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2008-04-19T15:58:00.002+08:00

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Maliau Basin Bird-Watching

2008-03-08T14:56:00.009+08:00

Text by Peter Stevens
Photos by Ian Hall

INTRODUCTION

From November 7th to 15th 2005, I had the opportunity to trek and bird watch in the Maliau Basin Conservation Area, Sabah, Malaysia. I was accompanied on the trip by Ian Hall, who at that time was working with Yayasan Sabah as a volunteer architect to identify and design ecologically-friendly visitor and research facilities within the conservation area. He has spent many weeks in all of the Yayasan Sabah-run forest reserves (Danum, Imbak, Maliau) and is an observant, if new, birder. Over the 8 days spent inside the reserve proper we recorded 125 species, 6 of which, I believe from past records, have not previously been recorded in the MBCA. Prior to my arrival Ian had been working in the reserve since August 27th and had seen an additional 16 species, 1 of which (Hose's Broadbill) was new, making a combined list is 141/7.

MALIAU BASIN, BACKGROUND.

In the heart of Sabah is the so-called “Lost World” of the Maliau Basin. This is a huge bowl, some 390 sq km of pristine rainforest surrounded by cliffs that rise to 1700m at their highest. It is just 40km north of the Indonesian border with Sabah and has Danum Valley to its east and Imbak Canyon to the north. In 1997 is was gazetted as a Class 1 conservation area and extended to include a buffer zone of some 200 sq km of unlogged forest outside the rim of the basin. A feature of the basin is its amazing number of waterfalls, of which the Maliau Falls are the biggest, and the upland heath forest, which is both rare and endangered and just dripping with pitcher plants and orchids.

The first organized expedition was as recent as 1982, followed by a much more extensive scientific survey in 1988. There were further trips in 1999 – 2001 which produced a bird list of 271 species. There seems to have been little in the way of casual birding trips by private individuals, I guess mainly because of its remoteness and that you have to trek for several hours every couple of days with all your food and gear! The cold beer and balcony at Danum are much more inviting!

So what was I doing there? Some of you might remember my trip last year into similar habitat in Imbak Canyon while working as a volunteer with Raleigh International. Ian was on the same expedition and when he heard that I was heading down that way anyway, arranged an all expenses-paid trip (except flights and food) into Maliau if I would train some of the rangers in the dark art of birdwatching and produce a bird report of the trip. ‘Rude not to really’, thought I.

Maliau Rangers comparing notes on 'The Birds of Borneo'

GETTING THERE.

I flew to Kota Kinabalu from Manila, then on to Tawau, where I was met by Ian and started the 5 hour 4 WD trip to the main gate. It was bloody awful. There was major road construction going on for about half the trip so we ran the gauntlet of construction vehicles and logging trucks (lots of them). The good news is that it will make the journey much more bearable sometime next year!

Peter stands by a large Agathis Tree

ACCOMMODATION AND BIRDING

Our base was Agathis Camp (named after a species of very big tree!) which is on the banks of a small river and on the edge of the primary forest. This is the normal starting point for visitors and has accommodation for about 20 people, with a kitchen, clean toilets and showers. There are a number of trails starting from here so I spent the next couple of days exploring and birding. The habitat was typical primary dipterocarp - huge trees, some mid-storey growth and mainly open forest floor. The birding was also typical primary forest - long slow periods interrupted by some spectacular birds, the best of which were stunning views of Banded Pitta. I also heard Blue Headed Pitta but didn’t get onto one. Blue Banded and Giant Pitta are also supposedly in the area.

The access road to the camp was through reasonable secondary forest and was well worth the late afternoon walk. Two White-fronted Falconets, an endemic, topped off a good first day’s birding, in which I saw 32 species.

The next day was spent with some rangers, going over bird tapes that I had brought with me and then going out to find the birds. In the afternoon I sat with a warm beer scanning the trees around the camp through the scope. A pair of Scarlet-rumped Trogons were very obliging and complemented the Diard's Trogon of earlier in the day. Together with the various babblers, bulbuls, broadbills, barbets and big hornbills (Helmeted and Rhinoceros) I ticked off 46 for the day. A few more warm beers and a tot of rum rounded off a good day and set me up for the trek ahead.

Unfortunately Ian, who had been ill with the flu, was not up to the walk, so I birded the same area again the next day, with a little more exploration, and added 9 to the list, out of a day’s total of 41. The new ones included Great Slaty Woodpecker and Jambu Fruit Dove, which was a new record for the camp.

The next day Ian was still not up to it so I set off with two guides for the trek to Camel Trophy Camp. This was built in 1993 by the Camel Trophy team and is 8 km away through the forest. It was also half a kilometer higher than Agathis, most of which was climbed in the first couple of k.’s. It was so steep in places that aluminium (and some wooden) ladders have been erected to help the climber. It was a little knee-wobbling, especially with a heavy pack but I was on an adrenaline rush as we had seen Red-bearded Bee-eater within a few minutes of the start of the ascent. This was pretty close to the top of my ‘must see’ list so I was a happy camper.

After the climb we continued through primary dipterocarp forest. Slowly the character of this changed. The trees got smaller and the canopy got lower. The open, clear floor changed to dense stands of thin ‘treelings’ through which visibility was reduced to a few metres. Underfoot the path became boggy and sandy and the side coated in mosses. This was the heath forest. The canopy was by now only a few metres high and some of the trees were entwined with amazing collections of pitcher plants. These ranged in size from a good beer-mug to a small sherry glass. In fact we were skirting the edge of the main heath forest and it soon reverted to the familiar big trees and after about 4 hours we arrived at Camel Trophy camp. This had a first floor balcony which overlooked a cleared area about 300m by 50m. The effect of this was to provide dense secondary growth and bushes around the clearing which gave a more varied habitat than the primary forest itself.

There were, accordingly, many more birds around the clearing than in the forest, and also a low tree with lots of flowers and small fruits, which fortunately, was at around balcony level and within easy scoping distance. Suddenly the burden of lugging the scope up the escarpment seemed worthwhile. It was soon set up and in use. This particular tree was always busy with birds, come rain or shine, and provided excellent views of several species of spiderhunter as well as flowerpeckers and a white-eye. This was the only venue on the whole trip that produced some good mixed flocks, with bulbuls, scimitar babblers, fantails etc. and, just on dark and as predicted - Malaysian Eared Nightjar. There were also 2 – 3 Great Slaty Woodpeckers which flew across the clearing in the late afternoon every day, as well as a very quick view of what was probably a Besra which drifted across right in front of the balcony late one evening. The Ashy Drongo on the tree right next to us was new for Ian (who joined me the next day), as were the endemic Chestnut-crested Yuhinas, which put in an obliging appearance to the side of the balcony.

In the morning I plucked up the courage to tackle the 100 rungs on the vertical ladder up a huge Agathis tree to a canopy platform (similar to, but not so rickety, as the one in Danum). It was a trip well worth the effort and yielded several birds new to our list in just a few minutes. These included Scarlet Minivet, Grey and Buff Woodpecker and Purple-throated Sunbird, together with fantastic, right-in-front-of-my-nose views of the common, but beautiful, Temmink's Sunbird.

As the days were passing rapidly, we packed up and headed out another 10ks to Lobah Camp, passing through the core heath forest en route. I guess it was the relative dampness of the heath forest, followed by deep leaf-litter, but I collected 49 leeches from on, in and around my boots at the end of this walk. Thank goodness for leech-socks and good insect repellent below my shorts!

Lobah camp is less sophisticated than Camel Trophy (hammocks under blue tarps) but has a great view from the heli-pad of a huge area of the basin. It will also be the site of new accommodation in the next year or so. It also has great views of Grey-rumped Treeswifts and the aerodynamic kings of the skies Brown Needletails. These guys whooshed past at head-height, living up to their reputation as the fastest bird in straight flight in the world.

We were enjoying the spectacle when I happened to look behind me and nearly fell over - a small, very dark, falcon was circling the lookout, harassed by the Treeswifts. It passed directly overhead a couple of times, at very close range in the failing light. It was dark rufous underneath, without any white or streaking. The head was also quite dark, with no white contrasts around the ‘teardrops’. ‘Hobby’ was the first word into my head, but no hobby that I had ever seen. A quick look at the book soon came up with Oriental Hobby a rare vagrant to Borneo. Double rum ration all round! (Ian has subsequently seen one perched near Agathis Camp).

A late afternoon flurry also added Pale Blue and Blue and White flycatcher to the list, the latter being a new record for the MBCA.

Ginseng Falls

The next day was the long (10k) but relatively downhill walk back to our starting point at Agathis. ‘Downhill’ was purely ‘relative’ and included a couple of steep ups and downs into and out of river valleys, particularly near the beautiful Ginseng Falls. After that it was easy walking with a couple of birding highlights, including around 5 Bornean Bristleheads high in the canopy, and a female Blue-headed Pitta on the track. It was good pheasant country too and the guides said that Bulwer's was fairly regularly seen by them along this trail.

Our trip finished back in the 4WD heading out of the reserve. On the way we picked up the delightful Silver-rumped Swift on the road and a Tiger Shrike at the gate. Ian had previously seen Oriental Darter on a very scruffy pool from the access road.

If you like to combine your birding with some tough, but exciting trekking through pristine rainforest, some of the last in this part of the World, then Maliau Basin is the place for you. I’d be happy to supply further details on request.

Pete will not thank me for publishing this photo, I suspect [ Ed :) ]

MNS at Royal Belum

2007-10-25T22:31:00.001+08:00

I had heard of the Save Belum-Temengor Postcard Campaign but had no idea where Belum-Temengor was. An invitation to join the Malaysian Nature Society (MNS) Bird Group trip to Belum was a great incentive to find out more. The sum of my knowledge was that MNS had successfully motivated the Malaysian public to lobby the government on an issue of environmental conservation. The cessation of logging in Temengor and the gazettement of Royal Belum as a State Park are remarkable achievements and a source of optimism for protection of other threatened ecosystems. I couldn’t wait for the opportunity to explore a tiny part of this 117,500ha Park

My initial observation was disappointment at the disturbed forest and low quality development at Banding. This faded as we took to the water and an MNS flotilla buzzed toward the upper reaches of Temengor Lake. Here I was quickly lulled into the beauty of the landscape characterised by an intact jungle canopy with many tall emergent trees. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling however of floating above a submerged forest. Bleached white tree trunks at the lake margin are eerily photogenic and a nagging reminder of the many more skeletal branches reaching for the underside of our fragile craft.

As the lake narrowed I kept a keen eye out for Belum’s most famous resident, the Malayan Tiger. Apparently not constrained by water, it would be my ideal scenario to meet a wild tiger while it was swimming and I was on a boat with the engine running. For birdwatchers Belum-Temengor has the cachet of being the only place where you can see all ten of Malaysia’s Hornbills, of which the writer recorded a paltry five. I like to think of it as leaving some for next time.

Of those ten species it is the Plain-pouched Hornbill which is most appealing as it cannot be seen anywhere else in Malaysia. This vulnerable Hornbill was until recently considered conspecific with the Wreathed Hornbill. Although visually almost identical, it differs significantly in its habit of gathering in large flocks occasionally over 1000 strong. To add to the mystique, nobody knows where these birds roost and no one has ever found a nesting site. As the Hornbill’s habitat is being lost to deforestation there is urgent need to answer these questions if we are to come up with an effective conservation strategy.

Conserving Belum is a great first step to securing a contiguous area of old-growth forest that might just be large enough to sustain populations of large charismatic mammals and birds. As a conservation model however it is compromised by the fact that it necessitated the destruction (through flooding) of over 15,000ha of forest.

The conundrum is that in the current political climate it is difficult to argue for conservation for its own sake. It also helps to have an economic incentive. In this case conservation of forests in the catchment area will slow down the rate at which Temengor Reservoir will silt up. Another powerful incentive is that the creation of a large man-made lake provides far more recreational opportunities which appeal to a broader spectrum of people than a simple rainforest reserve could on its own.

As a purist birdwatcher I might claim that being stuck on a boat can not compare to sweating it out on steep muddy trails and being torn by rotan. But on the other hand, there is something civilised about watching ospreys whilst sitting amongst friends with your binoculars in one hand and a parasol in the other.

If the convenience of boat travel helps to encourage more people to visit the rainforest, be they bird-watchers, fishermen or day trippers, then on balance it could be a good thing. From a conservation point of view, visitors create more than just an economic incentive. People, especially locals, who come to value nature for recreation and as part of their heritage, are more likely to sign a postcard saying ‘Save Belum-Temengor’.

In all it was a most memorable trip and gives me hope for more Nature Conservation in Malaysia. And while I am being optimistic – I will see a Plain-pouched Hornbill next time.

Imbak Bird-Watching

2007-10-12T18:27:00.001+08:00

Photo: John and Jemi Holmes

The idea of a bird-watching trip to Imbak began in 2004 when Peter Stevens and I were working there with Raleigh International. Significantly this was also the occasion when I realised I was on the slippery slope to becoming a bird-watcher.

I remember we were barely 50 paces out of the Raleigh camp when Pete paused between the buttresses of an enormous Mengaris Tree.
‘Did you hear that?’ It was an instruction more than a question. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about but waited patiently clutching my tiny binoculars. Presently I heard a delicate whistle and couldn’t believe that any self-respecting bird would be fooled by Pete’s clumsy imitation. I was very impressed therefore when Pete pointed at a tiny black shape bobbing towards us on the forest floor. With difficulty I located the bird in my binoculars and was astonished that it was not black at all but rich in lustrous purple and red with the most improbable electric blue stripe on its head. It was marvellous that something so beautiful should emerge from the dank forest floor. I was hooked immediately.

As we were working with Raleigh at that time, we had the welfare of 15 young volunteers to consider and they were not much inclined to the patience and silence necessary for bird-watching. Nonetheless, during the three weeks of our stay Pete observed over 100 species of birds and made only the second record of the avifauna of Imbak Canyon. The first was made during the inaugural scientific expedition of 2000. We vowed to return to do a more thorough job.

Imbak Canyon was and still is categorised as Class II production forest, meaning that the Sabah State Government regards it as a logging resource. Luckily this 30,000ha of lowland rainforest is part of the Yayasan Sabah Sustainable Forest Management License Agreement (SFMLA). With commendable courage and foresight, Yayasan Sabah has voluntarily designated Imbak a Conservation Area.

The significance of Imbak is that it is the only large contiguous area of Class II forest in Sabah that remains undisturbed. This is largely due to its isolated location in the heart of the State, where it is protected on three sides by precipitous ridges up to 1500m high. The lost valley of Imbak is an area of outstanding beauty and biodiversity. Through some mystery of nature the lowland forest retains a higher density of enormous trees than nearby Danum Valley and Maliau Basin. To walk in the cool under-storey beneath the canopies of these giants is a humbling and uplifting experience. However unlike Danum and Maliau, Imbak is not safe from logging until it has been formally gazetted by the Government as a Class I Conservation Area.

For our trip in 2007 there was Pete and Myself plus John and Jemi Holmes from Hong Kong. We also managed to rope in for one day only our secret weapon; Robert Chong from Kinabatangan Jungle Camp. The purpose of this trip (apart from our own enjoyment) was to gather more evidence of the biological wealth of Imbak and hence help the case for its protection. Our noble objectives were soon to receive a bitter reality check. Just before we left for Imbak I learned from some NGO friends that although Imbak Canyon is safe for the time being, the surrounding area is due to be logged imminently. Unfortunately this logging will start at exactly the best spot for bird-watching – the Tampoi Basecamp.

The heart of Imbak Canyon remains inaccessible except by foot so Yayasan Sabah have set up the Tampoi Basecamp and research station in logged over forest on the periphery of the Conservation Area. It is in this mixed habitat that we did most of our bird-watching both in 2004 and in 2007, taking advantage of old logging roads to provide vantage points on the forest canopy.

During our 2007 trip the reality of the proposed logging became clear when we saw contractors marking out the 30m riparian reserve along the Imbak River right up to the Basecamp and beyond. I found it depressing to be surveying an area where our data may just become a record of what used to exist. In this context I’m not sure whether it is better to find more species or less. Of course it’s better to find more but every memorable observation leaves a bittersweet taste. We recorded over 140 species in the mixed habitat around Tampoi, over 50 of which are classified on the IUCN Redlist of endangered species as ‘Near Threatened’ and a further 3 are classified ‘Vulnerable’ to extinction[1]. A couple of the highlights here were fabulous close up views of Chestnut Necklaced Partridge and the shy Bornean Wren Babbler, the latter more often recorded by it’s haunting pitta like whistle.

Chestnut Necklaced Partridge
Photo: John and Jemi Holmes

In addition to surveying logged over forest we also spent 16 man days at two sites in virgin rainforest. Bukit Beruang is a sub-montane ecosystem at over 1000m on the northern rim of the canyon. It is more memorable for its fabulous views over mist filled valleys than for abundant birdlife. In the early morning Gunung Kinabalu floats intangibly on the horizon over 50km distant.

The highlight of any trip to Imbak however, is to get into The Canyon itself. This is most easily achieved by a 1 hour trek to the BBC Camp at the confluence of the Imbak and Kangkawat Rivers. BBC camp is named after either the Big Belian tree nearby or the British Broadcasting Corporation who stayed there for one month in 2006 while filming their wonderful documentary ‘Expedition Borneo’.

It was fitting that on a solo walk not far from the Big Belian Tree I was rewarded by a close up encounter with a male Blue Headed Pitta second only in my memory to that Black Headed Pitta with Pete back in 2004. Other highlights (in addition to those awe inspiring trees) were a prolonged display by a group of Bornean Bristleheads, an elusive covey of Crested Wood Partridge plus an extraordinary density of Trogons. Giant Pitta has also been recorded in this undisturbed forest although we only heard it’s call.

Thanks to the efforts of only a handful of observers the total Imbak bird checklist now stands at a whisker over 200 species. The credibility of this list owes much to Dennis Yong et al[2] who during a brief visit in early 2007 corroborated many earlier sightings and added 60 new records. We were able to further corroborate many of Dennis’ observations and add 10 more species records of our own.

Striped Wren Babbler
Photo: John and Jemi Holmes

This data however is far from complete and more surveying is likely to reveal greater biodiversity, especially in the primary forest at the heart of The Canyon. Despite these possible gains there is also a risk that as a consequence of logging operations in secondary forest, the overall avifauna biodiversity of Imbak may decrease. Regardless of other factors the existence of a high number of rare, endangered and endemic species on the border of Imbak is proof of the high conservation value of that secondary forest.

With this in mind it is imperative that re-logging, especially around conservation areas such as Imbak, should proceed only according to strict management guidelines or better still not at all. Unfortunately the precedent established in other areas of the YS concession illustrates widespread disregard of legally binding procedures to minimise environmental impact of logging.

One glimmer of hope is that conservation value of forests is rising in response to dawning understanding of the importance of ecosystem services. While many of these services can not yet be capitalised, there are two economic incentives available immediately. These are nature tourism and carbon credits through avoided deforestation.

While we may be too late to prevent environmental degradation around Tampoi Basecamp, there may yet be time to persuade policy makers to switch to non extractive uses of the rainforest in other areas. Environmentalists, nature lovers and the public can all play their part in pushing this agenda.

Sunrise from Bukit Beruang

[1] VU classified species: Large Green Pigeon, Short-toed Coucal, Blue-headed Pitta, Bornean Wren Babbler
[2] Dennis Yong, Glenda Noramly and Benedict Butit - 30th March to 4th April 2007

Mt Kinabalu Melangkap Route

2006-12-06T12:26:00.001+08:00

‘There’s a new route from Kampung Melangkap’ said Jasirin my mountain guide friend.
My interest was piqued immediately
‘Have many people done it?’ I enquired
‘Yes lots’ he replied. I was deflated.
‘But only villagers’ he added. My imagination took off again and for some reason the word Melangkap got caught in the mesh of my sieve like brain.

About a month later I received a call out of the blue from Graeme Shepherd an old climbing friend of mine from Dundee whom I had not seen for six years. Graeme and I had met in my last months at Dundee University. That this was barely enough time to form a friendship did not deter Graeme from inviting himself to stay with me during my post university sabbatical in New Zealand. Together we enjoyed three weeks of travel and rock climbing in the North Island and our friendship was sealed. However, apart from sporadic email contact that was the last time I heard from him until now.

‘Are you still in Borneo?’ Graeme enquired tentatively by email. Based on past form I thought I could see where this was leading. A week later he had booked his flights and was coming to visit me. It transpired that he had just finished Medical School in Brisbane and wanted a three week blow out. His ambition was to see proboscis monkeys and orang utans and also to visit Mt Kinabalu. It was now down to me to juggle some time off and come up with an itinerary.

For the first week of his trip I had work commitments so I suggested that he take off to the Kinabatangan River to see some monkeys. In the second week I was sure that I could get us into the Danum Valley Field Centre. This just left the third week. I remembered Jasirin’s words; the route could be done in five days he had assured me. Would Graeme be up for it I wondered? More importantly would he be up to it? I had not seen the guy for six years; he could have become fat and sedentary during his time at medical school. Somehow I doubted this but even so I knew that the climb would be challenging and so I pointed Graeme at the trip report of my Mt Kinabalu Eastern Ridge Expedition to give him an idea of what to expect. I could see that he was apprehensive but I was confident that we could succeed.

On our second day into the expedition Graeme confided in me ‘you told me that it was going to be hard but I didn’t realise it was going to be this hard!’ We had been on the go since dawn and it was now nearly dark. The first part of the day had involved wading up a boulder strewn stream bed with occasional detours into the jungle to avoid deep pools and waterfalls. At mid morning we left the stream and abruptly started climbing. The ground was loose and I had to dig my fingers into the mud or grasp at wild ginger to avoid a slide back down into the gorge. I was glad of the studded soles of my fell running shoes. As we got higher the angle eased off and we could stand upright without using our hands.

Walking under the tree canopy dulls the sense of distance but heightens your awareness of the immediate proximity. This is just as well when the footing is not always stable, overhead branches wait to snag your rucksack and every potential handhold must be assessed for spines and structural integrity. With no views for orientation it is only the shape of the ground that gives a clue to progress. For a while I was aware that we were following a ridge line, at other times we were climbing a steep face. At one point we scrambled up a small watercourse and paused to refill our water bottles. Shortly after this the ground levelled out and we reached a camp site. Our itinerary did not allow for the luxury of a half day trek and so we pushed on, aware that the water we were carrying may have to last until the next day.

Our objective was the Penataran River. I had no idea what this meant other than Jasirin said that that this was where the next water supply and a camp site could be found. Later, on inspecting the map I found that this river drains the infamous Low’s Gully. We were to join it upstream of the confluence with Low’s. The trail traversed the hillside now and the mountain dropped into gloom to our right. Progress was slowed by barbed rattan which clawed at the skin and made an unpleasant tearing sound as it dragged across our rucksacks. The leeches which had been bugging us all day were now starting to get unbearable, my socks were soaked with gelatinous blood and the bites were starting to itch. It had not rained but my clothing was soaked and the sweat stung where it ran into scratched skin. It started to get dark and my fears of not reaching the campsite came sharply into focus. At this point we lost the path.

All day I had been surprised by the quality of the trail. Although steep and at times treacherous it was generally easy to follow and if in doubt regular blazes on trees confirmed its course. It was clearly well used by villagers, presumably as a hunting trail. At this point however a large fallen tree had obliterated all signs. While I checked out the hillside for flat areas that might fit our tent, Jasirin and our porter Girul circled the tree fall looking for the trail markers. Just as I had scraped out a bit of level ground Jasirin reported that he had found the trail. I was inclined to stay put until morning but Jasirin convinced us that we might still reach the Penataran before nightfall.

We started off again steeply downhill and soon we could indeed hear the roar of a river, but it was still far below. Jasirin ranged ahead, terrier like and we followed on as best we could. A steep off balance move over some rotten logs lead me through a band of small cliffs into a dry watercourse. I passed it without incident and remember hearing Graeme behind me mutter ‘this is dangerous’. Moments later I was aware of trauma and turned to see him embracing a 10 foot section of dead tree trunk that had come free of the hillside. For a time-stand-still moment they pirouetted together and eventually both managed to stay on their ledge. We were shaken but there was no time to gather our thoughts. We plunged on down skirting steep cliffs and pushing through thick vegetation. Meanwhile the gloom thickened.

‘Not enough time’ confessed Jasirin, but he had found a campsite. One side of the tent overhung the edge of the path while the opposite side was dug into the hillside. The tent door was propped up by a sharp boulder. Jasirin and Girul’s campsite was even smaller. Dinner was instant noodles, there being no inclination to attempt something more elaborate. As night fell the insects came out and I batted away a cloud of small biting flies while I attempted to tidy up our dinner utensils. With relief I finished my chores and bundled into the tent and zipped up the insect mesh. It was no use, the mesh was too large and the flies came through. We hung up a torch in the porch to keep them outside. There was no question of going straight to sleep, our feet and legs were a mess and needed attention.

Leeches first inject an anaesthetic so you don’t feel their bite, then they inject an anti coagulant. The blood keeps oozing often for hours after the leech has dropped off. To add to our discomfort there were rattan scratches, grazes from logs and rocks and now as the final straw the midge type insects were joining the feast. Stripped down to boxer shorts I dampened some wet wipes and vigorously rubbed down my legs. I then repeated the process using iodine soaked wet wipes. The final stage was to break open some anti-histamine capsules, mix the powder with a little water in our grubby hands and rub this onto our legs. My whole body seemed to itch and the sharp rock by the door precluded any comfortable sleeping position. In vain I told myself it was mind over matter.
‘I’m going to count to 100’ I announced.
I did not even make it to 5 before I was scratching furiously again. Relief was a long time coming.

In the morning it took us another half hour to reach the Penataran River. I exploded my kit gratefully on the moss covered boulders and washed out our pots and pans plus my foetid socks. Overhead a ribbon of blue sky matching the course of the river told us that it was a fine day. So far we had been lucky with the weather, although I did not mention this for fear of tempting fate.

‘So remind me again’ announced Graeme, ‘this is our point of no return right?’
Graeme had a flight to catch and this meant that we were compelled to do the route in five days. Now on our third day our commitment to completing the route would become binding. In reality the thought of retracing our steps had already become unthinkable.

Back in Kundasang before starting the expedition we had emphasised our five day deadline to Jasirin. With a flourish he had produced a brown school exercise book who’s only content was a centrefold spread featuring a long wavy line with shorter lines crossing on the perpendicular. I immediately recognised it as a map. This was a major advance for Jasirin and he started adding little triangles to indicate the campsites used by the previous expedition. On this ascent Jasirin himself had been guided by a local hunter and their group had comprised 10 Sabah Parks’ personnel. We counted up the nights which to our consternation came to 7. We started to object but Jasirin was ready for us with a new proposal; we would do the route in reverse!

This seemed to make sense to me because by starting up the tourist path would reduce the amount of ascent we would have to do and presumably also the duration. Jasirin started counting out his proposed camp sites on the map in reverse. They came to 6 but towards the end he hesitated and became confused.
‘We need a rope to cross this river’ he said
‘How deep’ I asked. He indicated chest level and went on to add ‘this other river we cross 14 times’
I caught onto what was worrying him. ‘What happens if it’s in flood?’ I asked.
His lack of an answer told me all I needed to know. We could get four days into the trip and then get stuck on the wrong side of a river. With Graeme’s deadline this was an unacceptable risk, especially as we were technically climbing in the rainy season.

Back to plan A. This way if the rivers were in flood we would encounter them in the first half of the climb and have time to retrace our steps. Jasirin started counting out the campsites again. This time they came to five, it looked like we had a deal.

‘So remind me again’ said Graeme, ‘the 10 guys from Sabah Parks did this route in 8 days and we’re trying to do it in 5?’
‘They were not strong’ explained Jasirin, ‘fat’ he added with pursed lips and an expansive hand gesture.
He got the ‘map’ out again and counted our campsites. This time they came to 4. We could be on our way down the day after tomorrow he suggested. I looked up into the trees. Although I could not see it my GPS told me that there was still 2500m of mountain above us. I trusted Jasirin to get us through but did I trust him enough to gamble on Graeme’s flight? Graeme had not climbed with Jasirin before so had little upon which to base his trust. It was a brave decision for him to continue but then as I have mentioned, to go back was already unthinkable.

The water level in the Penataran was low and we managed to keep our feet dry by boulder hopping. Once again we were carrying two days water and were trying to do two of the previous expedition’s days in one. After crossing the river we passed a comfortable campsite before launching into the climb. It wasn’t long before we reached our first ‘granny stopper’. This is an affectionate term for a short section of climbing on what is otherwise a walking trail. Our way was barred by an overhanging section of rock from which dangled some taunting tree roots. Jasirin was into these roots like a rat up a drainpipe and soon had a rope dangling from the top. Once he’d hauled my pack up I felt a little more confident. I found two good roots to hold onto and started working my feet up a greasy pole thoughtfully provided with parang notches by village hunters. Just as I was attempting to high step and rock over onto the flat of my hands, my right foot slipped and I was left dangling instead. I knew the move now though and stuck it on my second attempt.

With increasing height the trees started to thin out and the trail brightened up. This extra light brought with it more ground vegetation and we waded through waist deep rustling dipteris leaves and ducked under gnarled leptospermum branches. Large pitcher plants were abundant of the species Nepenthes Villosa and Edwardsiana and on the rim of one pitcher we found a tiny frog with a bright orange nose.

We climbed continuously all day with frequent steep root ladders to negotiate. By mid afternoon it started to rain gently and I could tell by my laboured breathing that we were close on 2500m altitude, the height at which I usually start to feel the onset of mountain sickness. I was stopping regularly for rest now and my throat was parched. Jasirin told us that we may not find water until the end of the next day so I could not risk drinking too much. I took some comfort in sucking refreshing droplets from the waxy leaves that I brushed past. We had passed a campsite at lunchtime and it was clear that we were not going to reach the next one before dark. Anxious not to repeat last night’s discomfort Graeme and I resolved to stop when we found some flat ground rather than carry on until nightfall. Fortunately we were now following a ridge that undulated gently and soon reached a broad flat area whose soft mossy ground had recently been dug over by wild pigs.

The next day I was looking forward to getting my head above the trees. Until now the only view of the mountain had been a glimpse from our enforced camp on day 2. Through the trees I had seen a near vertical ridge silhouetted sharply against the fading light. My imagination filled in the parts that I could not see and although it was across the valley the prow seemed to be hanging above us. So intimidating was the feeling that I hesitated to point it out to Graeme. From out of this foreboding came a tremble of excitement. As improbable as it felt, somewhere through the steepness and mist was a way up this mountain.

Now on our fourth day we did not have long to wait to get our first view. It came fleeting at first, framed by twisted branches and eagerly sought from tiptoes on boulder vantages. I forgot my breathlessness and climbed fast to break free from the grip of the forest. When at last I felt space all around me I found Low’s Gully at my feet. Across that improbable defile were ranged the cliffs and spires of the Western Plateau. It was a rock climbers’ paradise but mostly hideously inaccessible. At the base of clean granite walls a subtle shift in angle and elevation allowed vegetation to take hold. These inhospitable slabs disappeared out of sight into the roots of the mountain. Round to the North was the only marginally more amenable Penataran valley and beyond that we could see the cluster of houses at Kampung Melangkap Kapa where we had started our trek so far below.

‘Mr Bean, Mr Bean’ giggled the Kg Melangkap school children. I evilly hoped they were referring to Graeme.
‘Who is Mr Bean’ I challenged them.
‘He is!’ they chorused. I felt smug.
‘And you are Mr Bean too’ they added. Or was that ‘Mr Bean Two’?
‘Drink, drink!’ urged one of the cooking women, and for once it wasn’t rice wine. We were supping on hot sweet sago drink mixed with lentils and some other unidentified bits. I had caught some sun during the morning and the drink was refreshing. On the slog up to the village we had been passed by several men coasting down on their motor scooters. Across the panniers were draped what looked like dirty white door mats. A pungent smell confirmed their cargo. Natural rubber was fetching a good price these days, nudged up by the hike in crude oil prices.

Kampung Melangkap Kapa is at the end of the road, hidden in the lower folds of Mt Kinabalu. The village is perhaps best known as the base of rescue operations for the ill fated British Army Low’s Gully expedition. The gratitude of the soldiers is represented by a new village Resthouse. We could not help wondering that given the state of some of the children whether provision of ongoing basic healthcare could have been a more valuable contribution.

I have come to know many of the Dusun people who live around the Mountain and I’m lucky to count some of them as close friends. Jasirin and Girul are from the same stock. Life cannot be easy in some of these villages and yet they always manage to extend unconditional hospitality. After the sago drink we were served huge plates of rice with steamed jackfruit and small dried river fish. We ate to the accompaniment of the afternoon rain drumming on corrugated iron. On cue the rain stopped and we wended our way out of the village through crops of bananas and hill rice. Further out we passed small rubber and pineapple plantations before entering the rainforest.

The forest has long been important to these villages; as a source of water, construction materials, meat, medicinal plants and much more. At Melangkap there is a blurred boundary between rotating cultivation, secondary scrub and primary forest which occurs at about 750m altitude. By contrast around to the south near Kundasang and Mesilau the transition is abrupt, in many places primary forest has been completely cleared up to 1500m altitude. The reason for this stark difference is attributable largely to agriculture. The inhabitants of Kg Melangkap practice subsistence agriculture with limited cash crops whereas Kundasang is renowned for market gardening; growing everything from cabbages to carnations, mushrooms and houseplants.

Another reason for the difference is accessibility. The main highway linking the East and West Coast of Sabah crosses the mountainous spine of the Crocker Range at Kundasang to the south of Mt Kinabalu. At this point the road reaches an altitude of over 1600m making exploitation of the cooler uplands much more feasible. At Melangkap a downed bridge on the dirt road meant that we started walking at 250m above sea level. It was no wonder that our starting point appeared so hazy as to be disconnected from our reality of bare granite and clear mountain air.

For a while Low’s Gully was hidden from view, concealed behind the North Peak. As we passed I fantasised about new routes on a pyramid of impeccable granite. My reverie was interrupted by a trickle of water held in a mossy depression. Thirstily I gulped the last of yesterday’s water and refilled. Carrying the extra four kilos seemed to be immediately compensated by being hydrated again. We skirted the summit of North Peak and descended to a gap in the ridge. I could now orient myself from my previous expedition. Down to our left was the gentle sweep of slabs leading into the Mekado Valley, site of our penultimate camp on Kotal’s Route. To our right Low’s Gully was back with a vengeance.

The last hour of our climb to King George Peak followed the North Ridge, by now an easy angled incline but with the ever present void nipping at our heels. Out of the Gully rose towers of blinding white cloud. The contrast was intense and the cloud was always shifting so sometimes we could catch glimpses of airy ledges perched over nothing and at other times the peaks of the Western Plateau just floated detached from the earth. With the binoculars we searched down past those ledges trying to measure the depth of the Gully. It was an impossible task, the bottom of that gully might as well be on another planet and I hold a mixture of envy and disbelief for those who have ventured into that world.

Up on the North Ridge the silence is deafening. There is no where else that you can experience this sound. It is as oppressive as it is enlightening, both humbling and uplifting. Listen too hard and you’ll get vertigo, it’s best to keep moving. The altitude drags at my feet but my lungs have its measure. I arrive for the second time in my life at King George Peak. There is no point drawing comparisons, this is now and we have a night in the open to look forward to.
‘Red Rocks’ Says Girul, ‘there is a sheltered campsite there’.
Graeme and I agree that even though our tent would not withstand a storm up here, it is more appealing to risk this than descend to the squalid hut at Laban Rata.

Red Rocks does exactly what it says on the tin and we pitched tent beside a house sized boulder. No sooner had we finished when Jasirin pointed out that if it rained our campsite would become a drainage channel.
‘Is there a better campsite?’ I enquired.
‘No’ came the helpful reply
‘So, apa boleh buat?’ Some expressions do not translate easily, the best I can come up with is somewhere between ‘what choice do we have?’ and ‘fuck it!’
As a concession we familiarise ourselves with the emergency exit route to a howf under the boulder.

From here it is a relatively simple matter to descend the fixed ladders and ropes of Bowen’s Route and rejoin the tourist path. We would be back at Park HQ the following afternoon. With the time pressure lifted we relaxed to cook up a feast. Feeling mighty full we were astonished to see Jasirin and Girul eat about twice the volume of rice that we had consumed, plus a side order of noodles. At breakfast we were even more surprised and mildly disgusted to see them making the left over cold rice palatable with the addition of hot coffee!

Their culinary habits aside, it was a pleasure to be on the mountain with such enthusiastic guides. As Graeme observed it was obvious that they too were highly motivated to do this route. For Graeme, I felt a little paranoid that I had chucked him in at the deep end but he remained steadfast throughout. I think there was a big turning point for everyone once we crossed the Penataran River, from that point on the option of retreat became unappealing. The moment at which you commit to a route is always difficult to pin down, but once you’ve crossed that line the doubts subside and everything falls into place.

All photos by I Hall and AG Shepherd. For a complete set of Ian's photos click here

Hellfire Corner

2006-11-03T15:03:00.001+08:00

Here's another favourite, first published in The Scottish Mountaineer
magazine in October 2003

*****

‘That was blatant exhibitionism!’ scolded Ali.
She was right of course. We were driving back through Rothiemurchus forest, retelling our heroic deeds and glorying in the evening sunlight through the trees. After all we had just climbed Hellfire Corner and needed to get our story straight before returning to the bunkhouse.
‘It was definitely VS' we agreed
‘A good traditional Scottish VS’ moreover!

“The broad open snowfield of Coire Raibeirt gently funnels into a desperately narrow and steep gully that roars with melt-water. On it’s right wall the gully can be skied down a narrow tongue of snow that leads in 400m of effortless gliss to the shore of Loch Avon. Here I paused and listened to the silence broken dramatically by tons of ice sliding from the slabs of Hell’s Lum. It seems that winter is losing it’s grip.”

That was written in the already legendary winter of 2001. Two years later I find myself back in the Loch Avon Basin on almost the same weekend, only difference is that today we’re here to go rock climbing. This may have been one of the worst winter seasons of recent years, but while others are regretting the pitiful lack of snow and ice, some have noticed that the sun has been shining for two months. Two months of sun, and it’s only April! Surely after an extraordinary spell like that Hell’s Lum will be dry!

It is early morning and our optimism continues to shine, encouraged by the flood of sun on our faces as we gain the Cairngorm Plateau. On days like this I remind myself of topping out from Coire an t-Sneachda into a maelstrom of stinging spindrift. Today there is warm granite rather than ice crunching under my boots and the waters of the Allt Domhain rise lazily from the moss of the plateau before gathering themselves for a steep slide and cascade towards Loch Avon. It is here that the sweep of Hell’s Lum slabs first come into view and we stop to consult our map and guidebook.

Guidebooks give us much useful information such as; “An excellent route, although usually wet at the crux”. Having digested wisdom such as this I then tend to set it aside because of course relying on a guidebook detracts from the challenge! I want to experience the climb like the first ascentionist. I want to figure out the line, convince myself that it will go and then rely on confidence and commitment to deal with any surprises that may be encountered.

You can imagine then how surprised we are to find the crag streaming with water! 150m above our heads, the overhang on Salamander casts a fine spray into the air. The water then pulses and sparkles it’s way down the red granite slabs towards us until absorbed by a respectable ribbon of snow at their base.

Hellfire Corner is a big red left facing glistening feature leading up to the right hand end of the overhangs. With our rucksacks carefully stashed by a large boulder Ali leads the way across the snow patch to a small ledge where we can change into our rock boots. There is no belay but Ali finds plenty of runners in the initial crack before she announces that ‘It’s started already!’. I presumed she meant a tricky bit so I made myself comfortable to admire the view while she figured it out.

Below me scree falls away to the moraines and sandy beaches encircling Loch Avon. I allow the sunlit scene to shift and every time it stops, I catch myself looking into the deep shadows cast by the compelling Shelterstone crag. I’ve barely started on one objective and already I’m planning the next. It’s always the way. I am brought out of my daydream by a little too-ing and fro-ing on the rope while Ali negotiates a wet and awkward step. Soon enough she is belayed at the end of the rope. The pitch is given 60m. With the aid of the snow we did it in 50.

Thereafter the route is a little ambiguous. I respond by stitching a devious line between small corners, grooves, slabs and overlaps, trying always to find the line of least water. In this I am moderately successful but as the little corners merge progressively toward Hellfire Corner it becomes clear that we are going to get wet eventually.

From a comfortable thread belay I watch Ali make short work of a steep groove that is our access to the most impressive section of the climb. The corner itself can be done in two pitches and 20m out Ali takes a tenuous belay on a wet sloping ledge. As I haul myself aboard I notice that the way ahead looks intimidating and pause to compose myself. Together we discuss the best approach to a series of bulges that lean uncomfortably against a steep left facing wall that forms the corner.

My first foray is made against this wall but I soon became entangled between one of the belay pegs and an awkward sloping mantleshelf. I retreat to the ledge and try instead to find a way up the water-streaked slabs to my left. This turns out to be even less promising but does uncover a good runner. We decide to re-arrange the belay onto this wire so that I can use the peg on the wall as my first runner. This arrangement proves more satisfactory and with a grunt and a squeal I find enough leverage to plonk my backside onto the shelf. Not stylish I know, but it did the job. Creeping to my feet I am not encouraged to find another similar but damper move, this time with no peg for backup.

I contemplated retreat. Impossible!
‘Let’s just have a wee look then.’ I often talk to myself in these situations.
The ‘wee look’ reveals decent holds on the wall. I am confident that I can make the move but the lack of protection worries me. I can tell without looking at her that it worries Ali too.
‘Hold it together… focus.’ I am planning ahead and have to be certain to get it right as I do not plan to test the peg, now moving further behind me.
I take a brief rest and then make the commitment. It works; I charge cleanly up to the apparent security of a large flake,
‘Come on, I know you’re there!’
Things get pretty slimy at the back of the flake but at last there is, a good positive mossy edge!
I rock over onto a high foothold and make myself as comfortable as can be expected with greasy water trickling down my sleeve and a steady stream running into my rock boots. With a satisfactory sling around the flake I am able to contemplate.
'What next?’
Ahh, a hand jam. I love hand jams; especially the slimy ones where your hand slowly comes out like a cork from a wine bottle. No but seriously, I do like hand jams and so this is the technique that I use to move past the flake and onto dry rock at last!

I am in the clear now and my climbing shows it. Time for some exhibitionism! With ‘thank God’ jugs on the right wall, I work my way up the celebrated bridging corner until, voila! My left arm is crooked round an accommodating chockstone and I am free to lean out and contemplate my ropes with evident satisfaction. That’s it; I know that as soon as I move over that lip I will loose the moment and the exposure, so I produce my camera. I am as ecstatic as Ali is disgusted, but then I am the one with my head in the sunshine and she the one on that wet sloping belay.

Ali wastes no time seconding and is soon leading the last problem with the reward of topping out now in her sights. Reunited on the plateau, we find the day going about its business unconcerned with our achievement. There’s no hurry so we bask by a snow patch until it is time to slither back down the Allt Domhain to retrieve our rucksacks. As we pass I am pleased to observe friends moving together up a very wet Auld Nick. Rather them than me. We leave them to their black stained rock and climb higher to enjoy what is left of the sun and the space on the Plateau.

Hellfire Corner, Hell's Lum, Cairngorms
First Ascent: 1958 G Annand & R H Sellers
Millennium Climbers: 19 April 2003 Alison Callum & Ian Hall

Singita - Bali to Fremantle

2006-10-19T16:51:00.001+08:00

It’s 2am when Mike shakes me awake, ‘Ian, you’re up’. I roll out of the bunk and pull on a windproof and a lifejacket before climbing up into the cockpit. Mike briefs me in a hushed voice; ‘all quiet, no traffic, wind’s swung round to the south which means that we’re off course – but don’t worry about that, the auto helm’s on wind vane so we’ll go where the wind takes us and see how we’re placed in the morning’. With that he disappears below and pulls the hatch too behind him.

I arrange the cushions on the leeward and therefore downhill side of the cockpit and settle into my watch. No more than 10 minutes have passed before the music on my ipod is interrupted by the flapping of sails. The yacht stops heeling and my once comfortable seat dumps me back into the centre of the cockpit. Inexplicably we’re going about. I leap behind the wheel, click the auto helm back to manual and spin the wheel away from the wind. The yacht wallows between the swells, the sails flap once or twice more before the wind backs, the sails fill and the stars revolve back to their rightful positions. We begin to heel to leeward and pick up speed again, the surf surges past and the foredeck alternately reaches for the horizon or buries itself into the next wave. Mike pops his head out of the aft cabin hatch, ‘everything alright?’
‘Aye’ I assure him, ‘we almost went about then but we’re back on track now’. The hatch clicks shut and I am once more the only person in the world.

I think about putting the auto helm back on and burrowing down behind the spray hood. What stops me is the thought that I’m never going to be here again. On this night the south east trade winds are blowing at thirty knots, pushing us away from Australia and out into the Indian Ocean. Our tiny boat feels at home here, her sails shine in the starlight and the helm is in balance, light to the touch. There is no need for the compass; I keep the wind on my left cheek and the Southern Cross next to the mast. The night reaches through my jacket and I feel a tingle spreading across my back and shoulders and I crank up the volume on my ipod.

When the time came for Pete’s watch I switched the auto helm back on and clambered below to rouse him. In my briefing I did not see any point in telling him that I’d steered the whole watch, I wanted to keep that to myself for a little longer. In the morning when I confessed, both Pete and Mike confessed that they’d steered their watches too.

At the start of the trip Mike, the Skipper had asked me about my mountaineering. ‘Did I actually enjoy it all the time I was doing it’ he wondered? ‘Or was it one of those things that you enjoyed more in reflection?’ I answered that ‘there was only a tiny proportion of time when I was either too scared or too uncomfortable to enjoy it for the moment’. He said that for him, ‘sailing was something he tended to enjoy more afterwards’. Having now spent almost two weeks at sea with him I don’t think that he was being honest with himself in this observation. He obviously loves it out at sea and under sail. For me however, my selective memory is already starting to gloss over the discomfort of sea sickness and the chore that even something as simple as making a cup of tea becomes in a cramped kitchen that lurches from side to side and up and down.

Instead the things that I will look back on will be: humpback whales breaching on all quarters, a 5 foot marlin caught on our flimsy hand reel (we let it go), yellow nosed albatrosses soaring just inches from the waves and especially the look on Mike’s face when the Australian customs officers tested his boat positive for heroin and ecstasy. Most of all however will be sailing the trade wind by the stars on the Indian Ocean.

Mt Kinabalu Eastern Ridge

2006-10-14T18:31:00.001+08:00

My meeting with Prof Ho is documented at Arkitrek under the post of his name. Another fascinating thing for me about Prof. Ho is that he was a member of the 1964 Mt Kinabalu East Expedition during which Prof. E J H Corner of Cambridge University made the third ascent of Kotal's Route to the Eastern Plateau of Mt Kinabalu. This is the route that I followed in complete ignorance with friends Emma and Matt in June 2004. The account of that ascent follows.

* * * * *

The rotting branch takes on a fresh intensity as I decide to trust my weight to it. It appears to be held together by lichen. My senses are heightened perhaps by the gathering dusk and the fact that after nine hours on the go, we still haven’t reached the campsite and water source that our tireless guides have promised. Unexpectedly we find ourselves at the edge of a granite outcrop that affords a momentary viewpoint. My mind alights on the precipitous angle of the jungle and far below tufts of white cloud soak up the last of the day’s light. For a moment I forget my fears and enjoy being alone on the eastern flank of Mt. Kinabalu with my better half Emma and alter ego Matt.

Our route started in the fields above Kundasang where Sammy’s father in law owns a prizewinning cabbage farm. Sammy put this trip together for us including permits, transport, our mountain guide Jusirin and porter Maudin. Jus is the younger of the two, short, stocky and with a touch of the showman. Din is quieter, also short but strong and wiry with remarkable stamina. They only speak a word or two of English but we soon establish a rapport based on the word ‘bagus’ (good).

At the top edge of the cabbage fields Jus and Din confer briefly before leading us into apparently trackless jungle. Our progress is slow and clumsy as we learn to deal with thorny rattan and frustrating bamboo thickets. Juicy pitcher plants grow beside the trail and the flaking trunks of gnarled trees are home to bright green moss and hanging epiphytes. We climb for an hour or so before the ground collects itself into an exposed ridge that we follow until it dips abruptly to a col. The montane rainforest is more stunted here and we are granted glimpses of all embracing mountainside.

It is getting late and our guide’s animated discussion is presumably on the subject of where to spend the night. We pass a number of campsites but they are all rejected on the grounds of ‘tidak air’ (no water). Pushing on through a particularly gloomy thicket we emerge in a small glade on a ridge from where I can hear a waterfall off to one side. Jus and Din have already taken off their sacks and are enthusiastically photographing each other.

With the tents up, our guides collect waterbottles and head off to find the waterfall. They see this as their job and ‘no,’ there is no need for us to accompany them. This annoys Matt and me who would both like an opportunity to explore our new environment. Emma does not have so much energy to spare, but then she has only recently arrived in Borneo and has not spent the last four months doing strenuous volunteer work. We console ourselves by ransacking food from Din’s modified rice sack that he uses as a rucksack.

After breakfast we pick up a trail leading straight uphill out of our camp. We climb steadily all morning and the vegetation requires us to either clamber over large fallen branches or crawl through tunnels of rhododendron. At our lunch spot I am excited to be able to pop my head up above the dwarf canopy and see pinnacles of smooth granite ahead. These I later identify to be the Mesilau Pinnacles, as yet unclimbed. Right now though I have no idea of the topography of the mountain, we don’t even have a map or compass. Our only sources of information are our eyes, Matt’s altimeter and our eloquent guides.

This ignorance has become intrinsic to our whole expedition. Two months earlier Matt and I asked Sammy if he knew whether it was possible to climb Mt. Kinabalu by a route that would avoid the tourists and that would take several days to allow for comfortable acclimatization. ‘Eastern Ridge,’ said Sammy after his preliminary research, ‘It takes six days and does not go to Lowe’s Peak.’ He added that the climb would require written permission from Sabah Parks and that we would need to find a mountain guide who knew the route. Furthermore he warned us that we might not be permitted due to lack of water on the route and unknown condition of fixed ropes. ‘But don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll do all the arrangement for you.’

For aspiring adventurers this description was irresistible. Matt and I immediately signed up and I put Emma’s name down too. The fact that she had no idea what I was getting her into worried me a little. The combination of rainforest and a spectacularly steep mountain guaranteed that this would be a challenging climb. With no research to make up for our naivety, we were all three signing up in blind faith. In fact Emma was signing up in blind faith on my blind faith.
‘But don’t worry,’ we had assured her, ‘this is the way things work in Sabah, everything will sort itself out.’
The fact that she didn’t put her foot down implied acceptance of the plan, or lack thereof, and that we were all in.

I am a little disappointed when we head downhill, away from those alluring pinnacles. ‘Need water’ we are told. ‘No water here.’ We skirt the base of the pinnacles until it is possible to descend into a dry gully bed.
‘Tidak air,’ announces Jus, confirming the obvious.
‘OK, where is air?’ I try not to sound impatient or concerned.
‘Next one.’ By which I presume he means the next watercourse.
Ironically it starts to rain and I’m not sure whether to put some more clothes on or to spread out our tent flysheet to catch water? Jus and Din also appear uncertain and are quartering the hillside presumably looking for a trail that will lead to the ‘next one’. No sooner have I made my decision they find the trail contouring an improbably steep spur that bounds our gully.

We scramble up and down over tree roots and boulders, traversing the mountainside in a pattern that will inevitably bring us into another drainage. Again we hear ‘tidak air’. It’s getting late and Matt and I are grinning at each other in a ‘this is starting to get interesting but we’re game for it’ kind of manner. Matt and I may be game but Emma lets it be known that she’s flagging. I wonder how much she has left. I have found through experience of climbing with women that they tend to hold more in reserve than they let on. This compared to men for whom the converse is often true. I hold onto this thought and pray that tiredness does not result in accidents.

We should have found a campsite by now but we continue, descending a gully choked with logs and boulders. We’re moving away from that smooth granite toward steaming jungle ravines of indiscernible depth. We descend by lowering ourselves from mossy roots onto footholds of crumbling humus. I have twigs down my back from stooping under branches and my knees are filthy from crawling. We pass a good flat camping site. Tidak air of course and it’s onwards and downwards. At the end of the day it gets dark and even our guide has to admit that we will have to camp with tidak air. ‘Tidak bagus’ (not good) mutters Matt. We chop out a small ledge from the moss and roots and manage to get two thirds of the tent onto it. After dinner of tuna mayo with crackers washed down with peanut butter, we mix the last of our water with some rehydration salts and pass the mug around.

Conversation before bedtime revolves around how we have got into this situation and now that we’re here, what can we do to about it. We all feel the need to talk but it is clear that we have few options and that we can take no decisions until morning. It’s to be a sleepless night characterised by a sticky throat and dreams of clear flowing rivers.

That morning we are greeted by the concerned faces of our guides. I try to communicate the question ‘where will we find water?’ we are assured that, ‘over there,’ is water. ‘Over there’ could be either on the facing hillside or around the corner into another watercourse. What they do make clear however is that neither our path nor any other path continues down, which would seem to me to be our best tactic for finding water. This fact also unsatisfactorily answers Emma’s growing concern, where is our escape route?

It is nine hours back to the last known water and there is no alternative route down. We have no choice but to continue. After half an hour’s walk we reach a drainage that guards a trickle of water. It takes five minutes to fill each waterbottle but we soon have enough to brew up some noodles. With the help of a Malay phrasebook and some hasty diagrams we try to thrash out a map and itinerary for the way ahead.
‘Tonight, good water. Bagus air,’ Jus tells us emphatically.
‘And then the next night also bagus air?’ we ought to have established these basic facts when we had Sammy around to translate.
‘No, no good water there,’ replies Jus. It is clear that there is no point in taking this conversation further. We bend down to start packing our rucksacks and in doing so make a tacit agreement to continue.

Jus recognises the moment and utters the call to action. ‘Bagus?’
‘Bagus,’ we dutifully echo. Matt looks at me and rolls his eyes.
‘Jalan naik bukit’ (the path goes uphill) adds Jus in case there was any doubt.
Uphill it is, through larger trees that thankfully allow me to climb without a stoop. As the forest dwindles into giant heath we reach a vantage point where we decide to have lunch. As soon as we have set out our food it starts to rain heavily. We pull out our tent flysheet for shelter but are already soaked and shivering. Matt finds a reserve of energy and busies himself brewing Maggi noodles that go a long way to restoring moral. With the rain easing back to a drizzle we set off again, this time downhill.

After crawling through another rhododendron tunnel we emerge on a vague ridgeline from where more pinnacles appear through the mist.
‘Eastern Ridge.’ Announces Jus.
As this is the supposed name of our route, you might forgive me for assuming that we would be climbing the Eastern Ridge. Instead we cross the ridgeline and descend away from the pinnacles. Through gaps in the clearing mist I can see far below to where granite waterslides cascade out of sight into a deep green ravine. I begin to suspect that the headwaters of this steep sided valley might be the bagus air of tonight’s camp. To reach them we must zigzag down vegetated ledges between blank walls of granite, at times using a rope to lower ourselves hand over hand down awkward sections.

Steadily the sound of the cascades draw level and I begin to wax about how committing this route has become. How with commitment comes the surety to perform feats that you would not contemplate if it were easier to back out.
‘Uh oh! This looks interesting.’
I see water falling down a brown mossy slab. This in itself is unremarkable but with the addition of a knotted rope tied to a tree, the waterfall takes on a new significance. Jus swings over the edge first. Sure-footed in cheap plastic plimsolls he is soon at the bottom some eight meters below. Next goes Matt and I watch absent-mindedly, distracted by concern for Emma.
‘Hey! Where’s that camera?’ demands Matt.
Of course he wants his photo taken, he is about to lower himself hand over hand down what I would normally consider a respectable abseil. With Matt safely down Jus comes back up and takes Emma’s rucksack. I offer to belay with the spare rope that Jus is carrying, but of course she is more confident than she is letting on. I suffice with some words of advice and then commit myself to a demonstration. Emma follows in fine style and it is not long before we are trying to decide which of two flat mossy patches of grass to put our tent on.

Later I learn that we were in the upper Mekado Valley, baby brother to the infamous Lowe’s Gully, which is to our west and separated from us by the North Peak. Standing in this arena of converging mountainsides I am overcome by a feeling of aloneness. The light fails and clouds roll in from the foothills. It is getting cold and tomorrow we have a long climb to reach the puncak or peak.

The next morning does not start gently. We have not been out of the camp more than five minutes before I am relying on the friction of my boots and the tenacity of moss to prevent a painful slide down a granite slab. One particularly bold move involves climbing the lower branches of a tree in order to reach an elevated root system hanging from the next ledge.

As we climb higher the vegetation thins out and the dry rock is a delight to scramble on. We emerge on the easy angled plateau slabs and the clouds part to reveal improbable rock spires looming above us. This provokes an exuberant photo shoot from Jus and Din. Just below 4000m we reach the watershed and look down the other side of the mountain.
‘Puncak!’ announces Din, gesturing up the mildly angled slabs.
Puncak means peak, but from our earlier ‘conversations’ we had also come to understand it to mean the place we are to camp tonight.

We find water in a small rock pool and after some debate choose a rocky patch of moss for our tents. With plenty of afternoon left and the puncak so close we convince ourselves to take a quick look, despite the unpredictable clouds. As it happens we reach the summit in sunshine but the mountain still makes no sense I ask Jus where is Lowe’s Peak? To which he points proudly into a rising stack of cumulonimbus. I can see that I am going to have to wait until morning for everything to become clear.

At 4.00am I can tell by their breathing that the others are wide-awake concentrating on sleeping. There is seldom frost on Mt. Kinabalu and so getting out of my sleeping bag is not as hard as I’d feared. The morning is most notable for the fact that Emma and Matt have come down with a dose of the trots during the night. For the first time on the trek I find myself overtaking Matt on the short climb to the puncak. He does not make it to the top immediately but stops to compose himself 50m short. Emma makes it but excuses herself moments later.

Before me is the dark defile of Lowe’s Gully and across the gulf I identify Lowe’s Peak by the strobe of camera flashes on the summit. The sun makes its appearance and I take a break from brewing noodles to photograph alpenglow on rock. Through gaps in the cloud carpet I can see the coastline of the South China Sea curving northwards from Kota Kinabalu. I am happy when Matt finally drags his sorry self to the top and the three of us share a smug feeling that we’re here and everyone else is over there.

Of our route down, I have no idea. It is hidden by the slope horizon. From the separation to Lows Peak it is obvious that it will be some time before we join the tourist path. Our descent begins on easy angled plateau slabs that lead rightwards to avoid a big drop below. It is obvious that we are looking for a ramp that will lead us through the band of cliffs that prop up the plateau. I am not surprised to find that this ramp is steep enough to warrant fixed ropes. Unlike the previous fixed ropes, these ones are underlined with significant exposure culminating in an airy traverse and fixed ladder performed above a whole lot of nothing. I hold tightly onto the hawsers and concentrate on my footwork, trying to avoid over reliance on the dubious bolts. Meanwhile our guides are loving it and Jus whoops with bravado for the benefit of the crocodile of punters on the tourist path, now visible half a kilometre to our right.

Reaching the tourist path involves more scrambling and proves something of an ordeal for Matt and Emma, whose stomachs are suffering. It takes another hour to reach the sanctuary of the Laban Rata Guesthouse at 3200m. Here we plonk our weary selves down and tuck into crackers with tuna and a mug of Milo. It is 9.00am and we need to gather our strength for the five-kilometre walk to the roadhead at Mesilau. For Matt and Emma this walk through luxuriant rainforest must feel like a cruel trial of endurance. I selflessly take great care to enjoy it on their behalf.

One week later, on our return to Kota Kinabalu, I learned that the name of our puncak is King George and that it is 4063m high.