A Trek to the Mt. Pinatubo Crater

The serene crater of Mt. Pinatubo.

            If you travel a lot, love to go places, or if you love sightseeing, place on your list the crater of Mount Pinatubo. You shouldn’t miss this place, not at all. It is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful sights in the Philippines.

            I went there last 4 April 2009. I am with two of my friends, Atty. Romeo “Titot” Bautista IV and Ms. Jinky “Jing” Sembrano – both worked as officers of the Regional Trial Court at Pasig City. My companions are perennial travelers who aimed to tour around the Philippines.

            We commenced our travel at EDSA, one of the busiest avenues in Metro Manila. We woke up late that day so we were at bus station only by 9:00 a.m., when heavy traffic had already set in. And lo, it rained hard (on a summer day?), and so the trip started rather uncomfortably. We traveled cheaply. We took an economy bus to the historic town of Capas, in Tarlac. As we passed through the poultry and piggery farms of Bulacan, we smelled the difference.

           We talked our way through the expressway until we reached Capas. Of course, we annoyed other passengers who showed joy when we alighted. After lunch, we proceeded to the terminal of public utility jeepneys (jitney). We took a jeepney ride to Santa Juliana, a barangay of Capas situated nearest the crater. Being a historic town, we passed by some notable sites like the Capas National Shrine and Camp O’ Donnell. It’s a pity we cannot drop by due to time constraints.

            We had to register at a resort in Santa Juliana. To our surprise, it’s a private resort owned by a Korean (purportedly married to a Filipina). The registration is mandatory, to the disappointment of both Filipino and foreign adventurers. We were told that we cannot enter the military reservation, the gateway to the volcano, without registering at this private resort. An American tourist and his Filipina lover wanted to climb the volcano by themselves but were forced to yield to the packages of the resort.  Worst, we were only issued provisional receipts for our payments – no TIN, nothing. Can the local government unit of Capas take over this business? It seemed like even in the basic revenue-raising ventures, we allowed foreigners to dip their fingers in.

            The foot of the volcano is a military reservation of the Philippine Air Force. Called the Crow Valley, the said reservation is just a beautiful name – it has nothing in it, no installations whatsoever. It is just a bombing and strafing range. Yes! It’s where our air force practiced dropping bombs and firing machine-guns from flying aircrafts. No wonder Vulcan retaliated.

At the Crow Valley.

            To be fair, the resort provided us with an excellent tour guide; a talkative kayak rower; a vehicle capable of traversing rugged terrains called “four by four;” and a driver who is afraid of mountain ghosts! Titot, who had been to the country’s best tourist destinations, appreciated the orderly flow of things.

            We passed through the military reservation which was once a beautiful landscape teeming with life. It was once a mythical glen infested with poisonous snakes where priced cinnamon grew in abundance. Or a land of shallow lakes guarded by winged animals where cassias were gathered. I can hear Pliny the Elder screaming at me: “Shut up unscrupulous spice trader!” But really, we traversed a once-upon-a-time paradisaic river valley which Mt. Pinatubo, in its pre-Hispanic fury, buried in lahar. More lahar flowed in during the 1991 eruption. In the latter, the tons of volcanic debris deposited in the valley transformed it into a wasteland and displaced the Aetas, its Negrito inhabitants.

            Of course Titot and Jing wanted to document every step of the way, so, we have to stop by every now and then to take photos. We stopped by for a photo shot near a freshwater rivulet – a remnant of larger river that once drained the area. The Hispanistas call it “arroyo,” a stream flowing through an arid region. Will this arroyo succeed in spurring back life into this wasteland? Or will it dry and die with it. History will soon be the judge.

            With too much dillydallying, our driver began to get irritated but tried, probably with extreme effort, not to show it. It’s almost three o'clock in the afternoon and we haven’t even reached the skyway yet. Yes! There is a skyway. Of course, it’s not the same as that of Makati. It is of a different kind. It is a rugged highway carved on the mountainside. And instead of seeing tall buildings on the horizon, we instead passed by Aeta lean-tos and huts. Again, we dropped by for another set of photo sessions.

            Because of its numerous twists and turns, the skyway should be a dangerous highway! We negotiated steep mountainsides with precipice plunging several feet below. No wonder it’s called the skyway, one wrong move and you’re on your way to the skies. And more than once Jing volunteered to drive! Except for some accommodating nods from the driver, nobody took her offers seriously.

            It was late in the afternoon when we started our ascend. The skyway had come to a dead end which may be called the “base.” Our tour guide told us to follow the course of what appeared to be a dried river with several insignificant cascades. Along the way, we met several tourists on their way down. One of them gave us a ready smile and blurted: Enjoy! Wow. I am intrigued. What’s up there that made young and old tourists smile?

            We walked against the flow of this dying river and passed by hundreds of boulders and rocks. Many of the boulders are too large that one can only wonder how these giants arrived in the area. If they were placed there by the volcano, then its pre-Hispanic eruption must have been catastrophic.    

            After few minutes of walk and talk, we were almost at the peak. The manmade stairway at the lips of the crater hinted the end of the journey. Titot and Jing, as usual, took turns posing and taking photos at the rather misplaced stairway. But for me, I can’t wait to see the surprise up there waiting. I rushed to the top. And lo, there it was.

            Silence.

            There was silence as the cold breeze caressed my face. I held my breath as I behold the wonder of wonders – a beauty I’ve never seen before. And I shouted out loud: “Ahhh, who said the Philippines has nothing to offer?” 

            I am gazing at a sight so real yet surreal. Everything looked so fragile. The distant slopes surrounding the crater are mere piles of volcanic ashes ready to slide down had I shouted louder. The volcano, still steaming, may explode at the slightest disturbance. The delicate turquoise blue waters lay dreaming (or who’s dreaming?). It’s one of nature’s best kept secrets, beautifully magical! The birds must be so lucky to have seen this place before any human did.

Atty. Bautista and me testing the waters.

            The Mt. Pinatubo crater is a bowl-shaped depression resembling a caldera. It is two (2) kilometers wide and five hundred (500) meters deep. There are no large trees around the crater. Only wild berries planted by the birds abound. The tour guide told us that the volcano destroyed its summit during its last eruption. Its height shrank from 1,745 meters to 1,400 meters. I thought the volcano blew off its peak, but the tour guide insisted that only a small portion of the mountaintop was thrown out; the rest had been swallowed down into the abyss. My subsequent study convinced me he was right.

           

            We kayaked to the other side of the crater. The treeless slopes remained breathtaking even at a closer view. There is a new pile of ash and stones making us conclude that the past rains must have caused a minor landslide. As we rowed towards western shores, we observed the waters steamed.

            The waters weren’t hot, so from the kayak I plunged in without hesitation (who can blame an excited tourist?). I can’t swim, so I kept my feet rooted on the sand. Ouch! The lake floor was scorching hot! I rushed to the shore as I felt my feet burned at every step. To save my feet, I started to crawl as I approached the shore. Ouch! It felt like I dipped my fingers into a boiling cauldron! I rushed out of the lake as the tour guide and the kayak rower laughed lustily.

            We had a wonderful time at the crater – talks, laughs, shouts, pranks, poses, foods – nobody can tell us what we can or can’t do. Life, far from the city, seemed so leisurely and relaxed. We were already in Botolan, Zambales, yet, not a single Botolan soul knew of our presence. The Botolan government did not even care (or did they?) about this revenue-raising tourist attraction within its territory. Titot and I can’t help but reminisce how the income funneled in from Pagsanjan Falls tourists were divided among three municipalities that surrounds it.              

            I didn’t want that day to end. None of us did. But tour guides always have some pre-fabricated reasons when they want to dispose of tourists. One is: “it’s getting dark, it will soon be too dangerous for us to descend.” Another is: “the waves are bigger during late afternoons so we have to kayak back before large waves set in.” And still another: “mountain ghosts may soon appear!” Being unfamiliar with the place, tourists often do not argue with the guides. And so, after barely an hour in the sight, we started our descend.

           

            The descend was as exciting as the ascend. Our packed bags should have been lighter as provisions had been consumed. But not mine, I collected stone samples for my study thus making my bag heavier than it was before. When we arrived at the base, we found out that our driver and our “four by four” were gone. Except for an unfamiliar red vehicle, the base was deserted – dead empty. There was an eerie silence as the winds moaned. Even the sound of a breaking twig was hair-raising. The mountain ghosts had allowed their presence to be felt.

            “I will be your driver,” a stranger sitting on a rock broke the silence. We were told that our driver was afraid of ghosts and poltergeists so he left asking someone else to take his place. I really thought he was afraid of his wife that’s why he must be home early. But no, the tour guide confirmed some inexplicable noises, throwing of stones and other disturbing phenomena at the summit especially when one is alone. I only smiled. If I were a ghost, I would still prefer to live in the city.

            Our new driver is a speed driver. As he raced us back to the resort, we were all too worn-out to remind him to slow down. At the skyway, we waved at every Aeta we passed by. At their settlement somewhere in the middle of the skyway, we saw Aeta youngsters playing basketball. Their dark complexion now blended with the dusk. They looked more like shadows than real people.

            Thirty minutes later, we passed by a homeward-bound Aeta family on-board a cart drawn by a carabao (water buffalo). With that slow pace, I wonder if they can reach their settlement before suppertime. “Will somebody give them a horse?!” I exclaimed.

            Cheap jokes still abound despite our weariness. The new driver’s “king of the road” style must have stopped Jing from volunteering to drive. We even hit a dog. I wanted admonish the driver but he looked too unfriendly, so I kept it to myself. We arrived at the resort satisfied and smiling.

            As we prepared to travel back to the metropolis, I’m still thinking about the crater and all its grandeur. It was not easy to get its picture off my head. Titot invited me to a place called Isdaan in Gerona, Tarlac to dine and relax. I agreed absentmindedly. I must have been possessed by the mountain ghosts. Soon Isdaan possessed me too.

            I’m coming back, alright. I’m coming back.