Jungle Trekking

Articles Tagged with: Jungle Trekking

6 December, 2006

Mt Kinabalu Melangkap Route

‘There’s a new route from Kampung Melangkap’ said Jasirin my mountain guide friend.
My interest was piqued immediately
‘Have many people done it?’ I enquired
‘Yes lots’ he replied. I was deflated.
‘But only villagers’ he added. My imagination took off again and for some reason the word Melangkap got caught in the mesh of my sieve like brain.

About a month later I received a call out of the blue from Graeme Shepherd an old climbing friend of mine from Dundee whom I had not seen for six years. Graeme and I had met in my last months at Dundee University. That this was barely enough time to form a friendship did not deter Graeme from inviting himself to stay with me during my post university sabbatical in New Zealand. Together we enjoyed three weeks of travel and rock climbing in the North Island and our friendship was sealed. However, apart from sporadic email contact that was the last time I heard from him until now.

‘Are you still in Borneo?’ Graeme enquired tentatively by email. Based on past form I thought I could see where this was leading. A week later he had booked his flights and was coming to visit me. It transpired that he had just finished Medical School in Brisbane and wanted a three week blow out. His ambition was to see proboscis monkeys and orang utans and also to visit Mt Kinabalu. It was now down to me to juggle some time off and come up with an itinerary.

For the first week of his trip I had work commitments so I suggested that he take off to the Kinabatangan River to see some monkeys. In the second week I was sure that I could get us into the Danum Valley Field Centre. This just left the third week. I remembered Jasirin’s words; the route could be done in five days he had assured me. Would Graeme be up for it I wondered? More importantly would he be up to it? I had not seen the guy for six years; he could have become fat and sedentary during his time at medical school. Somehow I doubted this but even so I knew that the climb would be challenging and so I pointed Graeme at the trip report of my Mt Kinabalu Eastern Ridge Expedition to give him an idea of what to expect. I could see that he was apprehensive but I was confident that we could succeed.

On our second day into the expedition Graeme confided in me ‘you told me that it was going to be hard but I didn’t realise it was going to be this hard!’ We had been on the go since dawn and it was now nearly dark. The first part of the day had involved wading up a boulder strewn stream bed with occasional detours into the jungle to avoid deep pools and waterfalls. At mid morning we left the stream and abruptly started climbing. The ground was loose and I had to dig my fingers into the mud or grasp at wild ginger to avoid a slide back down into the gorge. I was glad of the studded soles of my fell running shoes. As we got higher the angle eased off and we could stand upright without using our hands.

Walking under the tree canopy dulls the sense of distance but heightens your awareness of the immediate proximity. This is just as well when the footing is not always stable, overhead branches wait to snag your rucksack and every potential handhold must be assessed for spines and structural integrity. With no views for orientation it is only the shape of the ground that gives a clue to progress. For a while I was aware that we were following a ridge line, at other times we were climbing a steep face. At one point we scrambled up a small watercourse and paused to refill our water bottles. Shortly after this the ground levelled out and we reached a camp site. Our itinerary did not allow for the luxury of a half day trek and so we pushed on, aware that the water we were carrying may have to last until the next day.

Our objective was the Penataran River. I had no idea what this meant other than Jasirin said that that this was where the next water supply and a camp site could be found. Later, on inspecting the map I found that this river drains the infamous Low’s Gully. We were to join it upstream of the confluence with Low’s. The trail traversed the hillside now and the mountain dropped into gloom to our right. Progress was slowed by barbed rattan which clawed at the skin and made an unpleasant tearing sound as it dragged across our rucksacks. The leeches which had been bugging us all day were now starting to get unbearable, my socks were soaked with gelatinous blood and the bites were starting to itch. It had not rained but my clothing was soaked and the sweat stung where it ran into scratched skin. It started to get dark and my fears of not reaching the campsite came sharply into focus. At this point we lost the path.

All day I had been surprised by the quality of the trail. Although steep and at times treacherous it was generally easy to follow and if in doubt regular blazes on trees confirmed its course. It was clearly well used by villagers, presumably as a hunting trail. At this point however a large fallen tree had obliterated all signs. While I checked out the hillside for flat areas that might fit our tent, Jasirin and our porter Girul circled the tree fall looking for the trail markers. Just as I had scraped out a bit of level ground Jasirin reported that he had found the trail. I was inclined to stay put until morning but Jasirin convinced us that we might still reach the Penataran before nightfall.

We started off again steeply downhill and soon we could indeed hear the roar of a river, but it was still far below. Jasirin ranged ahead, terrier like and we followed on as best we could. A steep off balance move over some rotten logs lead me through a band of small cliffs into a dry watercourse. I passed it without incident and remember hearing Graeme behind me mutter ‘this is dangerous’. Moments later I was aware of trauma and turned to see him embracing a 10 foot section of dead tree trunk that had come free of the hillside. For a time-stand-still moment they pirouetted together and eventually both managed to stay on their ledge. We were shaken but there was no time to gather our thoughts. We plunged on down skirting steep cliffs and pushing through thick vegetation. Meanwhile the gloom thickened.

‘Not enough time’ confessed Jasirin, but he had found a campsite. One side of the tent overhung the edge of the path while the opposite side was dug into the hillside. The tent door was propped up by a sharp boulder. Jasirin and Girul’s campsite was even smaller. Dinner was instant noodles, there being no inclination to attempt something more elaborate. As night fell the insects came out and I batted away a cloud of small biting flies while I attempted to tidy up our dinner utensils. With relief I finished my chores and bundled into the tent and zipped up the insect mesh. It was no use, the mesh was too large and the flies came through. We hung up a torch in the porch to keep them outside. There was no question of going straight to sleep, our feet and legs were a mess and needed attention.

Leeches first inject an anaesthetic so you don’t feel their bite, then they inject an anti coagulant. The blood keeps oozing often for hours after the leech has dropped off. To add to our discomfort there were rattan scratches, grazes from logs and rocks and now as the final straw the midge type insects were joining the feast. Stripped down to boxer shorts I dampened some wet wipes and vigorously rubbed down my legs. I then repeated the process using iodine soaked wet wipes. The final stage was to break open some anti-histamine capsules, mix the powder with a little water in our grubby hands and rub this onto our legs. My whole body seemed to itch and the sharp rock by the door precluded any comfortable sleeping position. In vain I told myself it was mind over matter.
‘I’m going to count to 100’ I announced.
I did not even make it to 5 before I was scratching furiously again. Relief was a long time coming.

In the morning it took us another half hour to reach the Penataran River. I exploded my kit gratefully on the moss covered boulders and washed out our pots and pans plus my foetid socks. Overhead a ribbon of blue sky matching the course of the river told us that it was a fine day. So far we had been lucky with the weather, although I did not mention this for fear of tempting fate.

‘So remind me again’ announced Graeme, ‘this is our point of no return right?’
Graeme had a flight to catch and this meant that we were compelled to do the route in five days. Now on our third day our commitment to completing the route would become binding. In reality the thought of retracing our steps had already become unthinkable.

Back in Kundasang before starting the expedition we had emphasised our five day deadline to Jasirin. With a flourish he had produced a brown school exercise book who’s only content was a centrefold spread featuring a long wavy line with shorter lines crossing on the perpendicular. I immediately recognised it as a map. This was a major advance for Jasirin and he started adding little triangles to indicate the campsites used by the previous expedition. On this ascent Jasirin himself had been guided by a local hunter and their group had comprised 10 Sabah Parks’ personnel. We counted up the nights which to our consternation came to 7. We started to object but Jasirin was ready for us with a new proposal; we would do the route in reverse!

This seemed to make sense to me because by starting up the tourist path would reduce the amount of ascent we would have to do and presumably also the duration. Jasirin started counting out his proposed camp sites on the map in reverse. They came to 6 but towards the end he hesitated and became confused.
‘We need a rope to cross this river’ he said
‘How deep’ I asked. He indicated chest level and went on to add ‘this other river we cross 14 times’
I caught onto what was worrying him. ‘What happens if it’s in flood?’ I asked.
His lack of an answer told me all I needed to know. We could get four days into the trip and then get stuck on the wrong side of a river. With Graeme’s deadline this was an unacceptable risk, especially as we were technically climbing in the rainy season.

Back to plan A. This way if the rivers were in flood we would encounter them in the first half of the climb and have time to retrace our steps. Jasirin started counting out the campsites again. This time they came to five, it looked like we had a deal.

‘So remind me again’ said Graeme, ‘the 10 guys from Sabah Parks did this route in 8 days and we’re trying to do it in 5?’
‘They were not strong’ explained Jasirin, ‘fat’ he added with pursed lips and an expansive hand gesture.
He got the ‘map’ out again and counted our campsites. This time they came to 4. We could be on our way down the day after tomorrow he suggested. I looked up into the trees. Although I could not see it my GPS told me that there was still 2500m of mountain above us. I trusted Jasirin to get us through but did I trust him enough to gamble on Graeme’s flight? Graeme had not climbed with Jasirin before so had little upon which to base his trust. It was a brave decision for him to continue but then as I have mentioned, to go back was already unthinkable.

The water level in the Penataran was low and we managed to keep our feet dry by boulder hopping. Once again we were carrying two days water and were trying to do two of the previous expedition’s days in one. After crossing the river we passed a comfortable campsite before launching into the climb. It wasn’t long before we reached our first ‘granny stopper’. This is an affectionate term for a short section of climbing on what is otherwise a walking trail. Our way was barred by an overhanging section of rock from which dangled some taunting tree roots. Jasirin was into these roots like a rat up a drainpipe and soon had a rope dangling from the top. Once he’d hauled my pack up I felt a little more confident. I found two good roots to hold onto and started working my feet up a greasy pole thoughtfully provided with parang notches by village hunters. Just as I was attempting to high step and rock over onto the flat of my hands, my right foot slipped and I was left dangling instead. I knew the move now though and stuck it on my second attempt.

With increasing height the trees started to thin out and the trail brightened up. This extra light brought with it more ground vegetation and we waded through waist deep rustling dipteris leaves and ducked under gnarled leptospermum branches. Large pitcher plants were abundant of the species Nepenthes Villosa and Edwardsiana and on the rim of one pitcher we found a tiny frog with a bright orange nose.

We climbed continuously all day with frequent steep root ladders to negotiate. By mid afternoon it started to rain gently and I could tell by my laboured breathing that we were close on 2500m altitude, the height at which I usually start to feel the onset of mountain sickness. I was stopping regularly for rest now and my throat was parched. Jasirin told us that we may not find water until the end of the next day so I could not risk drinking too much. I took some comfort in sucking refreshing droplets from the waxy leaves that I brushed past. We had passed a campsite at lunchtime and it was clear that we were not going to reach the next one before dark. Anxious not to repeat last night’s discomfort Graeme and I resolved to stop when we found some flat ground rather than carry on until nightfall. Fortunately we were now following a ridge that undulated gently and soon reached a broad flat area whose soft mossy ground had recently been dug over by wild pigs.

The next day I was looking forward to getting my head above the trees. Until now the only view of the mountain had been a glimpse from our enforced camp on day 2. Through the trees I had seen a near vertical ridge silhouetted sharply against the fading light. My imagination filled in the parts that I could not see and although it was across the valley the prow seemed to be hanging above us. So intimidating was the feeling that I hesitated to point it out to Graeme. From out of this foreboding came a tremble of excitement. As improbable as it felt, somewhere through the steepness and mist was a way up this mountain.

Now on our fourth day we did not have long to wait to get our first view. It came fleeting at first, framed by twisted branches and eagerly sought from tiptoes on boulder vantages. I forgot my breathlessness and climbed fast to break free from the grip of the forest. When at last I felt space all around me I found Low’s Gully at my feet. Across that improbable defile were ranged the cliffs and spires of the Western Plateau. It was a rock climbers’ paradise but mostly hideously inaccessible. At the base of clean granite walls a subtle shift in angle and elevation allowed vegetation to take hold. These inhospitable slabs disappeared out of sight into the roots of the mountain. Round to the North was the only marginally more amenable Penataran valley and beyond that we could see the cluster of houses at Kampung Melangkap Kapa where we had started our trek so far below.

‘Mr Bean, Mr Bean’ the Kg Melangkap school children had tuanted us earlier, at the start of our climb. I evilly hoped they were referring to Graeme.
‘Who is Mr Bean’ I challenged them.
‘He is!’ they chorused. I felt smug.
‘And you are Mr Bean too’ they added. Or was that ‘Mr Bean Two’?
‘Drink, drink!’ urged one of the cooking women, and for once it wasn’t rice wine. We were supping on hot sweet sago drink mixed with lentils and some other unidentified bits. I had caught some sun during the morning and the drink was refreshing. On the slog up to the village we had been passed by several men coasting down on their motor scooters. Across the panniers were draped what looked like dirty white door mats. A pungent smell confirmed their cargo. Natural rubber was fetching a good price these days, nudged up by the hike in crude oil prices.

Kampung Melangkap Kapa is at the end of the road, hidden in the lower folds of Mt Kinabalu. The village is perhaps best known as the base of rescue operations for the ill fated British Army Low’s Gully expedition. The gratitude of the soldiers is represented by a new village Resthouse. We could not help wondering that given the state of some of the children whether provision of ongoing basic healthcare could have been a more valuable contribution.

I have come to know many of the Dusun people who live around the Mountain and I’m lucky to count some of them as close friends. Jasirin and Girul are from the same stock. Life cannot be easy in some of these villages and yet they always manage to extend unconditional hospitality. After the sago drink we were served huge plates of rice with steamed jackfruit and small dried river fish. We ate to the accompaniment of the afternoon rain drumming on corrugated iron. On cue the rain stopped and we wended our way out of the village through crops of bananas and hill rice. Further out we passed small rubber and pineapple plantations before entering the rainforest.

The forest has long been important to these villages; as a source of water, construction materials, meat, medicinal plants and much more. At Melangkap there is a blurred boundary between rotating cultivation, secondary scrub and primary forest which occurs at about 750m altitude. By contrast around to the south near Kundasang and Mesilau the transition is abrupt, in many places primary forest has been completely cleared up to 1500m altitude. The reason for this stark difference is attributable largely to agriculture. The inhabitants of Kg Melangkap practice subsistence agriculture with limited cash crops whereas Kundasang is renowned for market gardening; growing everything from cabbages to carnations, mushrooms and houseplants.

Another reason for the difference is accessibility. The main highway linking the East and West Coast of Sabah crosses the mountainous spine of the Crocker Range at Kundasang to the south of Mt Kinabalu. At this point the road reaches an altitude of over 1600m making exploitation of the cooler uplands much more feasible. At Melangkap a downed bridge on the dirt road meant that we started walking at 250m above sea level. It was no wonder that later on as we looked back, our starting point appeared so hazy as to be disconnected from our reality of bare granite and clear mountain air.

For a while Low’s Gully was hidden from view, concealed behind the North Peak. As we passed I fantasised about new routes on a pyramid of impeccable granite. My reverie was interrupted by a trickle of water held in a mossy depression. Thirstily I gulped the last of yesterday’s water and refilled. Carrying the extra four kilos seemed to be immediately compensated by being hydrated again. We skirted the summit of North Peak and descended to a gap in the ridge. I could now orient myself from my previous expedition. Down to our left was the gentle sweep of slabs leading into the Mekado Valley, site of our penultimate camp when I climbed Kotal’s Route in 2004. To our right Low’s Gully was back with a vengeance.

The last hour of our climb to King George Peak followed the North Ridge, by now an easy angled incline but with the ever present void nipping at our heels. Out of the Gully rose towers of blinding white cloud. The contrast was intense and the cloud was always shifting so sometimes we could catch glimpses of airy ledges perched over nothing and at other times the peaks of the Western Plateau just floated detached from the earth. With the binoculars we searched down past those ledges trying to measure the depth of the Gully. It was an impossible task, the bottom of that gully might as well be on another planet and I hold a mixture of envy and disbelief for those who have ventured into that world.

Up on the North Ridge the silence is deafening. There is no where else that you can experience this sound, except on a mountain top. It is as oppressive as it is enlightening, both humbling and uplifting. Listen too hard and you’ll get vertigo, it’s best to keep moving. The altitude drags at my feet but my lungs have its measure. I arrive for the second time in my life at King George Peak. There is no point drawing comparisons, this is now and we have a night in the open to look forward to.
‘Red Rocks’ Says Girul, ‘there is a sheltered campsite there’.
Graeme and I agree that even though our tent would not withstand a storm up here, it is more appealing to risk this than descend to the squalid hut at Laban Rata.

Red Rocks does exactly what it says on the tin and we pitched tent beside a house sized boulder. No sooner had we finished when Jasirin pointed out that if it rained our campsite would become a drainage channel.
‘Is there a better campsite?’ I enquired.
‘No’ came the helpful reply
‘So, apa boleh buat?’ Some expressions do not translate easily, the best I can come up with is somewhere between ‘what choice do we have?’ and ‘fuck it!’
As a concession we familiarise ourselves with the emergency exit route to a howf under the boulder.

From here it is a relatively simple matter to descend the fixed ladders and ropes of Bowen’s Route and rejoin the tourist path. We would be back at Park HQ the following afternoon. With the time pressure lifted we relaxed to cook up a feast. Feeling mighty full we were astonished to see Jasirin and Girul eat about twice the volume of rice that we had consumed, plus a side order of noodles. At breakfast we were even more surprised and mildly disgusted to see them making the left over cold rice palatable with the addition of hot coffee!

Their culinary habits aside, it was a pleasure to be on the mountain with such enthusiastic guides. As Graeme observed it was obvious that they too were highly motivated to do this route. For Graeme, I felt a little paranoid that I had chucked him in at the deep end but he remained steadfast throughout. I think there was a big turning point for everyone once we crossed the Penataran River, from that point on the option of retreat became unappealing. The moment at which you commit to a route is always difficult to pin down, but once you’ve crossed that line the doubts subside and everything falls into place.

All photos by I Hall and AG Shepherd. For a complete set of Ian’s photos click here

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3 November, 2006

Trekker Containment Solution

As we were tucking into our dinner last night we were rudely interrupted by an extraordinarily loud crash. It scared the life out of Eda who immediately leapt into Jamil’s arms, thus confirming a point of gossip that Andy and I had been debating for some days. We continued munching our steamed fish for a few more moments before Andy voiced what I had been thinking.

‘That sounded like it came from the region of our hammocks’.

Having managed to let go of Eda, Jamil rushed off to investigate and returned slightly animated to tell me that my stuff was getting wet! We trooped round get some of the action and were impressed to see that a falling tree had demolished the end bay of our dormitory where our beds had been and that the rain was pouring in through splintered timbers and crumpled sheets of corrugated aluminium. I dived straight in to rescue my laptop and in doing so answered that normally hypothetical question ‘if you could only rescue one thing what would it be?’ as it happened there were enough hands on deck to ensure that my sleeping bag and books were moved safely into the dry before my hammock filled up with leaves and rainwater.

We retired to finish our dinner and to debate the essential nature of trees; they germinate, grow tall and then fall over and that given the inescapability of this fact should we build homes underneath them? I have a feeling that this debate will trundle on for some time to come.

Meanwhile I’m sure you can’t wait to hear about progress of my pondok pogrom. Well my stance has changed from ‘death to all pondoks’ to ‘oh well, if you must but only if they can be critically justified’. What this means is that I’ve been questioning what a pondok is and what it is designed to do.

To start, perhaps the idea would be easier to swallow if they weren’t called pondoks but instead something like; ‘visitor management facility’, ‘trekker containment solution’ or ‘behavioural suggestion installation for environmental protection and visitor safety’. However at risk of degenerating into ‘business bullshit’ (as a friend likes to call it) I will refer to ‘deck’, ‘railing’, ‘lunch spot’ and ‘covered bench’.

Since my last email I have had a good chat with Dr Waidi who is my client representative at Yayasan Sabah. As usual he has all the answers and was able to substantially clarify the components of my architectural brief. Sometimes I worry that he is actually the only person who has an idea of what’s going on but on other occasions I am relieved that there is someone as astute as he in charge of all these fantastically valuable and equally as fragile conservation areas.

The intention is to develop the spectacular Maliau Falls as the focal attraction of Maliau Basin Conservation Area. To explain this role it is useful to draw a comparison to Kinabalu Park. Here only a small proportion of visitors make the arduous climb to the summit of Mt Kinabalu. Nevertheless the climb is the Park’s most famous asset and it is attainable to most able bodied visitors. Similarly not every visitor to Maliau will see The Falls but the opportunity should be there for as wide a range of poeple who want to make the effort.

If this is the case then my question is; is it justifiable to pepper the Maliau Falls trail with decks, railings, lunch spots and covered benches? The surest way to broaden the range of people who can reach The Falls is to make the trail as easy as possible with well constructed steps, walkways and yes, you’ve guessed it the ‘P’ word.

My next question is; why is it necessary to get all these people into The Falls? Let’s remember that Yayasan Sabah’s obligation is to Malaysians living in Sabah. These forests are being conserved in their name therefore every Sabahan should have the opportunity to go and visit. The other less obvious reason is that the future of MBCA is not guaranteed. An act of government made it a conservation area therefore an act of government could equally un-make it. Why might the politicians want to do this? Of course there is logging (including the fantastically valuable Agathis tree) but there are also rich coal deposits with an estimated capitalised value in excess of 200 million US Dollars.You’re going to need many years of eco-tourism to make this kind of money and unfortunately economists to not give equal weighting to financial benefits that accrue in the future.

One thing that might stay the politician’s hand is the voice of their electorate. That is why Maliau Basin needs visitors, particularly Malaysians who can experience at first hand and through environmental education the value of Sabah’s natural history.

In this case my feeling is that maybe a pondok or two in the right place is not too high a price to pay. The next challenge is how to design them with as little environmental impact as possible.

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14 October, 2006

Misty Rainforest Vibes

In front of me the river is making it’s way over a small waterfall and behind me I can hear the girls carrying on in the kitchen as they prepare lunch. I am sitting next to a 1:50,000 scale relief model of the Maliau Basin Conservation area which is to be my home environment for the next three months. Home itself is an accretion of zinc roofed shelters that meander across folds in the ground between leggy rainforest trees. As a white man and therefore head and shoulders taller than most Malaysians, I have to continually watch my head on forehead cracking beams. I also have to watch where my feet or chair legs are placed on the constantly varying floor levels. It is easily possible to push your chair back upon finishing your meal only to loose the back legs over an edge with hilarious consequences.

One of my jobs is to recommend improvements to this camp, named Agathis Camp after the concentration of huge Agathis trees in the area. It is required to cater for up to forty guests, most of whom visit Maliau to see the many waterfalls and unique geology and biodiversity of the basin. The camp’s strength is it’s connection to nature. From where I am sitting I can almost reach out and touch the rainforest and in fact nature itself is trying to crawl into the LAN port on my laptop as I type.

Most of my projects are camps similar to this. The conservation area managers want to expand the tourist potential of rainforest trekking by developing overnight camps on the trail network. On my previous visit here I checked out two such sites by helicopter; Lobah Camp and Seraya Camp. Exciting as this was it was nothing compared to trekking there on foot. What you miss out on with helicopter travel is the feeling of isolation and disconnection from normal life. You do get some sense of scale but this is distorted. 60m trees could easily be broccoli heads, With a little imagination. From the ground you rarely see the broccoli, in fact you’re lucky to even see the sky. It’s just tree trunks, lots of them and an awarness there is something big above you and around you. This closeness means that when you do get a view, it’s extra special.

There was a storm last night at Lobah Camp. Just before sunset I popped up to the clearing on the ridge that is used as a helicopter landing site. From that vantage point I could see clouds and rain advancing across the rim of the basin and down the valley towards us. At 1.00am I awoke with a start as thunder crashed directly overhead. I lay awake terrified that a stricken tree would demolish our camp, but there was nothing save the hammering of rain on corrugated zinc. Despite the roof and tarpaulin walls around me a fine spray of moisture settled on my face and dampened my sleeping bag. During a lull I ventured outside for a piss. In the darkness I imagined the forest spirits going about their business, tapping on my bare shoulders with cool drops of water. I switched my headtorch off and between flashes of lightning I could see no distinction between forest and sky. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, lights came on around my feet. Dappled phosphorescence seemed to float just above where the ground should be, the entire forest floor brightly mapped by a blanket of glow-in-the-dark fungus living off the leaf mould.

The rain stopped at about 7.00am shortly after sunrise. I rushed back up to the helicopter landing site to be rewarded with a view of crowns of emergent trees poking through the mist and the thunder of waterfalls hidden 500m below me. One of my jobs is to design a camp here. By selecting a few trees to chop down I’m hoping to open up this view to residents eating their fried rice breakfast on a veranda perched on the edge. The idea of chopping down a few trees is one that I’m relatively comfortable with now. I still feel the need to say sorry to the tree but I hope they’ll understand. The problem that I’m wrestling with on this trip is that my brief includes spattering the trails with pondoks and building gazebos at every waterfall and point du view.

A pondok here is usually a square pyramid roof on four posts with a bench or two underneath. They’re designed as a dry rest point for footsore trekkers. Problem is that after a year or two the roof is dented by falling branches, the timbers are decorated with graffiti and litter is trodden into the mud underfoot. This is in addition to the fact that I believe that people would want to walk these trails for the wilderness jungle ‘lost world’ vibe, which is incompatible with a pondok every hour. And don’t get me started on gazebos, even the word sounds awful!

My plan then is to try to sell a principle of restricting buildings to the camp sites and providing the ‘lost world’ vibe with views from the camps and either on the trails between camps or on loop walks to waterfalls. They’ve asked for my advice on trail construction too so hopefully we can avoid miles of ruler straight boardwalks but I don’t think there’s a way round the aluminium ladders that are necessary on many sections, particularly on approach to waterfalls. I’ve also got some bridges to design. I’ve never designed a bridge in my puff, unless you count that balsa wood contraption in first year Structures.

I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to get all this work done because office facilities are a little makeshift. I was hoping to stay at the new Maliau Basin Studies Centre but that is still under construction and out of bounds due to a recent malaria outbreak amongst the construction workers. Unfortunately, using the studies centre is unavoidable because that’s where the satellite internet connection is. Using it only by day when mosquitoes are asleep seems a good way around the problem, but getting there from Agathis Camp is a forty minute drive by battered Toyota landcruiser. The track is far from straightforward. On my last trip there we broke the rear drive shaft and had to radio for another battered landcruiser to tow us home.

Just in case you were worried that I’ll feel a little lonely in the jungle, the last four evenings I have been enjoying the company of Glen Reynolds, Senior Scientist at Danum Valley Field Centre, Charles Godfray, Professor of Zoology at Imperial College and Sir Peter Crane, Director of the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. I hope my after dinner banter is up to such intellectual company! I’m expecting them back from their animal spotting by searchlight ‘night drive’ shortly and am holding out that they will need my help to finish their bottle of cask strength Aberlour single malt.

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14 October, 2006

Mt Kinabalu Eastern Ridge

My meeting with Prof Ho is documented at Arkitrek under the post of his name. Another fascinating thing for me about Prof. Ho is that he was a member of the 1964 Mt Kinabalu East Expedition during which Prof. E J H Corner of Cambridge University made the third ascent of Kotal’s Route to the Eastern Plateau of Mt Kinabalu. This is the route that I followed in complete ignorance with friends Emma and Matt in June 2004. The account of that ascent follows.

* * * * *

The rotting branch takes on a fresh intensity as I decide to trust my weight to it. It appears to be held together by lichen. My senses are heightened perhaps by the gathering dusk and the fact that after nine hours on the go, we still haven’t reached the campsite and water source that our tireless guides have promised. Unexpectedly we find ourselves at the edge of a granite outcrop that affords a momentary viewpoint. My mind alights on the precipitous angle of the jungle and far below tufts of white cloud soak up the last of the day’s light. For a moment I forget my fears and enjoy being alone on the eastern flank of Mt. Kinabalu with my better half Emma and alter ego Matt.

Our route started in the fields above Kundasang where Sammy’s father in law owns a prizewinning cabbage farm. Sammy put this trip together for us including permits, transport, our mountain guide Jusirin and porter Maudin. Jus is the younger of the two, short, stocky and with a touch of the showman. Din is quieter, also short but strong and wiry with remarkable stamina. They only speak a word or two of English but we soon establish a rapport based on the word ‘bagus’ (good).

At the top edge of the cabbage fields Jus and Din confer briefly before leading us into apparently trackless jungle. Our progress is slow and clumsy as we learn to deal with thorny rattan and frustrating bamboo thickets. Juicy pitcher plants grow beside the trail and the flaking trunks of gnarled trees are home to bright green moss and hanging epiphytes. We climb for an hour or so before the ground collects itself into an exposed ridge that we follow until it dips abruptly to a col. The montane rainforest is more stunted here and we are granted glimpses of all embracing mountainside.

It is getting late and our guide’s animated discussion is presumably on the subject of where to spend the night. We pass a number of campsites but they are all rejected on the grounds of ‘tidak air’ (no water). Pushing on through a particularly gloomy thicket we emerge in a small glade on a ridge from where I can hear a waterfall off to one side. Jus and Din have already taken off their sacks and are enthusiastically photographing each other.

With the tents up, our guides collect waterbottles and head off to find the waterfall. They see this as their job and ‘no,’ there is no need for us to accompany them. This annoys Matt and me who would both like an opportunity to explore our new environment. Emma does not have so much energy to spare, but then she has only recently arrived in Borneo and has not spent the last four months doing strenuous volunteer work. We console ourselves by ransacking food from Din’s modified rice sack that he uses as a rucksack.

After breakfast we pick up a trail leading straight uphill out of our camp. We climb steadily all morning and the vegetation requires us to either clamber over large fallen branches or crawl through tunnels of rhododendron. At our lunch spot I am excited to be able to pop my head up above the dwarf canopy and see pinnacles of smooth granite ahead. These I later identify to be the Mesilau Pinnacles, as yet unclimbed. Right now though I have no idea of the topography of the mountain, we don’t even have a map or compass. Our only sources of information are our eyes, Matt’s altimeter and our eloquent guides.

This ignorance has become intrinsic to our whole expedition. Two months earlier Matt and I asked Sammy if he knew whether it was possible to climb Mt. Kinabalu by a route that would avoid the tourists and that would take several days to allow for comfortable acclimatization. ‘Eastern Ridge,’ said Sammy after his preliminary research, ‘It takes six days and does not go to Lowe’s Peak.’ He added that the climb would require written permission from Sabah Parks and that we would need to find a mountain guide who knew the route. Furthermore he warned us that we might not be permitted due to lack of water on the route and unknown condition of fixed ropes. ‘But don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll do all the arrangement for you.’

For aspiring adventurers this description was irresistible. Matt and I immediately signed up and I put Emma’s name down too. The fact that she had no idea what I was getting her into worried me a little. The combination of rainforest and a spectacularly steep mountain guaranteed that this would be a challenging climb. With no research to make up for our naivety, we were all three signing up in blind faith. In fact Emma was signing up in blind faith on my blind faith.
‘But don’t worry,’ we had assured her, ‘this is the way things work in Sabah, everything will sort itself out.’
The fact that she didn’t put her foot down implied acceptance of the plan, or lack thereof, and that we were all in.

I am a little disappointed when we head downhill, away from those alluring pinnacles. ‘Need water’ we are told. ‘No water here.’ We skirt the base of the pinnacles until it is possible to descend into a dry gully bed.
‘Tidak air,’ announces Jus, confirming the obvious.
‘OK, where is air?’ I try not to sound impatient or concerned.
‘Next one.’ By which I presume he means the next watercourse.
Ironically it starts to rain and I’m not sure whether to put some more clothes on or to spread out our tent flysheet to catch water? Jus and Din also appear uncertain and are quartering the hillside presumably looking for a trail that will lead to the ‘next one’. No sooner have I made my decision they find the trail contouring an improbably steep spur that bounds our gully.

We scramble up and down over tree roots and boulders, traversing the mountainside in a pattern that will inevitably bring us into another drainage. Again we hear ‘tidak air’. It’s getting late and Matt and I are grinning at each other in a ‘this is starting to get interesting but we’re game for it’ kind of manner. Matt and I may be game but Emma lets it be known that she’s flagging. I wonder how much she has left. I have found through experience of climbing with women that they tend to hold more in reserve than they let on. This compared to men for whom the converse is often true. I hold onto this thought and pray that tiredness does not result in accidents.

We should have found a campsite by now but we continue, descending a gully choked with logs and boulders. We’re moving away from that smooth granite toward steaming jungle ravines of indiscernible depth. We descend by lowering ourselves from mossy roots onto footholds of crumbling humus. I have twigs down my back from stooping under branches and my knees are filthy from crawling. We pass a good flat camping site. Tidak air of course and it’s onwards and downwards. At the end of the day it gets dark and even our guide has to admit that we will have to camp with tidak air. ‘Tidak bagus’ (not good) mutters Matt. We chop out a small ledge from the moss and roots and manage to get two thirds of the tent onto it. After dinner of tuna mayo with crackers washed down with peanut butter, we mix the last of our water with some rehydration salts and pass the mug around.

Conversation before bedtime revolves around how we have got into this situation and now that we’re here, what can we do to about it. We all feel the need to talk but it is clear that we have few options and that we can take no decisions until morning. It’s to be a sleepless night characterised by a sticky throat and dreams of clear flowing rivers.

That morning we are greeted by the concerned faces of our guides. I try to communicate the question ‘where will we find water?’ we are assured that, ‘over there,’ is water. ‘Over there’ could be either on the facing hillside or around the corner into another watercourse. What they do make clear however is that neither our path nor any other path continues down, which would seem to me to be our best tactic for finding water. This fact also unsatisfactorily answers Emma’s growing concern, where is our escape route?

It is nine hours back to the last known water and there is no alternative route down. We have no choice but to continue. After half an hour’s walk we reach a drainage that guards a trickle of water. It takes five minutes to fill each waterbottle but we soon have enough to brew up some noodles. With the help of a Malay phrasebook and some hasty diagrams we try to thrash out a map and itinerary for the way ahead.
‘Tonight, good water. Bagus air,’ Jus tells us emphatically.
‘And then the next night also bagus air?’ we ought to have established these basic facts when we had Sammy around to translate.
‘No, no good water there,’ replies Jus. It is clear that there is no point in taking this conversation further. We bend down to start packing our rucksacks and in doing so make a tacit agreement to continue.

Jus recognises the moment and utters the call to action. ‘Bagus?’
‘Bagus,’ we dutifully echo. Matt looks at me and rolls his eyes.
‘Jalan naik bukit’ (the path goes uphill) adds Jus in case there was any doubt.
Uphill it is, through larger trees that thankfully allow me to climb without a stoop. As the forest dwindles into giant heath we reach a vantage point where we decide to have lunch. As soon as we have set out our food it starts to rain heavily. We pull out our tent flysheet for shelter but are already soaked and shivering. Matt finds a reserve of energy and busies himself brewing Maggi noodles that go a long way to restoring moral. With the rain easing back to a drizzle we set off again, this time downhill.

After crawling through another rhododendron tunnel we emerge on a vague ridgeline from where more pinnacles appear through the mist.
‘Eastern Ridge.’ Announces Jus.
As this is the supposed name of our route, you might forgive me for assuming that we would be climbing the Eastern Ridge. Instead we cross the ridgeline and descend away from the pinnacles. Through gaps in the clearing mist I can see far below to where granite waterslides cascade out of sight into a deep green ravine. I begin to suspect that the headwaters of this steep sided valley might be the bagus air of tonight’s camp. To reach them we must zigzag down vegetated ledges between blank walls of granite, at times using a rope to lower ourselves hand over hand down awkward sections.

Steadily the sound of the cascades draw level and I begin to wax about how committing this route has become. How with commitment comes the surety to perform feats that you would not contemplate if it were easier to back out.
‘Uh oh! This looks interesting.’
I see water falling down a brown mossy slab. This in itself is unremarkable but with the addition of a knotted rope tied to a tree, the waterfall takes on a new significance. Jus swings over the edge first. Sure-footed in cheap plastic plimsolls he is soon at the bottom some eight meters below. Next goes Matt and I watch absent-mindedly, distracted by concern for Emma.
‘Hey! Where’s that camera?’ demands Matt.
Of course he wants his photo taken, he is about to lower himself hand over hand down what I would normally consider a respectable abseil. With Matt safely down Jus comes back up and takes Emma’s rucksack. I offer to belay with the spare rope that Jus is carrying, but of course she is more confident than she is letting on. I suffice with some words of advice and then commit myself to a demonstration. Emma follows in fine style and it is not long before we are trying to decide which of two flat mossy patches of grass to put our tent on.

Later I learn that we were in the upper Mekado Valley, baby brother to the infamous Lowe’s Gully, which is to our west and separated from us by the North Peak. Standing in this arena of converging mountainsides I am overcome by a feeling of aloneness. The light fails and clouds roll in from the foothills. It is getting cold and tomorrow we have a long climb to reach the puncak or peak.

The next morning does not start gently. We have not been out of the camp more than five minutes before I am relying on the friction of my boots and the tenacity of moss to prevent a painful slide down a granite slab. One particularly bold move involves climbing the lower branches of a tree in order to reach an elevated root system hanging from the next ledge.

As we climb higher the vegetation thins out and the dry rock is a delight to scramble on. We emerge on the easy angled plateau slabs and the clouds part to reveal improbable rock spires looming above us. This provokes an exuberant photo shoot from Jus and Din. Just below 4000m we reach the watershed and look down the other side of the mountain.
‘Puncak!’ announces Din, gesturing up the mildly angled slabs.
Puncak means peak, but from our earlier ‘conversations’ we had also come to understand it to mean the place we are to camp tonight.

We find water in a small rock pool and after some debate choose a rocky patch of moss for our tents. With plenty of afternoon left and the puncak so close we convince ourselves to take a quick look, despite the unpredictable clouds. As it happens we reach the summit in sunshine but the mountain still makes no sense I ask Jus where is Lowe’s Peak? To which he points proudly into a rising stack of cumulonimbus. I can see that I am going to have to wait until morning for everything to become clear.

At 4.00am I can tell by their breathing that the others are wide-awake concentrating on sleeping. There is seldom frost on Mt. Kinabalu and so getting out of my sleeping bag is not as hard as I’d feared. The morning is most notable for the fact that Emma and Matt have come down with a dose of the trots during the night. For the first time on the trek I find myself overtaking Matt on the short climb to the puncak. He does not make it to the top immediately but stops to compose himself 50m short. Emma makes it but excuses herself moments later.

Before me is the dark defile of Lowe’s Gully and across the gulf I identify Lowe’s Peak by the strobe of camera flashes on the summit. The sun makes its appearance and I take a break from brewing noodles to photograph alpenglow on rock. Through gaps in the cloud carpet I can see the coastline of the South China Sea curving northwards from Kota Kinabalu. I am happy when Matt finally drags his sorry self to the top and the three of us share a smug feeling that we’re here and everyone else is over there.

Of our route down, I have no idea. It is hidden by the slope horizon. From the separation to Lows Peak it is obvious that it will be some time before we join the tourist path. Our descent begins on easy angled plateau slabs that lead rightwards to avoid a big drop below. It is obvious that we are looking for a ramp that will lead us through the band of cliffs that prop up the plateau. I am not surprised to find that this ramp is steep enough to warrant fixed ropes. Unlike the previous fixed ropes, these ones are underlined with significant exposure culminating in an airy traverse and fixed ladder performed above a whole lot of nothing. I hold tightly onto the hawsers and concentrate on my footwork, trying to avoid over reliance on the dubious bolts. Meanwhile our guides are loving it and Jus whoops with bravado for the benefit of the crocodile of punters on the tourist path, now visible half a kilometre to our right.

Reaching the tourist path involves more scrambling and proves something of an ordeal for Matt and Emma, whose stomachs are suffering. It takes another hour to reach the sanctuary of the Laban Rata Guesthouse at 3200m. Here we plonk our weary selves down and tuck into crackers with tuna and a mug of Milo. It is 9.00am and we need to gather our strength for the five-kilometre walk to the roadhead at Mesilau. For Matt and Emma this walk through luxuriant rainforest must feel like a cruel trial of endurance. I selflessly take great care to enjoy it on their behalf.

One week later, on our return to Kota Kinabalu, I learned that the name of our puncak is King George and that it is 4063m high.

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