 |
||||||||
 |
||||||||
|
||||||||
|
Southeast Asia high
By JIM SOLISKI © St. Petersburg Times, published May 20, 2001
The wind blew in gusts. Wonky legs sent a weak but distinct message to retreat from the brink. Dawn's early light began to turn high clouds into swaths of burnt orange and flaming red. Slowly, the sun clawed its way up and around a distant, jagged apex and shone white light against jutting curves. Far below me, cloud cover shrouded the jungled foothills of the Mother mountain. The edge of the night shadow approached until, finally, the rays of warmth attacked my shivering. Gripping the camera tightly, I pressed hard on the shutter release to record this spectacular scene. The best-known expedition in Sabah, one of two states in East Malaysia on the island of Borneo, is to climb the highest peak in Southeast Asia -- Mount Kinabalu at 13,451 feet. The name derives from a word meaning "revered place of the dead."
Thirty-six hours earlier, the air at the park entrance -- at 5,000 feet elevation -- had been refreshingly cool compared to the tropical heat of Malaysia. The dense jungle was absolutely green, green, green. Spirits were high among us travelers who had ad-libbed into groups of eight to share the guide costs. We were unsure what to expect. Our only firsthand report had come from a veteran of the odyssey who was back down the same afternoon as our arrival. Lying in our six-bed dorm, he chuckled but said only, "It's hard . . . but worth it." What does that mean? How hard is hard? "Worth it" to whom? At 7:30 the next morning, a bus chugged up a paved road to Mile 0 at 6,200 feet. The hiking trail from there began easily, over a boardwalk and past a waterfall. But from there on -- with nature as the winning-bid architect -- rarely was the track a flat path on an incline, as we had speculated. Instead, it seemed that each of our steps climbed a stair, each stair made of rock, or carved-out stones, or tree roots, or a few ladders. No two stairs rose the same height. Some required grabbing ropes or a branch or a small tree or the helping hand from the climber in front. At times, I used the strap from my bag as a pull rope, snagging something and pulling myself up. We crossed dry and wet creek beds, sheer-faced stone, cliffs, gravel, planks, boulders, sand, mud holes, water holes. There were also resting points, flowers, jungle, squirrels, rats, birds, waterfalls, clouds, wind, mist, downpours and sunshine. It was a vertical witch's brew. Finally, at approximately 5 p.m., the first huts for our partial night's rest appeared. They were at mile 9.6, at 11,000 feet. Our group collected in this place's canteen for a "What did we get ourselves into?" therapy session. We had only just begun when the rain exploded with a mighty crash. A waterfall fell from a nearby cliff and thundered past the window. Just as suddenly, this near-vertical river vanished and the clouds deserted to provide a glimpse for the next day. But in a blink, the clouds recloaked the rock, and the water again pounded past. A lousy, frosty sleep ended at about 2:30 a.m.; the protocol was to reach the summit for sunrise. A nearly full moon dominated the starry sky. The climb's final 2.5 to 3 miles, above the tree line, passed over flat, steep, colossal rocks. Finally, we reached the peak, mile 14.1 at 13,451 feet. The temperature was 35 degrees, the wind about 25 mph. I had on a T-shirt, cotton pants, acrylic sweater, plastic poncho, socks and sandals. Still, my hands felt both swollen and frozen, my feet were soaked and more frozen and my lips were bleeding. With the photo shoot at the peak completed, one last job remained: Who goes up must come down. The final leg began as a group, but Anders from Sweden -- early 20s, fit as a fiddle, apparently in rut -- and two of his contemporaries, a German doctor and another European stud, more or less ran down. I suspected a certain national pride at stake for the first to the bottom. Anikka and Kristina -- Anders' traveling companions -- and I ambled down. Too spent, we had no choice. Jokes and self-ridicule united us in misery. Howling with laughter (it was better than crying) at our ineptness, each third-of-a-mile trail mark took longer and longer to reach.
Meanwhile, we three laughed and limped our way to the bottom, last off the hill. We pulled ourselves aboard a waiting bus and slunk into the seats like Rocky after round 15 ("There ain't gonna be no rematch."). After 12 dead-to-the-world hours of sleep and a pleasant breakfast, the Swedes and I split up and stood on the opposite sides of the highway, thumbing to our next destinations: east to Sandakan for them and west to Kota Kinabalu for me.
As I dropped off, I realized the mandatory insurance policies required before climbing Kinabalu made sense: Health insurance paying up to $5,000 was enough to get a patient down the mountain. And for those too broken to recover, the $5,000 life insurance policy was enough extra to send the occasional body home. -- Canadian freelance writer Jim Soliski lives thousands of feet closer to sea level, in Edmonton, Alberta.
 © 2006 • All Rights Reserved • Tampa Bay Times
490 First Avenue South • St. Petersburg, FL 33701 • 727-893-8111 
|
From the Times Travel page
From the AP |
After 10 minutes, a truck, loaded with pipe, picked up the Swedes and disappeared around the curve. My ride coincided with their departure, and I was dropped off in front of my hostel in Kota Kinabalu. First thing, I took a nap.
