From Screen to Summit

It's been half a year since my last mountain.

Never yearned for something this bad. Itching for the grass on my calves, thirsting for the springwater from my water bladder, longing for long trails, lusting for the wanders, panting for the breathlessness on summits. My fondness for the mountains has taken to new heights since Mt. Apo early last year, reaching four more summits before this unplanned hiatus. My body was aching for the body ache and all the beauty that led up to it.

I am big on movie-watching as I am on hiking—two hobbies currently reigning in my life. I tend to deal with things through films, so I squeezed into my watchlist films set or with a story in the mountains. They Called Him Mostly Harmless (2024), Brokeback Mountain (2005), The Summit of the Gods (2021), Raging (2025), Sur les chemins noirs (2023). Sure, they helped, but only within the runtime until the credits rolled, leaving me with no lasting lessons but the underlying takeaway to put on my hiking shoes and go.

But, as they say, it will get to a point. The call of the mountains got too loud to be pushed aside. The yearning peaked. Six months later, I booked a hiking trip to, befittingly, one of the country’s beginner-friendly mountains, Mt. Batulao.

I stood along Gen. Aguinaldo Highway at 3 in the morning. My back felt good wearing the backpack for the day hike, stuffed with extra clothes, a packed lunch, and slippers. My feet felt good to be back in the same pair that brought me to eight summits. I felt good. The van pulled over, and I snuck to the back. Felt snug right away. It was the familiar feeling of being in a van you know was bound for adventure, but this time, seated among strangers, nameless and faceless.

Greeting the sunrise at the top was the whole point, as always for morning hikes. With my first steps as a first-time solo joiner, we began almost just as soon as we made it to the jump-off point.

Almost in disbelief that I was doing all of this on muddy trails alone, my constant hiking buddies nowhere around me, who might still be asleep with their bare, moisturized feet on a soft bed and under an even softer blanket. Sweat began to line across my back after “Peak” 2, so I took off my parka. I could feel the damp even more with the early morning breeze. 10 Peaks to go.

Dawn started peeking a few more ascents before the summit, Peak 12. With the first light, I drowned out man-made noise around me, stood with my friendlessness, and thought about the privilege of witnessing and being present at these wonders, fit enough to see them again and whenever. The golden rays crawled from the rock face of Batulao and onto everyone’s face, a good sign to take out our phones for a selfie with the sunrise.

I’ve missed all of these. The often-unnoticed things that make this hobby not like any other recreation—the comfort of the earth under my soles, the crunch of nuts going against the sweetness of chocolate candies in my trail mix, the constant want to hydrate, the hard-earned perspiration and ache in the toes, the smudge on my palms that proves a tangible connection with nature. Then the grander ones, scenes that movies can try to romanticize but only the hiker can be the critic and judge: the sight of the world’s vastness from above, the spectacle of the sun, the sense of reaching summits, the humility this all gets into you beneath the imposing heights of mountains. I could never ask for more. Mt. Batulao as my comeback hike was a good decision, it seemed, and to have done it all alone, as it felt like going again on my mother mountain. I was born on an island, three blocks away from the beach, but I was born for the bigger blocks meters above sea level.

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Went home dog-tired with more layers of dirt under my shoes and battered toes, but with a heart so happy and a photo gallery gridded with gradient hues of the sunrise, greens, and sky blues.

A couple of weeks after the climb, as that hobby rested, the other switched on. I watched a 2021 National Geographic documentary about Alex Lowe. One interviewee responded to a difficult question from one of Lowe’s sons, “…he had an unstoppable need for that physical activity. And he just had to do that. So, does that make [his family] second? Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t love you like crazy, but he couldn’t not do that.” I felt that.

There’s nothing else that could help me rub the itch to hike. This is an itch, a thirst, a longing, a lust I feel will stay with me until I lose the privilege. My other hobby might fail to give a lasting solution, but at least it presents me with an intimate takeaway: just grab the bag, put on shoes, and go outside—with or without the familiar comfort and company. ❜

Story and photography by JR Cajilig

I would also like to thank Fake Mountaineers, the Cavite-based organizing group, for the impartial care and trust among their hikers—groups and solo joiners alike. They made my first time solo-joining a walk in the park.

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