THE PRE-DAWN chill bit deep as the bus rumbled toward Marbel as a motley crew of five adventurers, myself included, embarked on a pilgrimage to the formidable Mt. Matutum.
At 2:30 a.m., the world was still draped in darkness but within us, a spark of anticipation flickered, fueled by whispers of the mountain’s legendary challenge.
Tour guide Kuya Jefferson Mateo awaited us in Tupi’s poblacion, a beacon in the unfamiliar terrain. The journey to Barangay Kablon, the jump-off point, was a blur of bus rides and single motorcycle hops, the air thick with the promise of the day ahead. By 8:09 a.m., with a hearty breakfast fueling our bodies, we stood at the foot of Matutum, ready to embrace its rugged slopes.
Mount Matutum is an active stratovolcano, the highest point in the province of South Cotabato in the Philippines, with an elevation of 7,500 feet (2,286 meters) above sea level, approximately 5.7 kilometers (3.5 mi) from Acmonan, Tupi, South Cotabato. Matutum and its foothills are predominantly inhabited by the indigenous Blaan families.
An unexpected guide
The initial ascent was deceptively gentle, passing through the Matbloom tourist spot, but the mountain quickly revealed its true nature.
A light rain began to fall, a gentle reminder of Matutum’s capricious moods. We donned our rain gear, and as if answering our call, a local dog, Gabo, joined our ranks, a silent, four-legged guardian angel.
With backpacks heavy and hearts lighter, we pressed on. The three-hour trek to Phase 1 was a baptism by fire.
My back protested under the weight, a symphony of aches and groans, but the beauty of the surrounding forest, the towering trees, and the symphony of unseen creatures kept me moving.
A brief respite at the Bonbon water source offered a moment to catch our breath and capture the memory in photographs before plunging back into the verdant depths.
Stark reality sets in
The forest was a labyrinth of fallen giants and slippery rocks, a testament to nature’s raw power. My arms, initially bare, soon begged for the protection of a jacket, scratched and stung by the wild embrace of the undergrowth. Yet, amidst the hardship, there was a strange exhilaration, a sense of being truly alive.
Reaching Phase 1 at 11:06 a.m., I was met with a stark reality: no water source, no amenities, just the raw, untamed wilderness. A wave of anxiety washed over me – how would we survive a night in this isolated realm? The lack of signal added to the feeling of being utterly cut off, a journalist’s worst nightmare, yet also a strange, liberating freedom.
The afternoon unfolded with a rhythm dictated by nature. Tents and hammocks were erected, a makeshift camp rising from the forest floor. The porters, Clifford and Albert, arrived with much-needed supplies, their arrival a lifeline. As the sun dipped, thick fog rolled in, transforming the forest into a mystical realm. The simple act of sharing a meal – a surprisingly delicious sayote salad, followed by lechon sinigang and fried beef – became a ritual, a celebration of camaraderie and survival.
The darkness is the least of our worries
The night was a symphony of rain and wind, a relentless drumming that echoed through the forest. Yet, at 6:00 a.m., we rose, undeterred, ready to conquer the summit. Gabo, ever faithful, led the way, his keen senses guiding us through the treacherous Galandang trail.
The ascent was a relentless climb, a vertical dance with gravity. The mountain’s conical shape meant each step was a battle against the incline. A brief breakfast stop after Phase 2 provided a moment of respite, a chance to refuel for the final push.
Then, the leeches attacked. One latched onto my wrist, a chilling reminder of the wilderness surrounding us. A moment of panic was quickly replaced by a surge of determination. “Kaya ko pa (I can still do it),” I told Ate Ana Lou, pushing through the dizziness, fueled by a stubborn refusal to yield.
The final stretch was a blur of towering trees, gnarled roots, and the infamous “monkey trail.” At 8:36 a.m., we stood triumphant on the summit, 2,286 meters above sea level. The cold was biting, the air thin, but the feeling of accomplishment was immense. My mud-stained pants were a badge of honor, a testament to the arduous journey.
A quick breakfast, a flurry of photos with the iconic Mt. Matutum marker, and then it was time to descend. The journey down was a brutal test of endurance, a two-hour slog back to Phase 1. The steep slopes, now slick with rain, demanded every ounce of concentration.
By 2:00 p.m., we reached the tourism office in Kablon, exhausted but exhilarated. A simple meal of torta na pan and coke was a feast fit for kings. “Salamat Lord sa kusog (Thank you, Lord, for the strength),” I murmured, a collective sigh of gratitude, “Pero dili na gyud ko mubalik ug Mt Matutum (But I’m never going back to Mt. Matutum).”
Yet, as the bus carried me back to Davao, the memory of the mountain, its challenges, and its raw beauty began to weave its magic. Mt. Matutum, a crucible of endurance, had forged a deeper connection within me, a journalist forever changed by the mountain’s embrace.
And though I swore I wouldn’t return, a part of me knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that the mountain’s call would echo again.
Photos courtesy of Rhoda Grace B Saron
