At Grassland Summit, close to 3,000 feet above the rugged terrains of Northern Luzon, the first positive development of the evening comes in a thick French accent. “Dinner is ready!” calls Mister Tee, our group’s organizer for this climb. Being called for dinner late in the evening – past seven, to be exact – would normally send me to my feet excitedly, but after six hours of riding a jeepney through ridiculously bumpy roads, four hours of walking in the rain and through muddy trails (even slipping once), and enduring an 8-degree Celsius evening in my shorts (my pants have been covered with mud), my enthusiasm instantly dissolves into a lethargic passivity. Inside my tent, I stare at the fog that has engulfed the campsite, shivering and cowering under my blanket every time the wind blows
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