Storytime: Sunrise Hike of Mt. Batur in Bali
I woke up at 3am this morning to a light knock on my cabin door. I had ridden my motorbike 2.5 hours the day before from Canggu to Kintamara, where I stayed overnight so that I could hike Mount Batur at sunrise.
Eagerly, like it was Christmas day, I hopped out of bed and put on my sneakers. Wearing borrowed clothes for the cold hike ahead, I sleepily met Putra, my 23-year old guide for the day.
He took me on his motorbike through a dark and rocky path in the woods to the base of the hike. He told me his motto was, “one step at a time.” As we hiked, we chatted about the many gods he prayed to before climbing the mountain. He took my backpack and slung it over the front of his chest. "So you can be easier." He taught me to say, "good morning" and "how are you" in Indonesian. We took frequent breaks--often for me to pee in a bush--and soaked up each and every viewpoint.
The stars, the moon, and the mist over Lake Batur sat eerily as our backdrop.
Every so often, we would joke about being done so soon. “One minute!” We would exclaim. “Run? Running!?” We would joke. “Shortcut, Short Life!” We would muse. Occasionally, Putra would give me a sideways smile, as if to suggest he hoped I was getting his jokes and doing ok in the dark and cold.
When we reached the top, there were still 45 minutes to sunrise, and the cold sunk in. Putra made me breakfast (a banana sandwich) and coffee.
As the sun rose, I didn’t feel much in the way of awe or delight. But I did feel a deep sense of acceptance. It wasn’t the best sunrise I’ve ever seen. Clouds covered most of the view. But I found I didn’t really care. It didn’t ruin the efforts I had made to reach the top. It wasn’t a “perfect” sunrise. But it was perfect.
I had, for one of the few times in my life, allowed myself to treat the hike as an exploration. Not caring about the outcome. I just let myself enjoy Putra’s company, stare humbly at the volcano across the valley, and give little attention to whether it would be a sunrise worth the journey.
After watching the sun finally creep up over the clouds, I turned around and saw the stunning view behind me. A giant crater blew hot steam below the west side of the mountain. Putra and I walked together along the ridge, heading for viewpoints where he took my picture about a thousand times.
He showed me how they cooked bananas and eggs in holes in the mountain, using the natural hot steam from the volcano to cook breakfast for the hundreds of tourists that made the trek.
As we began our descent, we giggled and revisited our old ascent jokes. After a few minutes, Putra stopped and turned to me. As if our earlier jokes had been secret promises to each other, he flashed his sideways smile, reached out his hand to me, and said, “run.”
Without thinking, I took his hand, and we ran.
Hand in hand, we ran down the side of the mountain, laughing and yelling “BALI!” at the top of our lungs. From time to time he’d run ahead of me and open his arms, then turn around and say, “run Rachel!” I’d run as fast as I could, using his body as a barrier to stop me from barreling down the hill.
I imagined this must be how children climb down mountains. How Putra must make the trek when hiking with friends or family. With a light, joyful quality. With play and whimsy. Free from concern for what anyone else might be thinking. Free from “right” and free from “wrong.”
I will never forget this hike. Not because of the view or the sunrise, or even the effort I put into getting to the top. I’ll remember Putra and his innocence. I’ll remember the silliness and lighthearted nature of what may have otherwise been a grueling endeavor. But mostly, I’ll remember Putra’s sideways smile, and that nothing is ever about the outcome I expect, but about what happens along the way.
