The obvious inherent nature of a summit trek is that it’s uphill all the way to the goal.
Battling against the slopes that frequently reached 60 degrees should have been enough, but the constant rising presented us with a whole new environment – cloud forest. As the mountain rose into the stratus level; the temperature dropped, the moisture in the air became difficult to breathe and the terrain became incredible. It was unearthly yet beautiful. In this wonderland, roots did not feel the need to grow in the ground, but all around. Everything was covered in moss and the trail was filled with solid green tentacles sprouting from all sides.
Despite its beauty, the trekking became almost impossible. Clambering over and ducking under endless moss covered limbs forced all of us to crawl through mud and tackle thorny bushes. We constantly battling against the weight of our bags and now they developed an additional hindrance as they clung on to the forest and dragged us back. The effort it took to heave oneself up a slippery stone cliff, gripping with fingernails into roots, was hard, but to then be pulled all the way back down because the strap of your bag was caught was almost too much to bear. The minions of Murud seemed determined to protect their summit God.
Late on day three, the heavily fatigued team set up ‘Camp Dua’ amongst wet flora. The last piece of dry wood was about 1000 feet below us and setting up a fire was a 2 hour challenge that made our spirits as damp as our surroundings. Only our fierce-some brand of dark gallows banter saved our smiles. The rain swept in and once the noodles were cooked and wolfed down, a communal decision to head to bed for a night of shivering and sand flies ensued.
