five decades aloud.  I watch the valley below even as I prayed and the folks there are having some sort of a religious activity.

I check my watch when I lay down on my bed.  It is 18:30 and too early to sleep.  The place is warm.  Credit that to the thermals that rise from the valley floor during evening.  I did not know that I slept well until I am awakened by gusts of wind at 23:30.  Well, that is good.  I switch on my light and I see a spider under the shelter some inches away from my face.  I remove it with a quick flick of my hand.

I listen to the night sounds but I feel nothing unusual here.  Not even mosquitoes.  I go back to another “conscious sleep” for the rest of the night.  When light begins to catch on the dawn sky, I rose from bed to answer the call of nature.  Today is Black Saturday (April 19).  It had not rained last night despite the presence of storm clouds from the southwest yesterday.

The call of a palm civet pierce the early morning silence.  The cat is just a hundred meters above my location.  It is very vulnerable at this hour since it had spent its waking hours during nighttime foraging food but I am not on a hunt today.  Probably, it had been attracted to the scent of my last nights’ cooking and of the leaves I wiped in my pottery with.

I begin again the process of making a fire and of preparing my breakfast.  When the flame flickered and danced, I boil water for coffee first.  Next I cook milled corn and, later, fry strips of eggplant in oil.  The same routines, very simple, practical and nourishing.  When I have finished breakfast, I break camp.

I leave the tripod standing.  It is my gift for any local who might visit this place.  Not the contraption, but the idea.  This system is way much better than the trio of stones that we are used to doing when we cook our food.  I let the leaves be on the ground, for soon, these will decompose.  I put out the fire thoroughly before I leave at 07:00 for higher ground.

I pray and ask again His guidance of whether He would want me to continue on my journey to Guadalupe or not?  It needs to be felt and discerned not by sitting but by doing the hike later.  If I think that it is pointless going on, I will cut the journey.  If the body is still willing, then I will push on.  It depends.   

I follow the path but I was misled by another one going up a farm.  I step on the rows of soft burrowed earth using it as steps but the effort is very strenuous.  I changed strategy and assault the steep slope in a zigzag pattern until I am at the high saddle of the mountain.  Oh God, when will this end?  I gulp mouthfuls of air into my lungs as I lean down forward and drink my last drops of water.

Across me is the peak of Mt. Tongkay.  I follow the back of the ridge and climb the peak and go down on the other side into another long ridge going to Mount Etwi.  Below this second peak is a spring where I could refill my now-empty bottles.  I drink like a dog and soak my shawl and press it above my head.  Driblets of water run down my face and it is so cool.

Soon, I will be at Maraag.  I follow the path and meet people and creature.  The long ridge of Cantipla covered the sun at this time while I am walking.  My steps are unsure, my knees wobbly, my gaze unsteady.  Just when I reach the last rise, something switched off.  I pause to gather my strength.  This is not good but there is a road ahead.  And a store that sells cold drinks.

I opt to buy a sachet of powdered orange juice and let it shake in my full Nalgene.  One bread is enough for me.  The juice quickly work on my thirst where water failed but it will just be temporary.  It could not provide a solution to a deprived body should I choose to cross the much wider Bonbon River valley and then climb up the Babag Mountain Range into Guadalupe.  It simply is not realistic on this very warm morning as I calculate all the risks and possibilities.

The road north leads to the Transcentral Highway and I may have to follow it.  It is far but I had already accomplished my purpose and this is a graceful exit.  A ride down to Cebu City is all I need.   I arrive at JY Square at 10:30 and a woman asks me five pesos so she could go home to Mindanao.  I am puzzled but, nevertheless, I gave her the equal amount in loose change. 

I got His message.  The coins’ weight were of the same weight that my spirit – a weightless matter – had been carrying all these years and I had just relinquished it happily away.  Alleluia!

Document done in LibreOffice 3.3 Writer

MALAGARING TRAIL

I HAD BEEN MULLING for quite a while to walk alone the trail to that range of mountains where Osmeña Peak belong. Although I have been doing some solo walks to the peak in the past by way of Dalaguete, but I never have done so from Badian. I almost got there solo last August but two people got wind of my plan and scuttled it. However, today, November 17, 2013, that wish would come true.

Basak, a village in Badian, is an exit point whenever people visit Osmeña Peak (1,015 meters above sea level) from Mantalongon. In going down to Basak, people take the Malagaring Trail. This trail is torture to the knees and the shoes. It is rocky. Some sharp, some sloping and very slippery when wet. Although quite formidable, it is really a beautiful trail offering a breathtaking panorama of the narrow valley, of the coastline and of Badian Island.

I know this route very well but it is strangely unfamiliar when you do a reverse. Only fools would walk it from Basak. I am one of these then for insisting to do this for a second time and, for this occasion, under the unyielding torment of the sun. Why start from Basak when you could cruise easily from Mantalongon? The answer to that, my dear Pedro, are 780 meters worth of elevation gain. If you insist to be called a mountain climber, this is significant in your physical preparations.

I am a bushcrafter but, in the course of my outdoor activities, I climb mountains. Not because it is there but because it is just an obstacle to my route. My walk is the complete opposite of conventional backpackers’ route and my terminus would be at Mantalongon. I may not be the first one to do this alone but I may be the first one to blog this worthy activity and convert it into a trend. It should be documented and shared to all and, hopefully, would bring satisfaction to those who will try.

When I left the terminal bound for Badian at 7:00 AM, this quest is already half done. Even without breakfast, much less a cup of coffee. You know, I harbor grief and pain about the succeeding disasters that have struck our nation and I have gone to the very places where earthquake and storm came to give comfort to the affected. This walk is my way of releasing this melancholic stress; my own defense mechanism. This walk is dedicated to the survivors amongst us.

I am a survivor myself and the chance of being outdoors alone will solidify my existence and my link with Mother Earth. The bus arrive at 10:00 AM and, instantly, I procure the ingredients for my noontime meal at Badian market which I intend to cook along the route. More weight were added to my backpack but it is an essential weight. Before I leave town, I eat a piece of bread. This is my breakfast and I am experimenting how one bread, if bloated with water, would carry me through this journey.

I start my walk at about 10:30 AM after stretching my muscles at the very foot of the flight of stairs going to the Basak Elementary School. I am well-stocked with water this time – 2 liters or 2 kilos – and I am not known to use water excessively just to quench thirst. I know this would be a hot day since I start late but I have no misgivings. This walk is all about me and for the survivors of the recent disasters.

Once I am out of the settlements, I stop underneath a mango tree and retrieved my Puffin Magnum knife and sheath from the bag. I place it beside me hanging from my operator belt. I now carry my knife openly when I am outdoors and it is for a lot of reasons. Long ago, my old club used to discourage us about bringing a knife when climbing mountains yet I always had a small one stashed inside my backpack. I now defy that logic and today I spawned a breed of bladekeepers known as the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild.

I carried another blade – a very rare William Rodgers. It is also sheathed and the wooden handle is prominently jutting out from a hole where bag and shoulder strap meet for easy retrieval. A classic Buck 112 folding knife is safely tucked inside my beltline while another classic folder – a Case XX – is inside one pocket. Last, but not the least, is a Victorinox SAK Trailmaster placed inside the zipped pocket of the 40-liter Sandugo Khumbu bag.

I carried a lot, didn’t I? I can afford to carry that weight and these, too, are essential weights. All are given by my benefactors, except for the Buck and the Case which I got from trades. They are all handsome tools and it takes a special kind of person to understand blades and handle it correctly. You should know your knife rights too and, conversely, know the laws that govern the carrying of knives which I teach everytime I convene a bushcraft camp.

The limestone formation gave the Malagaring Trail a character all of its own. The narrow valley floors are tamed by man but the edges are teeming with wild vegetation eager to reclaim what was theirs. Many deep valleys are choked with hardwood trees and bamboos. Although the day is very hot as it is near noon, the shades afforded by trees are very welcome. I follow a beaten trail and onto the heels of two locals with big but empty baskets carried on a trumpline from their foreheads.

I come upon a narrow pass where the two locals rested and they, with due courtesy reserved for visitors, immediately leave and give me space when I take my turn to rest. The view below is just too enchanting; the azure sea of Tañon Strait so inviting. I am thirsty from the initial exertions so I take a sip and let water stay long in my mouth before swallowing.

My camera is busy taking all what I perceive as very significant like landmarks, hardwood trees, rare plants, etc. It is placed inside one of my pant’s pocket for quick retrieval. My dark blue Rohan hiking pants are a sturdy pair, quick drying, with thick fabric but very light. This pair had not failed me in all my outdoor activities. I also wear my old Rivers 3514M hike boots since there are not too many long descents but I am too careful with foot placements since soles are not that thick anymore.

I just follow the trail, guided by memory, onto enchanting places. I say enchanting because I am alone and my thoughts are not disturbed by a company of chatting people and that kept me away of worries by their presence. I am excited to see many bamboos in places where there are no human activity and I entertain the idea at sitting out the rest of the day cutting one pole and prepare my food on bamboo but it is still a long way so I disregard that.

I push on my ascent skirting farms onto long ridges wishing when this would end. Within the forest, I saw the stinging tree (Local name: alingatong). It had not been cut by people even if it is beside the route although its neighbors are slowly felled dramatically widening the trail. I first saw this tree during my first visit in August 1992 coming from an overnight at Osmeña Peak with my old club. It is like seeing an old friend again.

In my relaxed pace I reach the village of Patong at 1:00 PM. I boil water for coffee first before starting to prepare my meal. I cook the milled corn then the viand. It is a concoction of mushroom and mixed vegetables, fried first before turning it into a soup. No MSG. As I am in the middle of this, two locals join me and befriended me. I am offered a glass of fermented coconut wine which I accepted. The single glass became a repetition and my tongue is loosened.

I told them the tale of my experiences shuttling relief goods to Bohol during the aftermath of the 7.2 earthquake and to Northern Cebu days after Super Typhoon Yolanda left. They were greatly affected upon hearing of the plight of their fellow Cebuanos and would have helped if they would have the resources. Although they had not suffered much but they had felt the unusual aftershocks. I shared my meal to them before I left at 2:30 PM.

I pick my way among farms of cabbage, spring onion and vegetable pear which are hacked from rocky terrain. The soil is good with fine climate associated with high elevations. It is now colder but I have just taken a meal even as I am not wearing layers of clothe. As I near the ridge, I meet people going the opposite way. They came from the market in Mantalongon and they are carrying goods which they could not produce from their own farms.

The ridge bless me a view of the high valley of Mantalongon which is Cebu’s former breadbasket. In the old days, all the vegetables that the markets of Carbon and Taboan in Cebu City used to come from here until other places, much nearer to the city, produce their own. I slowly follow the route to the market and I pass by indigenous hardwood species, still untouched and in its blooming splendor like the yakal (English: golden mahogany), the bagras (English: Mindanao gum) and the bagawak (English: starburst).

The afternoon shadows begin to creep but I am on the way to the market which I reach at exactly 5:00 PM. Mantalongon is known for its men who carry their blades openly in public.  I keep mine and walked proudly with it. I get a lot of stares for I am different. Not because I am a stranger but because they are not used to seeing city people with backpacks carrying knives openly. I dare to be different and they better get used to it.

I stay for a while to return my Puffin Magnum and sheath and belt back to my backpack while the William Rodgers stay as its place. It is placed so for quick retrieval should I need it pronto. When I think that I have not sweated much, I replace my shirt with a dry one. I eat one bread from a mobile stall before hiring a motorcycle to take me down the main highway.

The road is good and wide but up ahead are recent landslides caused by the earthquake of October 15, 2013. Rocks of all sizes and dirt would have been all over the road but it was recently cleared. The motorcycle run with a dead engine as it negotiate the descent at moderate speed. When I landed at the highway, a Rough Riders bus came half empty and I can rest now - - - easy.

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BUSHCRAFT BUHISAN XXI: Solo Reconnaisance

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.

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