After months of planning, anticipation, and daydreams, the day had finally come—September 21st, the day we would begin our journey to conquer the mighty Mount Apo.
That morning, news of torrential rains and flooding in parts of Mindanao started pouring in, casting a shadow over our excitement. Whispers of concern stirred within the group, but we clung to hope. Maybe—just maybe—Mount Apo would be spared the downpour, at least for the days we needed it to be.
Our flight from Manila to Davao was supposed to touch down at 5:00 PM, but fate had other plans. A red lightning alert in Davao kept us circling the skies until 7:00 PM. By the time we finally stepped out of the airport and took a 30-minute jeepney ride to our hotel, we were exhausted but excited. We knew we had only a few hours to rest before the real adventure began.
At exactly 3:00 AM, we were back on the road, our van slicing through the dark, quiet roads toward Kidapawan, the gateway to Mount Apo National Park. After two hours, we arrived in Kapatagan, where we stopped for breakfast. Warm food, steaming coffee, and the buzz of anticipation filled the air. With full bellies and lifted spirits, we took another short ride and finally reached the trailhead—a sign greeted us boldly: "Welcome to the Sibulan Heritage Trail to Mt. Apo, Sta. Cruz, Davao del Sur."
And just like that, our journey began.
As we entered Sitio Tumpis, the scenery gradually changed. Farmlands gave way to wild, untouched forests. The air grew cooler, fresher. The sounds of birds chirping, leaves rustling, and insects buzzing formed a natural symphony that seemed to welcome us deeper into the wilderness. We paused, soaking in the shift—the contrast between cultivated life and raw nature was breathtaking. With deep breaths and hopeful hearts, we stepped into the embrace of the forest.
Our first major stop was Basakan E-Camp, located 9 kilometers from the summit. The trail was demanding but exhilarating. From there, we made our way to Bugha-anan, and a bit further on, we took a break for lunch in the heart of the forest. Afterward, we resumed our trek and finally arrived at Big Rock E-Camp, just 6.4 kilometers from the peak.
By 2:00 PM, after a full seven hours of trekking from Sitio Culan, we reached Tinikaran Campsite. The rain started to fall in scattered bursts, but the towering trees above offered us shelter. We pitched our tents and curled up inside, waiting for dinner prepared by the organizers. We ate early, just before dusk fell—eating with only flashlight beams is no easy feat. That night, rain continued to fall, soaking through some of our bedding. But our bodies, worn out from the day’s climb, hardly noticed the discomfort.
Before the sun could rise, at 2:00 AM, we were up again, preparing for our final ascent to the summit. This part of the trail was tougher—slick with rain, cloaked in darkness, and cluttered with fallen trees and steep slopes. Around 4:00 AM, we reached Tinikaran Campsite 2, just 5.45 kilometers from the summit. We rested briefly at Camp 2, then pushed forward to the entrance of the boulder face—a major milestone in the climb.
The change in scenery was instant and dramatic. Dense forest gave way to sand and stone. As we approached the boulders, we paused again to watch the sun rise, casting golden light across the massive rocks. The temperature was kind, making the steep climb feel more manageable. By 5:00 AM, we were navigating an endless stretch of jagged rocks. Sulfur vents released sharp, eggy scents into the air, and we paused for another packed meal in this alien, rocky terrain.
Four grueling hours later, we reached White Sand. Fog began to settle in, blanketing the surroundings in a cold, mystical silence. At 9:30, we began our climb toward Crater Lake—an especially steep section, nearly vertical, with an 87-degree incline and no ropes for support. The fog was a blessing in disguise—it hid the terrifying drop below and helped ease my fear of heights.
After about 30 minutes, we reached the crater. But the heavy rains from the night before had caused the water level to rise, so we couldn’t go any further into it. We rested briefly and then pushed forward once more.
After just 20 more minutes, we arrived at Digos Peak, the summit of Mount Apo.
I can’t describe the feeling in a single word—it was a mix of joy and melancholy. Joy because I had finally achieved a dream I’d carried for years. Me. On the summit of Mount Apo. A goal I had once quietly doubted I could reach. But there was sadness too. The dense fog had robbed us of the panoramic views we had imagined. Still, I was overwhelmed with gratitude—for the journey, for the summit, and for the strength I had found in myself.
Because of the cold, we headed down to the old campsite to warm up and have lunch. Then we decided to climb another nearby peak, located along the boundary of Region 11 and Region 12. After the requisite summit photos, we quickly descended, eager to escape the biting chill. Though it didn’t rain, the trail was wet and muddy from the lingering fog.
We began our descent toward Lake Venado, carefully navigating the wet and muddy trail. The fog still lingered, making it difficult to see more than a few steps ahead. Every step was slow and calculated, our tired legs slipping occasionally on the damp soil. After two to three hours of trudging through the misty path, we finally arrived—but to our surprise, Lake Venado was hidden from sight, swallowed whole by a dense curtain of fog.
I was soaked from head to toe, and the cold at Lake Venado was biting. With my clothes damp and the air unforgiving, I began to feel the telltale signs of hypothermia—numb fingers, trembling limbs, a deep chill that seemed to seep into my bones. Thankfully, I acted fast. I rummaged through my pack and changed into dry clothes, wrapping myself in every layer I had.
Dinner came shortly after. We ate in silence, huddled together, letting the warmth of the food fight off the cold. Once we finished, we retreated into our tents. The night was icy, and the cold seemed to settle into the ground itself. Despite the extra layers, it was the coldest night of the entire trip—a night that made you curl tighter into your sleeping bag, wishing for morning.
And then… morning came—and with it, a miracle.
When we unzipped our tents and stepped outside, we were greeted by a completely different world. The sky was clear, the fog had lifted, and for the first time, Mount Apo revealed itself in all its glory. Towering and majestic, its jagged peaks stood against a backdrop of brilliant blue sky. From Lake Venado, we could finally see the mighty mountain we had climbed, and the sight was absolutely breathtaking.
At its base, Lake Venado shimmered like a glass mirror, reflecting the silhouette of Mount Apo above. The once-murky landscape was now a vibrant portrait of greens, blues, and grays—the campsite nestled peacefully beside the lake, hugged by the arms of the mountain. The contrast from the day before was stunning. Gone were the fog and fatigue. In their place was awe.
All the struggles from the previous day—the soaked clothes, the chilling rain, the fogged-out summit—felt like a distant memory. That view, that morning, made everything worth it. We were lucky. Even though the summit had been hidden from us, Mount Apo had chosen to show herself now, in her full, unfiltered beauty. And we stood there in silent gratitude, knowing that moments like these are the ones you carry with you forever.