mountain, the summit is tiny. However, it offers a formidable drop on the opposite side from our arrival, the drop guarding the jungle far below.
I express disappointment: The lofty peak of the revered place of the dead, Ebin, should not bear an English name.
In honour of Sir Hugh Low, Jillanto.
Yes, yes, but. Same thing in our Rockies back in Canada. English names all over the place. Why not a tribal name? Do you think others made it to the top before Sir Hugh Low, but didnât boast about it?
Boast?
Officially record the date of their conquest. They always say words like conquest or bag or assault. For all to see and for all times.
That is boast?
Yeah.
Many tribes near mountain. That is so for thousands of years.
Then, itâs not unlikely⦠I see your point. Those Brit adventurers went everywhere. They also tramped all over our Rockies. They called themselves peak baggers. Preachers too, a number of them.
Before they reached base of mountain, Jillanto, Sir Hugh Low and expedition had to hack through jungle for many weeks.
Talk about sweating buckets. No trail?
He did not know where trails were.
That makes me feel better. Let the bastard sweat. In early morning light, I make out what we have just climbed. Sheer cliffs drop from the summit plateau on three sides. Peaks appear and disappear in the mist. Distant hills emerge through layers of clouds lending an image of islands nestled in the crested waves of a silver sea. The wind is still blowing strong, the temperature not much above 5°C. And I am shivering. Not because of a bug, but with genuine ancient cold.
Soon, our fellow climbers are crowding the narrow summit, claiming their own personal victory. I crane my neck, expecting Sab to jog behind the last climber, shouting, surprise, Lanctôt my man. Surprise!
Dawn rises not pink orange, but in swirls of a thick grey vapour. Soon, the sunrise paints an array of shades and colours on the cloud backdrop that stubbornly denies us the much heralded splendour of the rising sun over the South China Sea. That change in the pre-arranged program does not prevent a plethora of photos and grins. I slip on a pair of cotton socks over my hands to protect them from the cutting icy wind blowing in this spirit place. If only I could stow away some of that froidure and carry it back down with me. At six thirty, Ebin motions it is time to leave the summit.
Canât we stay for a full day cycle?
What for, Jillanto?
I wish to⦠meditate.
He narrows his eyes: Jillanto not cold enough? We must start down. Better sweat all your buckets, than have mountain sickness.
I acknowledge. How many weirdos with wacky requests has he guided up here?
On the descent, Iâm slip-sliding on the wet rock and, soon, I take a bad spill, landing on my back. Normally, even a daypack would have cushioned my fall. This time, something stabbed me. What the hell did I put in there? Of course. The remains of the durian. I packed it, as I couldnât allow anyone but me to carry the stinker back down. I regret that I did not have the presence of mind to leave it on the summit. An offering of respect to the akis of the mountain for granting me my cold moment. Yesterday in the downpour at Panar Laban, it did not occur to me either to sacrifice the durian to appease the mountain spirits.
Ebin worries. I urge him not to. Imagine my back punctured in a starburst pattern by the sharp spikes of tigerâs fruit. My broken skin will fester in the jungle heat and I will develop a deadly infection. Sab will treat it with boiled bark and will tend to my fever with kindness and amusement. The durian and its putrid flesh would only have been trash left on the mountain. We resume the descent, reaching Sayat Sayat quickly.
In spite of holding on to the fixed ropes, I canât stop slipping. My legsâtwo jellyfishâand my running shoes giving me poor traction. I had figured a vacation in a tropical jungle didnât warrant
I express disappointment: The lofty peak of the revered place of the dead, Ebin, should not bear an English name.
In honour of Sir Hugh Low, Jillanto.
Yes, yes, but. Same thing in our Rockies back in Canada. English names all over the place. Why not a tribal name? Do you think others made it to the top before Sir Hugh Low, but didnât boast about it?
Boast?
Officially record the date of their conquest. They always say words like conquest or bag or assault. For all to see and for all times.
That is boast?
Yeah.
Many tribes near mountain. That is so for thousands of years.
Then, itâs not unlikely⦠I see your point. Those Brit adventurers went everywhere. They also tramped all over our Rockies. They called themselves peak baggers. Preachers too, a number of them.
Before they reached base of mountain, Jillanto, Sir Hugh Low and expedition had to hack through jungle for many weeks.
Talk about sweating buckets. No trail?
He did not know where trails were.
That makes me feel better. Let the bastard sweat. In early morning light, I make out what we have just climbed. Sheer cliffs drop from the summit plateau on three sides. Peaks appear and disappear in the mist. Distant hills emerge through layers of clouds lending an image of islands nestled in the crested waves of a silver sea. The wind is still blowing strong, the temperature not much above 5°C. And I am shivering. Not because of a bug, but with genuine ancient cold.
Soon, our fellow climbers are crowding the narrow summit, claiming their own personal victory. I crane my neck, expecting Sab to jog behind the last climber, shouting, surprise, Lanctôt my man. Surprise!
Dawn rises not pink orange, but in swirls of a thick grey vapour. Soon, the sunrise paints an array of shades and colours on the cloud backdrop that stubbornly denies us the much heralded splendour of the rising sun over the South China Sea. That change in the pre-arranged program does not prevent a plethora of photos and grins. I slip on a pair of cotton socks over my hands to protect them from the cutting icy wind blowing in this spirit place. If only I could stow away some of that froidure and carry it back down with me. At six thirty, Ebin motions it is time to leave the summit.
Canât we stay for a full day cycle?
What for, Jillanto?
I wish to⦠meditate.
He narrows his eyes: Jillanto not cold enough? We must start down. Better sweat all your buckets, than have mountain sickness.
I acknowledge. How many weirdos with wacky requests has he guided up here?
On the descent, Iâm slip-sliding on the wet rock and, soon, I take a bad spill, landing on my back. Normally, even a daypack would have cushioned my fall. This time, something stabbed me. What the hell did I put in there? Of course. The remains of the durian. I packed it, as I couldnât allow anyone but me to carry the stinker back down. I regret that I did not have the presence of mind to leave it on the summit. An offering of respect to the akis of the mountain for granting me my cold moment. Yesterday in the downpour at Panar Laban, it did not occur to me either to sacrifice the durian to appease the mountain spirits.
Ebin worries. I urge him not to. Imagine my back punctured in a starburst pattern by the sharp spikes of tigerâs fruit. My broken skin will fester in the jungle heat and I will develop a deadly infection. Sab will treat it with boiled bark and will tend to my fever with kindness and amusement. The durian and its putrid flesh would only have been trash left on the mountain. We resume the descent, reaching Sayat Sayat quickly.
In spite of holding on to the fixed ropes, I canât stop slipping. My legsâtwo jellyfishâand my running shoes giving me poor traction. I had figured a vacation in a tropical jungle didnât warrant
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