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Published: October 30th 2008
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It must have been about the time that the sky finally took a break from urinating on us, that I actually woke up from my abbreviated cat nap. 3am. I had about another hour or so to toss around on the camp pad who was doing his best to impersonate a piece of cardboard, and try to convince myself that I was actually getting some rest. Ever since the three of us climbed into our tent yesterday evening, after an entire day of hiking in the pissing down rain, I was dreading the thought of having to leave the “comfort” of my ¾ length, Indonesian, sleepover bag and drag my out-of-shape-ass to the top of the second highest volcanic peak in Indonesia, Gunung Rinjani. When I finally took off my mental skirt and extracted myself from the Chinese made Care Bear sleeping bag that Id been issued, put on my set of dripping wet cloths, and stuck my head out of the tent, I was greeted by an inky black sky dotted with a billion stars that hadn’t made an appearance since two nights prior. Fueled my a mouthful of Oreos and gritty, unfiltered coffee, the three members of the newly
Mountain and Lake
Gunung Rinjani as seen from the far rim. reformed Booter Krunk Tramping Squad set out to conquer the summit of the 3726 m peak like a pack of wild eyed, two legged, mountain goats. Ya know, it’s a funny thing. One would think that an island such as Lombok, being as close as it is to the equator, would constantly be suffering from heat stroke. But, as I watched the sliver of a burnt orange moon rise above the horizon followed soon after by his larger brother, the sun, I made the sudden realization that I could no longer feel my fingers. I knew at that moment, although the sunrise couldn’t get much better, that I would not be spending much time on the summit.
Two days prior to our record breaking summit of Mt. Rinjani, of which we were 3 of only probably fifty people to make it to the top* , we found ourselves in the small mountainside village of Senaru, forking over, officially, the most money any of us had ever spent to climb a mountain. No, I will not say how much we paid cuz its none of your business! As with most locations in Lombok that call out to crazy foreigners and
convince them to hike up, jump off of, or submerge themselves in, there is a small cartel of businessmen waiting eagerly to collect Rupiah from those who listen. This particular cartel is so good that they would not let us, the world famous B.K.T.S., ascend with out a guide and a porter. It’s a good thing that we had them along though because there would have been absolutely no way that we would have been able to find our way down the deeply worn highway and up to the top (just a hint of sarcasm). Oh well, no use complaining about it. Just sit back and watch the chain smoking 12 year old kid in flip flops, carry a bamboo pole with all of our highly technical gear strapped to either end, up the trail. I felt like a real mountaineer at that moment. Just myself, a man, facing the elements head on, realizing full well that when I reach the spot where my legs will carry me no further and collapse into a pile, if I wait another half an hour, there would be someone less than half my age to set up my tent for me and make
Rinjani Dog
I just kinda like the scene. me a steaming hot mug of tasteless joe. Now that’s adventure! Somebody get Krakauer on the line, this man needs a book deal!
I know, this island called Lombok must sound like a pretty darn extreme place, and it is if you happen to find yourself in the company of the Booter Krunk Tramping Squad, but the island is more know for its scuba diving, epic surf breaks, and fungus fueled fun fiends. Although we were keen to check it all out, we would have to wait until our return to the island in order to start our week long vision quest in search of the perfect Indonesian tube, of which we will never be able to ride. We did however develop a surfer vocabulary (making reference to “being in the green room” and “ripping it”) gnarly enough to make Sean Penn jealous. That, coupled with the sweet footage we never got of Benn’s surfboard colliding with my second rib from the bottom, would make the perfect sequel to The Endless Summer.
Enough messing around on the surface already. It was time for us to take the ridiculously unstable boat out to the Gili Islands and have a
Summit
My Attorney and Alcohol Consumption Advisor on the top of Rinjani gander at the underwater word. Note: The word Gili, in Bahasa Indonesia, actually means small island. So when I say Gili Islands, its really like saying, Small Island Island. Anyways, while our alcohol councilor was off fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming a PADI certified advanced diver, Beerskin and I decided to slam a few back and go blow a few bubbles ourselves. What we found down there was a bit confusing. During most of our dives, while being visited by a large number of big creatures, we noticed that we were diving on a coral reef that closely resembled smashed rubble. Concerned about the health of our ocean, my attorney and I decided that we would not rest until we found out the reason that all of the coral was dead. After a few days of undercover work, asking all the dive shops what the reason is that the reef is in such sad shape, we were told, among other things, that it is mostly the fault of something called El Nino. This was the most common answer, but curiously, nobody could expand on how this El Nino, so successfully kills the reef. After many nights of intense discussion
"Base Camp"...I guess you could call it
Our last camp before heading to the summit of Rinjani at 4am. on the topic, my attorney put forth the hypothesis that El Nino is probably not a thing, but more likely, a person. El Nino is actually a local fisherman (obviously of Spanish descent) who employs the traditional method of fishing, using dynamite to not only kill all the fish, but also to blow the reef to smithereens. Mystery solved. Im going to Flores.
*that week
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cheapskate
john wilson
awesome blog!!