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[av_heading heading=’On the highest altar of Aninipay’ tag=’h3′ style=’blockquote modern-quote’ size=” subheading_active=’subheading_below’ subheading_size=’15’ padding=’10’ color=” custom_font=”]
BY ROMA GONZALES
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EVER since exploring mountains caught my imagination, Mt. Madjaas in Antique became an object of restless desire.
It was a dream I carefully shielded away from self-doubt and discouragement from people who are yet to understand how it feels to walk in the woods basked in the intermingling scent of leaf and sweat, in sound of gasps and bird songs, and of glory and pain, where God feels nearer to man, and man could never feel more sublimely human.
If you think such words are bordering purple proses, consider how Madjaas herself moved countless generations of our ancestors to write her into songs and myths and legends. Rising up to the sky at approximately 2, 117 meters above sea level, no word suits her more perfectly than âformidableâ for hers was both beauty and might, earning the reverence of even the most experienced of mountaineers whom she can turn into storytellers and poets.
On Dec. 22, our hike started at 4 a.m., path lit only with headlamps and the stars in the clear southern Panay sky. Twenty-seven pairs of feet were guided by three guide porters. This was my first major hike, and I was hoping that the trail would begin with flats and gentle slopes.
However, it was not even more than a kilometer yet and some of us were already gasping by these earthen steps carved into the soil to assist mortal feet. Trying to follow the pace of the best of us, I soon hit my lactate threshold. I stopped, trying not to start a puke festival so early in the day when, sunless, the great mountain ranges of Panay were nothing yet but long, dark shadows in the sky.
I slowed but the trail kept going up and up, colder and colder, and the trees grew thicker and greener. While it became light enough to find ourselves under mossy walls and canopies, fog made it impossible to see the neighboring mountains. The cold and rain may have lessened the exhaustion of the hike, but they soon became the dilemma once we reached the campsite after 10 to 12 hours of walking (and climbing and crawling). When our bodies were at rest, the chill seemed to have crept to the very marrow.
This was when I realized that I was indeed a newbie â eager but foolish. I thought I could survive with my jacket and my tent and on a diet of light-to-carry high-carbohydrate food such as chocolates and bread. I thought it won’t matter to check who else would be there on the climb. I was lucky enough to have drifted into a subgroup of five, most of whom I met on previous hikes. When darkness fell, I partook in their hot noodle broth and we slept side-by-side in a bigger makeshift tent for warmth. More than once I woke up shivering. I seriously thought my first Madjaas climb would be about perseverance and mental strength, but I will always look back and remember that it was a lesson on camaraderie.
It wasnât light until about 7 a.m. the next day, and even then the whole party was uncertain whether to continue to the summit some three hours away. In the end, more than half made way for descent (there is no shame in turning back) while the rest pushed for summit.
When we stepped on the supposedly highest point in Panay Island to have our picture taken, it would have been difficult to say it wasnât in a studio for a 2 x 2 ID picture with white background if not for the hiking attire, exhausted and wet look, and some foliage on the ground. The fog remained thick although the rain calmed to a drizzle. It was anti-climactic. Anyone who dreamed of a picturesque summit view would have been extremely disappointed. But then again, if you have been climbing mountains long enough, you would understand that though summiting is important, it is not always the best part.
The more or less three-hour trail to the summit, for instance, will remain as one of the most beautiful places for me. The tree branches were crookedly pointing to the sky almost uniformly and it was cool enough that they themselves have to be covered in moss coats. This part was called the âbonsai gardenâ or âmossy forest.â This is where the Visayan death god Sidapa waits under his enchanted tree, where Bulalakaw plays and the moon deity Libulan roams.
But my favorite part was this: almost five hours of descent and with baggage twice as heavy because of the wet things, my breath was knocked out even more just as when I thought I was breathless enough. I stopped to look around and nearly cried. Far out into the horizon, the clouds parted and the sun appeared. Where crops were planted, the land literally shone emerald green. To my left, the sky had turned into a hundred hues of yellows and reds for sunset and there was a foreground of a leafless tree. To my right, a double rainbow appeared (the god Balangaw!) against the great Visayan mountains that have had stood there long before my ancestors came and will stand there until no one knows my name./PN
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