Today, We Escape, We Escape

Am I cursed, am I blessed?
I can’t tell! Oh, yes!
- Jeff Buckley

It soon became clear to me that my apprehensions about our 2nd Training Climb (TC2) were rather well-founded, and not just products of an implacable sort of paranoia. Notorious for being the most technical and grueling of all the climbs in the Basic Mountaineering Course, TC2 was supposed to accomplish a number of things, among which were:

1. Killing all our idealized notions about mountaineering, and
2. Killing us.

On the first count, TC2 was a screaming success. The trail we followed up Mt. Mariveles in Bataan was one that was hacked open during the climb itself, a path that was in the same breath new and unforgiving. We scrabbled up boulders and mud-slick inclines of around 70 to 80 degrees, the full brunt of our packs groaning down our backs, and with scarcely anything to latch on to for support. Sometimes there was nothing to reach for but young, spare-bodied trees, a length of rope, or your groupmate’s hair swinging in front of you like some illicit invitation.

Of course, you’re better off not pulling at anybody’s hair for support, unless you want to have your eyes clawed out during the trek, in which case, you’d have to be an absolute nitwit and shouldn’t be climbing any mountains in the first place, dumdum.

Easy, ladies. Easy.

As it stood, I’d already cultivated a healthy feeling of dread for TC2 in the days leading to the actual climb. Although I fared pretty well during our training days and was the second fastest female for our regular runs, trekking required much more than mean legs, which I already had. What I didn’t have – and which mountaineering finally asked of me – was a solid sense of balance. Balance! Look, I’m a total klutz. Absolutely. I’m the slapstick industry’s cash cow, the kind of person who walks into walls and tumbles headlong into the pavement and spills soda all over her skirt. If I can’t even balance the damn cup of coke on my food tray, how am I supposed to keep my balance on that mountain?

The answer is: I didn’t manage to. I couldn’t. During the trek, I suffered major slips at least thrice, the first being the worst. It was one of the muddiest parts of the steep ascent, and while I tried to heave myself up, I lost my footing, crashed on my belly, and slid around two feet down the trail, my face plowing through the muck. When I finally got to my feet, I had dirt in my mouth, dirt up my nose, and murder, murder, MURDER! in my heart.

(And then I cried for a short while because I was so pissed at myself, which was embarrassing, so I’m not going to talk about that. What a baby! Oh god.)

I’d be lying, though, if I said that the climb was pure calvary and little else. Sure, sure, our trail was a crazy one, I (inadvertently) ate a lot of dirt, and my pack was so goddamn heavy, I had half a mind to kick it off the mountainside and watch it diminish into the valley’s yawning mouth. But Mt. Mariveles also had rivers snaking through it, restless tributaries that stunned you with their chilling clarity. The mountain was also heavily wooded, and I saw the most interesting things: trees with an armor of vicious spikes raised along every inch of their trunks, plants whose leaves bore the frank threat of thorns, a great number of pretty beetles and bugs, lines of gigantic, docile ants.

The best part about the climb wasn’t even the drinking, when we rinsed off the day’s labors with vast amounts of rum and vodka (although that certainly made things, ah, interesting), or the fact that I’d gotten out of the climb with all my bones intact, or the fact that going up a mountain is always a feat worth reckoning. My fondest memory of Mt. Mariveles is of this little gray lizard who hopped onto my hand during the trek, settled on my thumb, and looked at me in this inquiring manner. The little critter made no move to get away and seemed unruffled by our presence – it would’ve stayed on my hand longer if I didn’t nudge it back to a nearby tree branch, from which I assumed it fell. The lizard blinked for a while, cocked his head at us, and then it was gone.

It was the coolest thing ever.
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