Subduing the Mountain

On my way up to Tegakula, the second of my three drivers named Nyoman and I drove past Mount Batur. I knew it to be a powerful mountain from the moment I saw it. Visions of climbing its peaks filled me with delight. I tried snapping pictures from the car, but they were a blur. Something inside of me knew I had to return.

When I got back to Tegelelang, I did what my cousin had explicitly told me not to do. I rented a scooter. His voice played in my mind, “And whatever you do, don’t drive a scooter yourself. Thousands of tourists die every year.” I couldn’t help myself. Much like when I went helmetless on the back of Mega’s bike in the face of Maeva’s “I choose life.” I felt again like I was choosing life and freedom.

The first day with the scooter, I took it out and headed toward Mount Batur without a plan, and I knew the road would be much less busy than trying to jump right into heading for the city. I got nearly all the way there before I was stopped for a toll. I had to make a choice. It was starting to rain heavily, so I decided to turn back. It was the right choice.

A few days later, I was itching. I considered having a friend join me, but mother Bali insisted that I do this alone. My heart wanted to see if I could.

As a child, I was told that I was a “naive girl from Idaho” with “no street smarts.” Living in New York City felt like a big, “Fuck you!” to all of those messages of incapability. Truly, I should have felt capable at this point. I’ve also managed quite well here in Bali. Nevertheless, I felt like this solo trek up the mountain was another part of stating to the world, and, more so to myself, that I am a strong, capable woman.

The day before the trek, I did ample research. I read horror stories about people being assaulted by the Batur Mafia when attempting to climb the mountain without a guide. . This one in particular caught my attention. I read it, but I also saw a lot of ill intentions that I knew would have been felt by those he was trying to “fool” into letting him scale the mountain alone. In his mission to satisfy the ego, he lied and tricked his way up the mountain. Overly dramatic, he survived.

I messaged and asked many questions to different individuals and determined I would be fine, and if I absolutely had to, I would hire a guide.

Most people hike Mount Batur in the very early morning to see the sunrise. I planned to do this, but intuition kicked in and told me, you don’t need to go for that. It was right. I retired early and got a full night of rest.

I rose with the sun and stretch to sunrise vibes at The NYX, ate a modest breakfast, packed, and was off just after 7 am. A relaxing morning, just the way I like it.

The ride to the mountain was exciting. I took what my dad would call a “shortcut,” which Maps said would take an extra 5 minutes. It was ten and worth it. I rode under canopies of trees and bumped along a windy road. I felt alive.

When I arrived, I had already considered what I would say. I would not lie, but I would be polite, respectful, and follow instructions. As I attempted to turn up the mountain toward the temple, I was stopped by a group of locals. I allowed them to guide me to the parking area. A friendly man who spoke English well walked up to me. I told him I was there to climb Mt. Batur and he asked my name, “Putu Kendra,” (meaning I’m the first child in my family from the Bali tradition of naming) I responded as he reached for my hand. He held my hand with care and warmed it up, exclaiming that it was cold. I asked him his name.

“Made.” The second in his family. “Can you feel my energy?” He asked as he continued to hold my hand.

“Yes! Thank you very much.”

I switched to speaking Bahasa as much as I could and we continued our exchange as he ushered me into the office. He filled out a permit for me. I wrote my name, “Putu Kendra.” He then wrote down 500.000 IDR and explained that I needed to pay for a guide.

“Boleh saya mau jalan sindiri,” (May I? I would like to journey alone) I said. “Suci jalan.” (Sacred journey.) He explained how my paying helped them and insisted. I wasn’t concerned about the money. I wanted him to know I was competent. A young white woman who lived in NYC doesn’t fit the profile of a capable mountaineer. “Saya orang mountains,” I said, explaining that I was from the mountains and knew what I was doing. He consulted with the other men gathered there. It was me and about ten of them, but I wasn’t afraid. I was respectful. I was kind. I was honest. I was authentic and open to connection.

“Since you are Bali, we will let you go.”

He let me know that I could drive up to the temple to park. I insisted that I would walk from here and do the full three and a half hour hike.

As I walked up, I met the last of the sunrise hikers coming back down. For each passing group, I would look to the guide. They were easy to spot, not only Balinese but wearing badges and hunter orange shirts. I greeted them, “Selamat pagi!” “Pagi!” They would respond, and then ask, “Where’s your guide?”

“No guide.” I would say. “Saya permisi sendiri jalan.” Each time, my broken Bahasa would shift a little, and their responses would vary as well from frightened acknowledgment to, “Be very careful.” That always included sage advice. Advice that was pertinent and appreciated. Several called me strong and brave.

I pressed on.

Over an hour after leaving, I reached the temple. It had been paved thus far and I wished I had taken my bike. It wasn’t much of a hike so far as a very uphill walk.

The bell curve was steep though, and the true hike became a challenging task.

Very quickly, I found myself thinking, “I wish I had hiking poles.”

I’ve hiked the mountains of Idaho, the Appalachian mountains, and slippery scaley faces in New York and Seattle. I’ve never hiked an active volcano with loose rocks and sediment. I didn’t exactly have proper hiking shoes either. Ill-equipped, I continued on, remembering the guides’ advice: Be careful, keep your things close so the monkeys don’t steal them, and don’t go into the caldera.

When I reached the top, I was thoroughly tired and sweat drenched. I had wrapped my scarf on my head to keep my forehead from sunburning, although this would prove little help against the mountain sun.

I was completely alone at the top of the mountain. It was Mother Bali and me. No monkeys in sight. I tied my scarf around my waist and stripped down to my bra, laying out my clothes to dry while I ate the bit of fruit I brought up with me.

As I ate, a set of trekkers and their guide came up the mountain. Again, I only addressed their guide, like a Bali native. I told him I hiked alone. “Strong!” Was his reply. The two people he escorted spent little time at the top. They saw a monkey down in the caldera, but the creature eluded my view.

Soon they were gone and I was alone again.

After my food was consumed, I stood up and listened to the mountain. She sounded peaceful and powerful. I sang to her. Chanting whatever came to my heart. My practice of singing whatever comes up is an ongoing development. Kadek and I have been working on it still.

I wasn’t alone!

An elderly Bali man emerged from his hut behind me, coming out to applaud my singing. He offered me a coke. “Ti dat gula. (No sugar.)” I said. As I had water and other provisions, he retreated into his mountain cave again.

It’s interesting to be on a mountain alone like this. Again, I’ve hiked a lot, but never a momentous hike like this on my own. I’ve always had at least one companion. Yes, I scaled the foothills of Boise alone many times, much to the concern of some of my friends and family. I even got lost a few times, including late at night. I realized that this mountain was a much more challenging, dangerous, and vulnerable situation. I felt reverence for the risk I had undertaken. I had respect for the mountain. I also knew that I would be okay. I could see the risk. I could see what might befall another sojourner, but I knew that I was not going to be my fate. I had total faith in the mountain, in my strength, and in my intuition, I was as much of a companion as I needed.

With all my faith sustaining me, the trek back down was not easy. I circled the entire caldera, after getting slightly lost down the wrong trail and chose to heave myself back up through the weeds rather than walk back and find the right trail. It was an adventure. The steam of the volcano distilled in my lungs as I walked past Batur’s exhaling nostrils. It revitalized me further. The caldera was a contemplative, restorative walk.

Then I encountered the first real descent. It was a steep pitch of volcanic sediment. A sandy slip and slide. I took a deep breath and began to tread carefully. My foot would slide several inches each time it landed on the mountainside beach slide. A third of the way down the slide, I removed my shoes. Not an easy task. It was hard to find a place to sit, but the ashy sand was inviting my bare skin to sink into its embrace. It was harder to stay balanced without my shoes, but it felt amazing. My feet tingled and were cooled by the tiny black rocks. I felt like a child, a child who wished she had a stick to maintain her balance better, but a child nonetheless.

If up was physically tiring, down was a mental gymnasium of exhaustion. Yes, my knees hurt by the time I was down, but I had to maintain intense focus to be sure that I stepped carefully so as not to fall. I still slipped a few times. A few of the passages sent my mind back to other hikes with companions that descended before me and chivalrously turned back to offer their hand as stability for me. Intuitively, I found my companion in the mountain, reaching out to the rocky hands that existed beside me to find stability. I realized that no matter where I was, there would always be help. I was not alone.

I made it all the way back down. I was tired in body and mind. I had survived the trek with not a single scratch and the mountain mafia had allowed me to pass unharassed.

Following one's intuition is a powerful experience. Even the most challenging of circumstances, fraught with risk can become exciting adventures that unfold with little resistance.

I rested my bones in the hot springs after and sang yet again to thank Mother Bali and allow her to cleanse my energy, heart, and mind. I made new friends there and returned to the NYX to have a real meal, a smiling meat bowl that Trevor kindly had prepared for me.

Even though my solo journey up Mount Batur was a success, I do not condone nor recommend that everyone try this. The hike is very difficult and the mountain is a sacred temple that needs to be taken care of. I would encourage anyone going to find a guide. Without the power of my intuition, I know that Mount Batur could have been much worse than what befell me the next day, a motorbike accident, ouch! So, as the guides urged me, I urge you. Be careful. Listen to your intuition. It will guide you best. Hati hati!