Surviving The Climb (Part 2)

DESCENDING the mountain earlier was no easy task. With the others having gone way ahead of us, my two companions and I occasionally groped in the thicket to find the trail. Peering at the steep slope, my mind feebly calculated the moves needed.



The slow downward climb entailed holding up my weight with my arms while clinging to a root or branch and feeling the ground for a foothold. A few slips sent my heart pounding, and during one particular miss I slid a few feet, stopping as I sat on a small stump (The mark it left could have made a horrendous image on this page).

At long last, we reached our destination. The sun was already well hidden behind the mountains, and in the fading light, I took a refreshing, albeit cold bath in the river. Unfortunately, the icy water did very little to numb the pain I felt all over.

We set up camp beside the river. Nothing but the soothing rush of cascading water and the high-pitched chirping of a bird could be heard. Some laughter and coconut vodka helped ease some of our weariness that evening before we retired in cramped tents.



Despite my being energized the next morning, however, my muscles were still sore. We were heading back to the barrio after breakfast, confident that we would still have time to go the beach in the late afternoon.

The prospect of making it back early enough now faded. The pain I felt in my soles, the back of my legs, and my thighs slowed down every step. We followed the river once again, walking over boulders, sometimes cutting through a path along the mountainside. I'd lag behind, accompanied by the group's leader. Though I would sometimes catch up with the rest, after a few minutes, I'd fall behind again.



Even when I wasn't carrying my belongings, I was burdened by a growing sense of inadequacy. I wasn't fit for this sort of journey. What was I thinking? I could no longer enjoy the view of my surroundings because my eyes were fixed on every stone and crevice where my feet were planted. Every sigh and heave had its name: fatigue, indifference, and doubt.

The hours passed and I could hear nothing else but silence. Clearly, it was just me, the leader, and another companion left behind. With the sun setting quickly, I could only imagine the rest of the group waiting impatiently back at the base. Even when I was assured that there was one or two more river crossings to go, I felt like I already abandoned my self-comfidence back in the thicket where I had a nasty fall. The need to finish the journey continued nagging me all the way back.



Then suddenly, in the dimness, the silence was broken by voices that signalled the presence of a few locals passing us by. The faint flames from gas lamps dotted my field of vision. Finally, other familiar but friendly voices greeted our return.

After enduring nine long hours, when I felt my feet hit the smooth surface of the concrete pavement, I knew that I MADE IT!

Surviving The Climb (Part One)

IT WAS STILL DARK, and the small barrio of Kiloloron in Real, Quezon was still sleeping when our mountaineering group of eight got off the bus after a four-hour trip. We had some time to organize our belongings at our meetup place before starting the climb at seven a.m.

I counted among the newcomers to this sort of outdoor expedition. The goal was to reach the summit of Mt. Binangonan before nightfall, and we were looking at 7-8 hours of river-crossing and trekking. It was a trip that I welcomed, considering that I have never done any major climb in all my life. Sure, I have done some hikes before, through short trails along gentle hillside slopes.

We started walking through grassy patches of land. It had rained hours before, and the surroundings smelled of moist earth and the astringent scent of shrubs and grass. Shortly, we made the first of dozens of river crossings, the cold rushing water causing us to quicken our pace. A few minutes of walking on the rocky terrain started to put a strain on my soles and ankles that I had to slip off my flip-flops in favor of running shoes.

The scenery was captivating --- a background of lush green foliage, rocks and boulders along the banks of the winding river, and clear, mountain-filtered water rushing against our legs. Cameras were at the ready to capture images as there were times when the trail would take us through the water; at other times, through dense vegetation.

We weren’t even halfway through the climb when I started to feel the burden of my backpack. I was already having difficulty in managing my own weight as I skipped from one rock to the next. And when it rained, my apprehension got worse as I struggled to avoid slipping into the icy water. But then I did, in fact, more than once. Every time my foot slid, I felt a pull on my ankles and a skip of my heartbeat.

The more experienced mountaineers felt concerned for me, but I only declined their offer to carry my load. I didn’t wish to be rid of my obligation to bear my burden, as it might make me look like a slacker. Several slips and curses later, I surrendered, and right away I was given a trekking pole to keep my balance.

We made a stop near a 20-ft waterfall, the base of which was a 6-ft-deep pool. Normally, I would be fond of taking plunges into such depths, but since, by then, the pain started to reach my thighs and I was half-shivering from being drenched by the rain. Wrapped in a jacket, I decided to take a nap on a rock. It was already around 2 p.m.

My silent prayer for deliverance from having to follow and cross the river resulted in a more challenging ordeal. With nothing more than roots and branches to grab on to so we could haul ourselves up, we started to ascend the side of the mountain. The detour took us to a trail through the rain forest filled with hairy plants and thorny vines. The muddy floor was covered with wet, decaying leaves and was crawling with giant ants that bit back with fury. The climb continued, as we straddled over fallen logs and pawed our way through leafy branches. Later, we were walking along the rim, where one misstep could send us rolling down on either side of the mountain fold. I could not see the river beneath anymore, save for trees and vines contorted around trunks and branches.

A couple of mountaineers stayed with me as I begged to rest. Full of pain and frustration, I was feeling defeated as the task of finishing the climb began to overwhelm me.

Detoxing The Spirit

I do not know how long ago it was when I last attended the worship service. I was a visitor to this moderate-size congregation, and I came, along with my husband and daughter, only because I knew the pastor from way, way back when I was still in college. We were members of a different church congregation then, and he was leading the youth group.

To be honest, I did not mind coming in and leaving unnoticed to this group. I was quite relieved that no one asked for first-time visitors to stand up and be acknowledged. I wasn’t looking forward to be handed an info sheet and a welcome pack. All I wanted was to appreciate the service.

The service took place in a rented venue, a cozy little theater with a stage that could hold a musical performance. There were details of renaissance touches, wall paint that mimicked draperies and a faux entranceway to an imaginary hall. The larger-than-life neon sign of a harlequin outside the building could not have given any passerby a hint that some people actually prayed in this building on Sunday mornings.

No, the ambiance was not that of a regular church, not from its subdued lighting nor the cold draft of the centralized air conditioning. It was cold enough even for some members to welcome the pashmina shawls and styro cups of instant coffee offered by the ushers.

Right away, I connected to the theme of the theater’s interior, the way it mirrored the illusion of my life some years ago when I was a practicing, active believer. In my early teens, my social interactions involved Sunday church meetings and Bible studies, youth fellowships and summer camps, Christmas cantatas, discipleship training, even a month of foreign missions.

I could have spent the rest of my life in the mission field or being the wife of a minister, and the decision to do otherwise came from a desire to live an ordinary life. Eventually, different aspects of my life, personal or professional, excluded the spiritual. I could not even readily recall the name of the last church I was with, let alone a single name of any of its members I attended the service with.

The fellow who led the singing called out “God loves you, He loves you very much”. As I readied myself to hear more trite expressions, that was when I realized that I had estranged myself so much that I wasn’t willing to receive the basic truth of what he said.

Slowly, the gap began to close, and once more, I was getting reacquainted with The Being around which my existence could not have been bearable. I was practically anonymous here, left alone in my privacy with God. Forgiveness would be asked, an inner cleansing would need to take place, and renewal, sweet renewal, would be well on its way.

Though the songs were not familiar, I was soaking in their words. Tears were now streaming down my face, my hands were held out, surrendering, reaching out. I was awash with the urge to have the broken parts of my life fixed and to have the flame of faith once more burn.

I am what I am now, and at that moment, I was simply content to be where I was…reflecting on my life’s journeys right here in an unlikely place of worship.