The Fire Beneath the Ridge

                                                        It took Jay forty-five minutes of climbing to reach the top of Malalag Ridge. The path wound through thick grass and patches of pine, steep in some places and silent except for the rustle of leaves underfoot. The air was cool, sharp with the scent of earth and moss. Every few minutes, he would stop to catch his breath and glance behind him—the village far below, the river like a silver thread, the world growing smaller with every step upward.

By the time he reached the clearing, the sun had already begun to fall. The sky stretched wide and dim, turning the clouds into streaks of gold and gray. He dropped his backpack onto the ground and stood still for a moment, breathing in the quiet.

It was the kind of silence he had been longing for—not the silence of loneliness, but the kind that listens.

He set up his small tent near a cluster of trees, then gathered a few fallen branches to build a fire. When the first spark caught, the flames leapt eagerly to life, orange light dancing against the deepening blue of the ridge.

Jay sat down, arms wrapped around his knees, staring into the fire. Each flicker of flame felt alive—familiar, almost comforting. The warmth crept toward him slowly, seeping into his tired bones.

For months, he had lived with a quiet ache—a hunger that no routine or laughter could fill. Friends had grown distant, relationships faded, and his days had become mechanical. He wasn’t exactly sad, but hollow. Coming here, to the ridge, felt like a way to breathe again.

Then a voice came from behind him.

“You built a fine fire.”

Jay turned sharply. Standing a few meters away was a man—tall, with tousled hair and eyes that caught the reflection of the flames. His expression was calm, but there was a shadow of tiredness beneath his smile.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. “I was passing by and saw the firelight. Mind if I join?”

Jay hesitated for only a second, then nodded. “Sure. There’s plenty of room.”

The stranger stepped closer and extended his hand. “Marco.”

“Jay.”

Marco sat across the fire, laying his small pack beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The night deepened, and the fire crackled softly between them, glowing against their faces.

It was Marco who spoke first. “Beautiful place. Quiet. Like it’s waiting for something.”

Jay smiled faintly. “Or maybe it’s just tired of people.”

Marco laughed under his breath. “You sound like someone who understands that kind of tired.”

Jay looked at him. “Maybe I do.”

And somehow, that was all it took. The distance between them dissolved. They began to talk—about simple things at first, then about deeper ones. Marco spoke of travels through towns and forests, of sleeping under the stars, of never staying long enough for anyone to remember his name. Jay shared his restlessness, the weight of feeling unseen, and the strange comfort of solitude.

As they talked, the night grew colder. The fire’s light shimmered on their faces, turning the air around them warm and gold. The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of pine and smoke.

Jay rubbed his hands together, exhaling a white mist. “It’s colder than I thought it’d be up here.”

Marco leaned slightly closer. “Then stay near the fire. Or…”—he paused, his eyes steady—“we could keep each other warm.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it was heavy, intimate. The fire crackled louder as if it, too, listened. Marco’s hand reached out slowly, his fingers brushing Jay’s arm—hesitant, searching, then sure.

The world outside the firelight disappeared. The stars seemed to bend closer, the wind quieted, and all that remained was the rhythm of breath, the closeness of skin, the heartbeat of two lonely souls who had found each other at the edge of the world.

Time blurred. There were no words left to say, only warmth shared in the cold, only presence in a life that had known too much absence. For one night, Jay felt human again. Alive. Wanted.

When he finally drifted to sleep, the fire still burned faintly beside them, and Marco’s quiet breathing was the last sound he heard.

Morning came softly. The first light of dawn crept across the ridge, painting the grass in shades of silver and gold. Jay stirred, blinking against the pale light, expecting to find Marco beside him.

But he was alone.

The blanket next to him was cold. The space where Marco had been was empty—no footprints, no pack, not even the faintest sign of another soul. The fire had died completely, leaving only a circle of ash.

Jay stood up and looked around, calling out, “Marco?”

His voice echoed once, then vanished into the air. Nothing answered.

A shiver ran down his spine. It didn’t make sense. He remembered everything—the warmth, the laughter, the touch. It had been real. It had to be real.

And yet, as he looked down at the fire pit, something caught his eye: a small mark in the dirt, faint and uneven, like someone had traced it with a finger. It wasn’t a word, just a swirl, a shape that reminded him of a flame.

The wind stirred, cool and soft against his ear. And then he heard it—a whisper, distant but clear:

 

“You needed warmth, so I came.”

Jay froze. The world seemed to tilt slightly, and his chest tightened. He looked around, half expecting to see Marco standing there again, smiling that quiet smile. But there was only the sky, the ridge, and the rising sun.

Maybe Marco had never been real. Maybe he was just the mountain’s way of answering Jay’s loneliness—a spirit, a dream, or something conjured by the aching human need to be held.

Jay sat down again beside the ashes, his hands trembling slightly. Then, slowly, a smile curved across his face.

Real or not, Marco had given him what he needed—a night of warmth, a reminder that he could still feel.

As the sun climbed higher over Malalag Ridge, Jay packed his things and looked back one last time. The fire pit was gray and lifeless, yet something deep within him still burned softly.

He whispered, almost to himself,

“Thank you, Marco.”

Then he began the slow hike back down the mountain—heart heavier, but strangely full.

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Every Visit Was Love

I still remember the sound of her footsteps—slow, steady, familiar. Every time my grandmother came to visit from Tandag, I felt my heart leap with joy. I would rush to the door, shouting, “Nanay! Nanay’s here!”

She would smile the moment she saw me, her face lighting up like the sun after rain. “Aba, ni dako na man akong apo!” she’d say, laughing as she hugged me tightly. The faint scent of liniment and rice field air clung to her clothes, a smell I grew to love.

Her visits were never without gifts. Sometimes she’d hand me a small, fluttering bird in a cage. “Ganahan man ka ug pets, mao ni oh,” she’d say, her eyes twinkling as the bird chirped. I would squeal in delight, promising to take care of it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Other times, she’d pull a folded bill from her pocket and secretly slip it into my hand. “Ayaw ipakita sa imong mama ha,” she’d whisper with a wink. I’d nod eagerly, clutching the money like a secret treasure.

She didn’t have much, but she always made me feel like I had everything. Sometimes I’d ask, “Lola, di ba kapoy magbiyahe gikan sa Tandag?”

She’d laugh softly. “Kapoy gamay, pero mawala ra pag makita taka.”

When it was time for her to leave, I would follow her to the tricycle, not wanting her to go. She’d pat my head gently. “Sunod balik ko, naa napud koy dala para nimo,” she’d promise.

And as she rode away, I’d wave until she disappeared down the dusty road, holding onto her words like a lullaby—knowing that the next time she came, love would come with her, wrapped in the warmth of her hands and the softness of her smile.

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Tents by the River, Dreams on the Mountain

The Road Beckons

The dawn of August 23, 2025, broke gently over Ampayon, painting the sky with a faint promise of adventure. At exactly 5AM, I met my friend Chris at the familiar 7/11 store, the kind of place where countless journeys seem to begin. There we found Sir Tristan waiting, his smile steady as always, accompanied by his office mates from the PSWD: Kenjay, Flor, Tiras, Allyn, Paulo, and Sarrah.

The weather was kind to us—no rain, no harsh sun, just the cool breath of morning against our faces. Yet, the road was less merciful. The stretch from Sibagat to Bunawan, Agusan del Sur, was a battlefield of potholes and road repairs. My motorcycle groaned with each bump, and though my speed averaged only 65KPH, the group moved with patience, adjusting to my careful pace.

By 3PM, after long hours of asphalt, dust, and laughter echoing in between, we reached Davao Oriental. But the road still teased us with another hour before our destination. Finally, at 4PM, we stood at the entrance of Darporrt Camp, nestled in Barangay Catmonan, where the river sang softly like a hymn of welcome.

We pitched our tents beside the flowing water, paid our humble ₱300 camping fee, and shared a simple meal. The three pairs of lovebirds in our group slipped into the river for an evening swim, their laughter mingling with the rippling current. I, however, chose a quieter communion—seated on my camping chair, breathing deeply, letting the forest’s hush and the river’s song baptize me into the serenity of nature.

The Climb Within

The next morning, I woke early, my hands busy with the warmth of cooking for the team. Tristan strolled leisurely around camp, soaking in the morning’s cool silence, while the couples cocooned themselves in the comfort of tents, whispering secrets only lovebirds understand.

After breakfast, we broke camp and set our eyes on the challenge ahead: Dinagsaan Peak in Banaybanay, Davao Oriental, land held by the proud Kagan tribe.

At 12:45PM, our feet began the upward journey. The trail was merciless—slopes carved from stone, massive rocks daring us to conquer them, and streams flowing across our path as if to test our determination. My body, unaccustomed to such demands, rebelled with every step. My breathing grew heavy, my muscles burned, and doubts whispered like shadows: “Can you really make it?”

Yet, hiking is life in miniature—each boulder a trial, each steep climb a hardship, each pause a reminder to gather strength. Success, like the peak, is never handed easily; it is wrestled from pain and perseverance.

At 2:45PM, after two hours that felt like wrestling with my own limits, we finally stood atop Dinagsaan Peak. The view was overwhelming—rolling greens and endless skies proclaiming the majesty of God. I could not help but lift my heart in worship, humbled by creation’s grandeur.

We lingered for an hour, then descended carefully, reaching the foot at 5:30PM. Waiting for us was Ate Leah and her husband from Pantukan, Davao de Oro. They welcomed us warmly, guiding us to Sea World Oasis, a charming resort where the sea whispered just beyond.

For only ₱150 per head, we camped by the swimming pool, later savoring a sumptuous dinner at the resort’s restaurant. While Tristan and the boys competed over billiards and the girls retreated to rest, I surrendered to my body’s protests. With legs aching from the day’s climb, I asked Chris for a massage—a mercy that felt like salvation. Sleep embraced me quickly.

Steps of Grace

Morning broke with renewed strength, the echoes of last night’s pain now quieted by rest and care. Chris and I wandered the resort, capturing fleeting moments with photographs—memories to anchor this fleeting journey.

When the others stirred, another challenge called: the Station of the Cross, towering with more than 600 steps at the entrance of Davao Oriental. At first, hesitation gripped me. My legs still remembered yesterday’s torture, and the stairs seemed endless. But as I joined the team, each step became lighter than I feared. Perhaps resilience grows quietly overnight. By the time we reached the summit, I realized—it wasn’t just the body climbing, but the spirit rising.

After breakfast, we began the long ride home. This time, the road proved fiercer. Heavy rains blurred the path, potholes deepened by water threatened to swallow wheels, and darkness cloaked Agusan del Sur as night fell. Yet, even through these trials, camaraderie carried us forward. Sir Tristan’s steady patience, riding with me until Ampayon, was a reminder that journeys are never meant to be endured alone.

Finally, at 11:45PM, I arrived home—tired, sore, yet fulfilled.

More than Miles

This trip was not merely a ride across provinces or a climb up mountains. It was a pilgrimage of patience, resilience, and faith. The roads taught me endurance; the mountain taught me perseverance; the sea and river whispered peace; and my companions, each in their own way, taught me the joy of shared struggle and laughter.

Travel is never just about the destination—it is about who we become along the way. And in those three days, somewhere between the potholes of Sibagat and the 600 steps of Davao Oriental, I became a little stronger, a little braver, and a little more grateful for the gift of life’s journey.

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