MOUNT BOKATOL

I ALWAYS BELIEVED THAT WHEN you show goodwill among our brethren living on the mountains, trails and paths which lay unknown to you for years, would be given to you on a silver platter. You will be surprised because you will not be doing the asking. In fact, the asking will be from them. From them.

You might wonder why I have so much complete mastery and knowledge among our mountain trails here in Cebu? It is this line of thought that I follow. With all sincerity, of course. Since we transferred our May and December outreach events, respectively called Who Put the “N” in Nature and Christmas United, to Baksan in 2015, each year we get to explore a new route.

This year, which actually falls on the last days of 2016 – December 30 – I will be again following the wake of a local guide. Coming along is the full force of the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild. We would not be doing dirt-time this time but just a hike in the woods, an exercise to purge off party fats incurred during the Christmas season.

For me, it is an ongoing preparation for my Thruhike of Cebu which would commence in a fortnight or so. The opportunity of following the guide gives me the luxury of knowing the information about water sources, interesting plants and people, place names and the lore associated with the places we passed by. The same information that I would be doing for myself from no other than me starting January 17.

Right now, I am balancing on a series of boulders along Sapangdaku Creek as ably as my aging knees could accommodate as I try to keep up with the pace of the guide. The guide brought us upstream. People are washing clothes along the stream, some taking a bath. It is so interesting to see rural life this close in a city as big and modern like Metro Manila.

From the streambed we follow retaining walls wide enough to be used as a path by locals and reach the Sapangdaku Spillway. People are washing their motorcycles here and a petroleum tanker crew washed the insides of the big tank, the sludge and hydrocarbon effluents mixing in with the flowing stream towards where people are washing and bathing.

Nobody from the government have thought of watching the streams. Of even placing a simple environmental signage to create awareness among the populace. Cleaning a vehicle, much less, a petroleum tanker is a health hazard to the poor folks who still use the stream for washing and bathing. I have even seen an open well downstream which the folks still used for domestic use.

From the spillway, another problem emerged upstream. Asphalt slabs from a repaved road nearby were dumped along the riverside, constricting the channel and the flow of water. That is dangerous! It would create another water channel when a strong current of flood water cascades down from the mountains and there are a lot of houses infringing on the easements.

It opened my eyes to these problems here. Nobody was thinking. Not even the safety engineers of the construction gang nor the operators of the petroleum tanker nor the barangay officials who are supposed to look over these things. I pity at the standards of our safety education. People should be informed of these lapses in judgment and procedures, committing to that lazy Filipino trait of looking at and doing things as in “Pwede Na”. Good enough. Good gracious!

The broken asphalt pavements became another dry path to navigate the stream and we stop for a while on a local artisan whom I know simply as Paket. Paket is a wood carver and a furniture maker. His carved work, especially blade handles and sheaths are masterpieces which is appreciated in our small bushcraft community. We exposed his craft in Facebook and survivalists in Luzon begins to appreciate his work too and so have given him an extra earning.

Continuing our river walk, we pass by under a bamboo bridge that I had not thought existed. It is private property and we push on until we came upon a part where there is a tiny stream joining the Sapangdaku. The place is called Amia. There is a trail and the guide start to follow it. It is a good trail and only the locals knew of its existence until today. I saw some familiar signs that it had been used before by the “other people”.

We are quite privileged to have been led to this place and we will keep it a secret, hoping it would have a strategic importance to me if ever our country will be invaded by a foreign power. Of course, I have countless other locations, too numerous to mention, which I could convert into redoubts and can be connected with each other by a flexible line of communication. My trysts into the mountains is not just about recreation, it is also planning for the future.

I do not trust a big bully across the sea who keeps on gobbling up islets and rocks and reefs as theirs even though it is within our exclusive economic zone. Then we have a national leadership who seem to acquiesce to these dastardly activities by undoing the efforts of the previous administration before the International Tribunal of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea which favored our claim.

I intend to use these places when SHTF comes and I intend to resist invasions from there. I do not see a soul. Not yet. Maybe during the season of ripe mangoes and star apples. Moving up the trail, I see an abandoned camp. It belonged to mango sprayers. Mangoes in Cebu are sprayed regularly with chemicals to induce it to flower and bear fruit beyond the natural cycle of only once a year. They do it thrice and thrice the gain. Greed!

Over the years bottles and plastic packaging of chemicals are littered everywhere together with discarded rubber hose and empty plastic drums. A cheap laminated nylon sheet houses a crude shelter while another sheet is converted into a water reservoir filled with water from a small stream that is tapped through a PVC hose. I am tempted to burn the whole place but I would not compromise my guide’s goodwill. And I intend to go back.

I checked my temper but I took pictures. A lot of people surely would not like what I saw if ever I post this in a social network site. Maybe an environmental watchdog or NGO would notify concerned government agencies when they see these photos. Maybe not. But in Facebook, attention comes in short notice by the act of fingers doing the talking. Almost everybody has an Android phone and the dance of fingers on glass is swift and loud.

That done, we proceed. We pass by what seemed to be an abandoned hut but dogs barked at some distance and came hurrying to our location. A little later, the owner talked to our guide. Later, beyond hearing distance, the guide warned us that the man is suspected to be a witch. At this knowledge, the pace quickened.

We arrive at a spot where a motocross event was held last month. It is a good place for picnics since it has benches and net hammocks and kind of breezy. It has a good view of the city and has lots of shades. We are now on the other side of the mountain. This can be accessed from Baksan Road and a path had been widened to allow motorcycles here. This is perfect place to rest long and cook our meal.

Everyone retrieved their cook pots, the food ingredients and their prized knives. After dumping the ingredients and my blackened pots, I left them for awhile to have a look of the whole place. I found a bench under a wide shade and enjoyed the view of the metropolis, the harbor and the islands. There is a good supply of breeze and, instantly, I forgot everything. I could not resist Ms. Slumber.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I awakened. I napped for about fifteen minutes and that is well. I rejoined the group and they were in the middle of their coffee time. A pot is instantly refilled with water and boiled. I waited for my own coffee time but, when it do came, I had it one after the other. Stories and laughter filled the ridgetop masking hungry stomachs whose owners took a lot of quick glances on the hearth.

In meals done by the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild, it is never a boring moment. It is always warm, cooked in real fires, and it is always a feast no matter if it is done on a beautiful day or under the onslaught of storms. There is the main dish of mixed-vegetable soup and pork liver estofado and the side dish of fried anchovies and raw cucumbers in vinegar with either plain rice or milled corn to pair those. And it is 13:15, perfect time to tease gastric juices.

After 15 minutes, I open coconuts with my AJF Gahum heavy-duty knife for beverage and desserts with its meat. Feeling refreshed and knowing that we must continue our journey, we cemented our moment here with our good old tradition of the blade porn. A decaying log becomes a spiny caterpillar with all those knife points pierced on its surface standing up. I am just amazed at how such a small activity could start a lively conversation all its own.

We begin packing and everyone are ready to walk once more and fulfill that chance to climb Mount Bokatol. This peak is a solitary one and no one except the locals visit the montain. It is steep on all sides but there used to be a trail according to the guide. We left this nice place and follow a trail that goes through a forested part where there are more mango trees, a concentration of grapefruit and star apple trees.

Then we came upon a patch of horse radish planted in straight lines. We have to weave among the trunks and branches on sloping terrain, afraid to disarrange a tangle of small leaves. The invisible path goes down a steep slope where there are no handholds except maybe some slender cassava trunks. The guide was walking it straight down. I find it hard to keep pace even if I am agile enough but I worry those who are not used to this kind of terrain.

We reach a saddle and Mt. Bokatol would be somewhere over the top but the path is strewn with thick vegetation and it is straight up. The ground is loose but we have handholds to halt our downward slide. A long vine becomes a lifeline of would-be Tarzans, sturdy enough to hold the weight of a man as heavy as my own. By 15:10, everyone have scaled the peak.

On any topographical map of Cebu City, it is measured at 301 meters, almost a thousand feet. Half-buried is an old concrete marker and there is a new one, as tall as a man, painted with yellow bands. On the side where we came from are a teeming ecosystem of jungle tangle and, on the other side of the tall marker, is a man-made forest of Burma teak, dead and silent.

Remembering the guide’s tale that it was used by the Americans as a machinegun pillbox, I looked for traces of it. A hole on the ground confirms my find. It was changed in size by “treasure hunters”, hoping to find that elusive Yamashita loot. On the government side of the peak is a trail going down to who knows where. We go down it and the ground is more loose in the absence of grass. Forests planted with exotic trees do not permit healthy diversity and it is bald forever under its branches.

I saw traces of recent motorcycle activity here. Somebody was trying to climb Mt. Bokatol using this route and failed. He could not get past another hole on the ground where a step-like two-meter high ground divides the rest of the trail. On foot it was easy to navigate because you can hold on to the trunks for balance. I go down another saddle and it looked familiar.

On this saddle lay the trail to a steep ridge running perpendicular to the Sapangdaku Creek and the Guadalupe-Kalunasan Circumferential Road which goes all the way to Napo. I found this place in 2009 and have used the trails here during some weekends, the last itme in January 2015. This used to be thickly forested but now only Burma teaks remain standing. A path gently goes to Baksan Road and we made our exit, going all the way to the Sapangdaku Spillway and, lastly, Guadalupe.

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BUSHCRAFT BUHISAN XLIII: Man on Fire

I AM AFIRE.  LAST WEEKEND’S debacle in the mountains does not alter my mood and my mind today, December 18, 2016.  I have something big to accomplish next month and I do not have that much time to prepare.  A month could barely move mountains unless San Miguel Brewery or Lucio Tan would dip their fingers into my affair.  I am prepared for rejections though when expectations turn into empty air.

I have declined many offers to earn an income since the start of December for my mind is focused only on one thing – The Thruhike.  With or without those big names, I will have my Thruhike and I have a promise to deliver to my first set of sponsors, who expressed their profound support with funds and them nice things.  I could not ask for less at the moment and while I am at it, I have to develop my stamina and my mindset to keep my end of the bargain.

It is so hard on me.  I could feel the pressure weighing down on my resolve since I had already set a date of January 17, 2017 as the start of the Thruhike.  I could not back down from it.  And it is now about to be less than a month away.  It would have been easier if I do not do the planning and just be a follower.  But when you are the instigator of such things, the task is horrendous and of almost epic proportions since you would be treading on grounds that have not been tried before.

The Thruhike is not a walk to climb a peak which, by usual practice here in the Philippines, takes about two to seven days, usually starting at trailheads that has elevations of 200 meters and up.  The whole island of Cebu, at its backside, is difficult terrain, starting from sea level extending to at least 400+ kilometers of mountain trails and roads and I have programmed to hike it at 27 to 32 days with extra three days safety margin.  Besides that, it is not a guided hike.  It is navigational savvy at its best.

 

Of course, my closest of friends knows what I am doing and my capability of accomplishing this Thruhike right from the start up to its endmost might be mind-boggling but all know I could achieve this.  But there may have been skeptics among them.  But that is alright.  I know some people would open their purses right at the last minute and I am prepared to do the things in between like more time in the outdoors and before the altar of my faith.

I have even purchased a new pair of running shoes taken from donations for training.  I do not use it for running but for personal errands where running is out of the equation.  The walking is enough and I do not have to exaggerate it in speed so I could have that fastest best.  I take care of my joints and tendons and I have my own discriminatory reasons not to behave in such reckless abandonment. 

Today at Guadalupe, we are but few.  It would just be a leisurely hike, just enough to sharpen the mind and to get the hang out of what nature could offer to the senses.  Coming with me is Jonathaniel Apurado, Ernie Salomon, Richie Quijano and Glyn Formentera.  This is my ideal size of crowd for a dayhike.  I do not like boisterous company and I do not like people talking on the trail.  They could have that in places of rest though.

 

We are going to Camp Damazo today to seek the pleasures of its existence.  No it is not high and mighty stuff.  It is drab and jungle and teeming with creeping devils.  We will be walking straight to it with the church parking ground as the trailhead.  We know how to go there and we kept it within our own circle which, in this case, is that ugly stalking tiger called the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild.  Yeah, we are ugly to mainstream gadflies and we do not conform to their borrowed ideology.

It had been raining early in the morning and it is good to see the verdant grass growing thick and healthy on that totally bare backside of a hill that I am fond of calling as the “heartbreak ridge”, for the very reason that it had denied a good number of people to give up climbing it and almost claimed the same numbers that barely survived.  It is just a low hill and I do not know why it is unkind to people?

If you are not likely be a victim of this heartbreaking episode, you are bound to see a different angle of the city and you begin to like it but we have to move on higher ground to the refuge of shades offered by a forest of fruit trees, hardwood and shrubs which you cannot see from anywhere down the curbs or even thought it existed this close to urban living.  So save that exhilarating feeling on your SD card.

 

The ground is wet and, as expected, a myriad of different birds tries to choke your eardrums with their beautiful melodies.  This part, that I named as Bebut’s Trail, is heaven for anyone who have been stressed out in drab office work.  It is shady and, when the season is right, you could practically pluck star apples, Spanish plums or currants from fruit-heavy branches.

The trail goes horseshoe like, passing by a place called the Portal before ending at Baksan Road.  You just walk a few meters up the road before engaging again another trail called the Lensa Trail.  It is all downhill and goes through a man-made forest of Burma teak.  It is eerie and silent in here as birds and flying insects do not make this exotic forest their habitat.  Only a few people go here like local wood gatherers and us.

The playgrounds chosen by the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild are different from those chosen by the mainstream outdoors crowd.  We prefer our camp under the protection of trees and we liked it anonymous.  Of course, we have to chose earth colors for our canopies and our clothes to achieve that effect.  Camping on peaks and on places where the crowds are, are taboo for us.  Our minds do not simply work that way, child like.

 

A stream crosses my path.  It is brisk and milky and birds seem to delight at that spot where native plants thrived.  Yeah, it rained some hours ago and I have not seen Creek Alpha like this.  We follow its course downhill where another trail welcomed us.  We cross the same stream and hiked onto dry ground for the rest of the day.  The path took on another half circle midway between mountain top and another stream.

I showed the guys of the honey oozing down a trunk of a Burma teak.  Like I said before in another article, it is unusual for insects, much less a stingless bee colony, to roost in exotic trees.  But here it is, defying instinct for survival.  It is evolution at work.  We cross Creek Bravo and the forest here seems more alive with busy insects zooming here and there while birds make their presence felt with their staccato of melodies.

Lensa Trail climb up a ridge over what seems to be a very beautiful forest that became a tangle of jungles when we reach Camp Damazo.  This is our camp and everything comes to a standstill.  We each brought firewood and tinder from the lower trails and, in a moment, we would have wood fire, a kind of fire disdained by the mainstream, whose beliefs follow that foreign ideology they hold so dear which, ironically, allows one.

First things first – coffee!  I brought my Swiss Army emergency burner with me and coffee came in short time with fire coming from small branches.  Not bad for a piece of can.  This is a gift from my Swiss friend and we we here last November 26.  Proof of that is that I saw and retrieved the dismountable pot holders of his Kelly Kettle.  We simply overlooked it and thought we stowed it back to the burner set.  Hahaha…there it is.

Ernie begins to ask of the food ingredients which we carried separately as Camp Damazo starts to transform into his kitchen without walls.  Overhead is a dour sky but we do not want to be caught unprepared and so erected a cheap plaid nylon sheet above the hearth.  Cords were in short supply but we have nature to provide us with something to stretch the canopy.  Jon helped Ernie with the cooking while Richie and Glyn break the twigs into small pieces.

With the way the day behaved, it would be an enjoyable one as eyes are on the black pot.  The same pot that had served me and my brethren well since the Philippine Independence Bushcraft Camp of 2012.  It had survived the punishing interludes of Scotchbrites and sand and it is an icon in itself, a testament to the frugality and practicality of bushcraft.  Everything we do and use are of the old world tradition and flashy gears used by the mainstream crowd does not find an instant fan from among us.

 

By popular demand, we are dining again a dish of pork liver estofado with a side dish of sliced cucumber and tomato in vinegar.  Everyone ate in silence, savoring the warm food in warm humid jungle.  The food is good and it even tastes better here.  Ernie does it with a flair all the time.  This is his specialty – cooking – as well as his tinkering and inventing gadgets from scratch.  I watch him all the time and tease him until he polishes his cooking to perfection.

We stay for a while to recover from the shock of a full meal.  Stories, yarns and jokes crawled out naturally caused by the effects of a fully-satisfied stomach.  Washed pots and utensils are dried for a while as the owners claimed the eternal silence of the hills as theirs, for the moment, and felt free to do as they please with laughter and jolly voices echoing among this forested enclave.

At 14:30, we leave our beloved Camp Damazo.  We halt for a while at Caramon Spring to drink then we continue to cross a couple of streams and climb up another peak whose one trail led us to Baksan Road.  We cross this road into another trail that goes down a fertile valley and into Lanipao.  The rest of the way, we walk on the road to Napo.  Then a motorcycle is a good option to complete our day’s journey as it brought us back to Guadalupe.

It was an easy day yet worth more than the time when I raced with another on a high peak in another place and time faraway.  There was no adrenaline rush and that feeling of invincibility you normally feel when on a high place becomes so alien and distant, replaced by a subtle appreciation of life and the natural world.  I am on fire and the things I do in my present life would help and guide me in my quest to tame that wild spirit from within.  The Thruhike will be my statement in my life should I succeed.

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