Take my recent trek to Mount Pinatubo as an example.
In the days leading up to that trip, I had conditioned my mind to believe that the adventure was nothing more than a stroll in the park. It’s my way of psyching myself to believe that this trek would be a cake walk when in fact, somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, I was deathly afraid of having to explain to everybody how neurotically scared I was of taking the trek.
So I stuck with the image of bravado and went off to Pinatubo together with my sister, my aunt, and my 73 year old – yes, 73 – uncle.
The first part of the trek involved riding a 4x4 jeep for an hour on a vast and barren lahar field. It seemed easy at first, considering that it was pretty much like driving along mud; but as the ground started becoming uneven and the 4x4 began twisting and turning in directions any normal-moving vehicle as no business being in that’s when I knew that I had gotten myself into a situation that was evidently, more than what I bargained for.
After the hour long drive, the 4x4 mercifully stopped and the toothless driver gave us a nod as if to say, ‘you’re on your own from here’. At that point, I jumped out off the God-forsaken death ride, grateful that I was still in one piece. As I got out, I took a quick glance of the surroundings and began to think that this was really going to be was a stroll in the park – if this is what a park looks like in the moon.
It was an eerie feeling to be standing on a place that never in my life have I seen anywhere in this world. There were rocks as big as houses scattered all over the place, some were even stacked on top of each other. The surrounding mountains had enormous slabs that were so smooth it looked like a giant knife sliced through it. Really, you have to see it to believe it.
Truth be told, describing that three-hour trek leaves me at a loss for words. I’ve spent countless nights trying to come up with a reasonable – and believable – explanation of what you can expect when you do take that route and I’m still dumbfounded on what to say. So, in a blatant cop-out attempt at storytelling, I’m going to let the pictures do the storytelling for me because, well, it’s easier that way.
When you’ve walked in unimaginable terrain for three hours under the sweltering heat of the sun, you tend to get delusional, as I did. I tried configuring my mind to believe that the destination was around the next corner, but at about the 56th ‘next corner’ I convinced myself was finally it, I gave up any attempts at figuring out how much further we’d still have to go to make it to the damned crater. It was a useless exercise that only sapped whatever remaining energy I had left, and if I was to make it to the top and subject myself to another three-hour stroll back to civilization, I’d need all the energy I could muster.
After what seemed like forever – and that seems like an overstatement – we finally made it to crater.
And if you’re going to ask me if that mind-numbing climb was worth it - which, by the way, included a snake crawling on my foot and a swarm of dragonflies trying to build a nest on my head – I'll take the easy way out again and let you be the judge.
Somebody asked me if, given a chance, I’d do this trek all over again. I thought about it for a while and said no. Make no mistake, this is one experience that I encourage everyone to do. The trek, murderous as it is, is pretty fun, and catching a glimpse of that lake for the first time after spending every ounce of energy in your body just to make it to that point is breathtaking.
But just like everything else, once you see it, there’s really no point seeing it again. You go there, bask in the moment, and move on to your next destination. No more going over rocks, crossing streams, and having snakes crawl on my foot. I’m done with that.
All I can do now is go back to the comforts of home and brag to anyone willing to listen that I conquered Mount Pinatubo - and lived to tell stories about it.
