The Breathtaking Mount Prau

The concrete passage soon became natural path with vegetable farms on the sides. What was planted I couldn’t see; the sky was still dark though. It was 2 am, way too early for the light to come. Above Dieng Plateau the wind never stopped shooing every clouds covering the pale moon and glittering stars. The valley was decorated with high columns of solfatara, illuminated by mellow lamps of geothermal power generator. Yellow lights emanating like fireflies from houses dwelling in the old valley below beckoned a hiker like me to come down and take shelter on its warmth, comfort, and stability—it is natural though for a hiker to regret his decision right after he takes his first step to scale a mountain, yet as he walked his way the feeling would peter out.

The lane ended to give way to a cobblestone road, which was even more difficult to walk on than the previous. Though it was less steep than the dirt road, the moss growing on the stones made it more slippery. My feet felt heavy; my stomach was empty. Yesterday, both Roiz and I only ate twice—once in the morning, then at 8 pm at Eko’s. While hiking, a heavy rucksack and an empty stomach weren’t a good combination—trust me! To make it worse I didn’t jog or do any other sports before starting this journey. I used to then—during one or two weeks before hiking I’d run or swim to put my lungs together. Consequently, my right-head felt warm and throbbing, cold sweat started falling down from my temples. I had already lost my breath while the journey was still young—I hadn’t even reached the first shelter yet.

I bet Roiz was surprised when he got last minute call from me on Thursday to schedule a Monday hiking. Quite impulsive though. But what was to be done? I missed the thin air so bad for I hadn’t hiked more than four months. The last mountain I visited was Lawu on the Islamic New-Year’s eve, 1 Suro, before the end of kemarau.

The first rain then saw the last day of 2015’s hiking season. Most of the mountains were hitherto closed to outdoor activities. The weather was still unpredictable—and mountains should be given a break to conserve themselves.



Under such uncertain weather I longed to hike. Through the misty disctrict of Wonoboyo, we went to the basecamp of Mount Prau without finding out whether it was open for hiking or not. We swerved our way through gardens of cabbage, carrot, coffee, and other plants and vegetables. The road was too narrow and winding that once we had to stop to give way for a cabbage truck that almost jumped into a valley. The road eventually ended at a triple-junction right in the middle of Kejajar market. The traffic then again became packed. It wasn’t too long until my vision came to rows of houses bulit on hills, like that of Nepal or Tibet which I had seen on books. We drove through gardens laid out on impossible places—from the valley to the top of the hills. Zigzagging for a while, the road at last came to an end: Dieng! The temples, where the cutting of gimbal hair is annually held, were towering in the distance.

We turned left to Eko’s house located three doors down from Telaga Warna. Thereon we visited the legendary hostel cum cafe of Bu Jono.

Roiz had so many friends around Dieng that our spot became packed with people in no time. Cups of hot black coffee brewed on the table. Unfortunately, Mount Prau was still closed for hiking and would be open on April 1st. All the time, the rain poured and thunders roared. It was dangerous and ill-advised to spend the night on the peak. “They say the top of Prau is all iron,” said S. I didn’t know whether it was true or not—all I know is thunders tend to strike pointed things on top of the hills or mountain, or any other higher-grounds. I gazed at Roiz. Our plan was doomed then—I brought a ukulele to play at the campsite, but now that we couldn’t camp up there, well…

“But it’s still open for a day trip without camping,” said S, relieving us. He suggested to hike from Patak Banteng which is steeper but shorter than other routes. The most popular gate, Dieng, that starts from the back yard of Bu Jono’s, was still closed for bushes growing during the rainy season were still covering the path. Let alone the landslides. S simply didn’t want us to get into trouble.

As one of the local-youth leaders, S words could be counted on. Out of curiosity, I asked him about someone who died while hiking Prau around one and a half year ago. S was a great story teller. Listening to him was like paying attention to an investigative TV programme.


blocking the light


The deceased came from a group of thirty people from Semarang. From the capital of Central Java they went by a truck. Arriving in Dieng at 11 pm, they soon started hiking without resting, aclimatizing, or briefing. Before the sun rose, around 3 am, they had summitted the mountain. No way it wasn’t cold. Then out of the blue, at 6.30 am, the base camp of Patak Banteng was phoned by the Semarang group, telling one of their friends was seriously ill.

“How about the team leader?” The first thing I always asked if a calamity like this happened was the team leader. Taking care a group of people to a dangerous place and condition is not easy. It surely takes a lot of knowledge, courage, wisdom, and experience. The leader should be prepared for the worse.

“The one that was sick was the team leader himself,” answered S. I was speechless. On a hiking organized by, for instance, a university outdoors-club, a hiking trip is more organized. If the leader couldn’t perform, the one appointed as the deputy would be consequently obliged to take the lead, following the standard operating procedure.

Anyway, the Semarang group didn’t have to waste time by calling the base camp because the rangers had set a camp nearby, signed with the national flag of Indonesia—red and white—which would be more than happy to help hiker-in-needs. It was S’ duty to stand-by at the camp that morning. Afterwards, the basecamp forwarded the call to S. ”The tent is Rei” was the only clue given by the base camp. There were dozens of Rei then. S had to walk around and kept talking to his handy-talkie for some time before reaching the tent eventually.

S then tried helping: he boiled him water, covered him with sleeping bag and warm-blanket. Yet his condition was still the same—he didn’t even move anymore.

S accidentally uttered: “Well, he’s dead.” Upon hearing it, some of the Semarang group spread it to their friends. Many of them started crying histerically. Realizing that he had to be decisive in order to take the deceased down, S gave them options: either they stopped crying or the corpse would be burried here and now on top of Mount Prau.




They obviously didn’t want their friend to be burried there. S asked them to help him. They couldn’t use a dragbar because it had to be carried by four people—the path is too narrow. They had to improve. So they cut a tree branch big enough to hold a person and tied the deceased like a hunted beast and wrapped it with sleeping bags. To get to the base camp fastly, they descended through emergency pathway. On the way down, they met a group of people who shouldn’t use the path—for it is for emergency only. They asked what they were carrying. To prevent mass-hysteria, S answered that they were carrying a sick hiker. “Should carrying a sick person be like that?” Were they knew, they’d zipped their mouth. At the base camp, an ambulance was waiting.

We swapped stories for a while at Bu Jono’s, sipping our hot black coffee. As we talked a couple entered and checked in. The weather was overcast, but as the hours passed by people started appearing on the road, some on foot and others by vehicles. The wall on which “DIENG” was written just across Bu Jono became crowded with tourists taking photos.

In the afternoon, we strolled to Petak Sembilan through vegetable farms behind Eko’s house and arrived there to see the twilight. Years ago I went there with a group of friends, memories of which are still preserved on photographs, when the ticket booth was still a shack. On a pine tree they had built a platform so that people could take good snapshots with Telaga Warna.

In the evening, Eko took us to his grandma’s house on the western side of Dieng, where we sat in the living room circling around an anglo and seventeen birdcages, listening to her—Eko’s grandma who is believed to be a centenarian—recollections of her childhood.

We fell asleep at Eko’s at 11 pm and woke up before 2 am, after which we went to the basecamp of Patak Banteng. Mamat, who voluntarily led us to the top, had been waiting us for a while there—like I said, Roiz has many friends around Dieng. No one at the information booth. Stretching for a little, we started hiking.

As a guide, his pace was a little bit different from us. So not so long after we reached the cobblestone, I lost my breath.

I hadn’t vomited before in all my hikes, though I had lost my strenght on two of them for different reasons. But it was the most unprepared hiking I had ever done, and I had to pay the price: before reaching the first shelter, some kind of liquid surged out from my throat, I threw up, letting out crumbs of bread I had eaten. I was hungry and my stomach was upset. It rejected my simple meal to protest, as simply as that. Yet I gained my spirit afterwards. By the time we reached the camping ground around the top, the sun was about to climb out from its limbo.





Barangkali terlalu berlebihan untuk menyebutnya badai. Apalagi saya kurang paham mengenai klasifikasi angin. Namun yang jelas pagi ini angin bertiup teramat kencang. Pohon-pohon cemara di pinggir tebing tak henti goyang. Kabut pembawa dingin terombang-ambing dipermainkan oleh si udara yang bergerak. Meninggalkan jejak berupa putih translusen di Cemoro Kembar, Gunung Lawu. Pos 5 masih berjarak beberapa ratus meter vertikal lagi.

Seolah tak mau kalah, hujan ikut ambil bagian. Di pojok terpal, untuk menampung air Benny menaruh beberapa botol air minum kemasan yang sudah dipangkas bagian atasnya. Akhirnya saya mampu menghayati kalimat “hujan adalah berkah” sebab air meteorit itu turun persis ketika persediaan pemuas dahaga kami semakin menipis.

Lanjutkan membaca Lawu


Akhirnya kami berlima berbalik arah, kembali menuruni punggungan yang dipenuhi tanaman rumput gajah. Langit telah gelap pekat namun kami urung jua sampai di Danau Ciharus. Hujan semakin lebat, kabut tipis yang nakal menghalangi mata melihat. Tanda-tanda alam itu seakan berusaha memberi pesan bahwa berjalan di malam hari tak akan membawa kami ke mana-mana. “Kalau kata gue sih kita nge-camp dulu di sini,” usul Novel, kawan baru dari Bandung.

Sepakat, tidak satu pun suara protes. Memang begitulah seharusnya ketika tersesat di gunung. Harus satu kepala. Tiap anggota tim harus rela meleburkan egonya ke dalam satu suara bulat. Banyak cincong hanya akan menghasilkan perselisihan. Saya jadi teringat kisah dua orang pendaki Gunung Merbabu, jauh bertahun-tahun yang lalu, yang berselisih paham soal jalan sesaat sebelum mencapai Sabana Pertama. Salah seorang memilih jalur kanan sementara yang lain bersikeras ke jalur kiri. Kata sepakat tak tercapai malah golok yang berbicara. Perselisihan mereka meninggalkan kenangan yang sampai sekarang masih dapat disaksikan para pendaki Merbabu: memoriam.

Lanjutkan membaca Rakutak

Lewat Pos Cemara

“Tutupi pakai mantel!” Pinta saya pada Eka ketika hujan mendadak turun dengan lebatnya, hanya beberapa ratus meter dari pos ketiga Gunung Slamet, Pos Cemara. “Aku ambil flysheet dulu. Kita bikin bivak.”

Dengan sigap Eka, Arta, dan saya membentangkan kain berukuran tiga kali tiga meter berwarna hitam itu lalu mengikatkannya dengan tali rafia kuning ke tiap sudut. Dalam beberapa menit saja kemah darurat bikinan kami siap. Lengkap dengan alas berupa mantel hujan dan parit-parit kecil untuk mengalirkan air.

Lanjutkan membaca Lewat Pos Cemara


Jika saja di Garut saya dan kawan-kawan tak berurusan dengan calo dan supir nakal barangkali kami tak akan pernah berkenalan dengan Pras, Mulki, Garry, dan Astri. Dan entah bagaimana pula nasib mereka: kehujanan di Pondok Salada; meringkuk kedinginan di bawah pohon sejenis cantigi; berlindung sia-sia di antara rumpun bunga abadi yang tak sanggup membendung derasnya terpaan angin gunung?

Menjelang pukul sembilan pagi ketika itu. Akhirnya kami duduk dalam elf yang akan mengantarkan ke Cisurupan, jalur paling umum untuk mendaki Gunung Papandayan. Seorang bapak paruh baya yang tidak jelas calo atau supir mewanti-wanti kami sesaat setelah keril diikat erat di atap mobil, “Pokoknya jangan mau kalau disuruh pindah.” Kami mengangguk sebab tanpa disuruh pun jelas sekali kami tak akan mau diusik dan disuruh pindah dari bangku elf yang sudah terlanjur nyaman ini. Tadi, sembari menunggu Zeni tiba, kami tiduran selama beberapa jam di atas ubin teras mushala Terminal Guntur yang dingin dan keras.

Lanjutkan membaca Papandayan


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

Suara merak yang membahana seantero Cikasur membangunkan saya dari mimpi yang juga tentang merak. Saya tergeregap, membuka ritsleting tenda, lalu melongokkan kepala keluar. Sekujur tubuh masih dalam balutan kantong tidur. Saya mendapati diri tengah berada di sabana mahaluas.

“Mereka kalau mau terbang heboh, Jo,” ujar Berto, kawan dari Himpala Unas Jakarta, yang kemarin sore telah melihat kawanan burung berperawakan anggun itu. Tenda consina magnum-nya bahkan sudah dihiasi sebatang bulu merak yang tercecer dan telah kehilangan “mata”. Ia lanjut memanasi saya, “Kalau berjalan, Jo, ekornya goyang-goyang.”

Lanjutkan membaca Argopuro


Adalah sebuah kesalahan tidak menggunakan baju berlengan panjang ketika mendaki Gunung Singgalang. Miang dari hutan pimpiang, bambu hutan berdiameter kecil yang mendominasi bagian awal pendakian, cukup untuk membuat gatal bagian tubuh sial yang tak dibalut kain. Bersandar pada sebuah tiang listrik, saya usap-usap gatal pada lengan.

Tengah hari saat itu. Adek, Teguh, dan saya baru saja menyelesaikan trek pimpiang. Kami bertiga berhenti sebentar demi menghormati orang-orang yang sedang salat jumat. Hening hanya beradu dengan merdu suara burung. Kepik menjerit-jerit ditingkahi hembusan angin. Sejuk sebab panas mentari meluruh ditapis kanopi hutan tropis. Udara segar merasuk ke dalam paru-paru, juga sagun bakar yang bersatu dengan air segar, semua mengalir beriringan menjejali kerongkongan.

Lanjutkan membaca Singgalang