it was black as ink save for a sparse sprinkling of stars, that night in crow valley when we found ourselves atop a rocky outcrop, shivering in clothes dried hours ago by rain. with only the dim glare of cellphones to guide us, there was no heat to warm us, all our senses strained for the slightest light or sound that could mean our salvation.
it was a maddening vigil. we threw our voices into the air shouting "4X4!!!" (for the all-terrain vehicles or ATVs that ran the length of the 42-mile valley), with aia adding a "papa God!" for good measure. we wildly waved our phones too as a desperate SOS tactic, playing both concert audience as well as the main act.
when i close my eyes and remember that fateful pinatubo trek and the rainy downward journey that started it all, the picture i see often is of allison, aia and i dragging our makeshift bamboo canes along the bleak stretches of lahar of the so-called "skyway" route, a detour traverse of more or less five mountains down to crow valley. our guides thought this a wiser way to avoid the raging rain-fed currents that blocked our original path.
who would have imagined how unwise this option actually was?
ironically too, who would have thought that all that despondent stick-dragging would draw the lines that would lead our errant guide to find us after hours of hopeless walking, and eventually lead to our rescue?
cut from the rest by unfortunate physical limits and further on by miscommunication, we were led through a seldom trodden mountainscape: golden stalks that loomed tall, paths overgrown with wild foliage sticking out in sharp points that hurt in many places, nipa huts staring through melancholy windows, scenes and trees straight from the lion king, puddles and mud and rocks. climbing, slipping, getting up again and climbing.
glorious and bizarre, we had no choice but to move on.
i regret that adrenaline, and the self control that held the fear at bay, kept me from fully drinking in the beauty of everything we saw. there was no stopping to smell the flowers for us three thirsty, exhausted adventurers who got infinitely more than we bargained for. but it is strange and humbling to reflect that we were one of the chosen few to whom pinatubo has yielded its hidden treasures - the mountain rain, the fading sun, the stark embrace of its evening in nowhere land.
once safe in bed it was then the fear began to spread, and staring at the ceiling i marveled at the things that could have happened but thankfully, mercifully, did not. but it was a fear detached, a mere cautionary tale for the unintiated trekker, and if anything it made me relish life all the more.
or as henry van dyke puts it: for the chance to love, to work, to play, and to look up at the stars.:D
it was a maddening vigil. we threw our voices into the air shouting "4X4!!!" (for the all-terrain vehicles or ATVs that ran the length of the 42-mile valley), with aia adding a "papa God!" for good measure. we wildly waved our phones too as a desperate SOS tactic, playing both concert audience as well as the main act.
when i close my eyes and remember that fateful pinatubo trek and the rainy downward journey that started it all, the picture i see often is of allison, aia and i dragging our makeshift bamboo canes along the bleak stretches of lahar of the so-called "skyway" route, a detour traverse of more or less five mountains down to crow valley. our guides thought this a wiser way to avoid the raging rain-fed currents that blocked our original path.
who would have imagined how unwise this option actually was?
ironically too, who would have thought that all that despondent stick-dragging would draw the lines that would lead our errant guide to find us after hours of hopeless walking, and eventually lead to our rescue?
cut from the rest by unfortunate physical limits and further on by miscommunication, we were led through a seldom trodden mountainscape: golden stalks that loomed tall, paths overgrown with wild foliage sticking out in sharp points that hurt in many places, nipa huts staring through melancholy windows, scenes and trees straight from the lion king, puddles and mud and rocks. climbing, slipping, getting up again and climbing.
glorious and bizarre, we had no choice but to move on.
i regret that adrenaline, and the self control that held the fear at bay, kept me from fully drinking in the beauty of everything we saw. there was no stopping to smell the flowers for us three thirsty, exhausted adventurers who got infinitely more than we bargained for. but it is strange and humbling to reflect that we were one of the chosen few to whom pinatubo has yielded its hidden treasures - the mountain rain, the fading sun, the stark embrace of its evening in nowhere land.
once safe in bed it was then the fear began to spread, and staring at the ceiling i marveled at the things that could have happened but thankfully, mercifully, did not. but it was a fear detached, a mere cautionary tale for the unintiated trekker, and if anything it made me relish life all the more.
or as henry van dyke puts it: for the chance to love, to work, to play, and to look up at the stars.:D
"black as ink"...<3 love the figure of speech, dearie!!! :):):)
ReplyDeleteyours,
dearling.