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Residential Mountaineering

Baguio is a landscape of jumbled cubes—mountain peaks swallowed by a labyrinth of concrete, rebar, and corrugated steel.

God threw down this maze of clamorous anarchy on a tropical alpine table land over 5000 feet above sea level and 20 miles from the coast. Two lanes of noodle-narrow road coils down from Baguio to the sea like a small intestine. Constipation naturally abounds (just like every other highway in the Philippines I suppose).

Baguio has slowly outgrown the ‘table’ land upon which the city was founded, creeping up the surrounding ridges, houses climbing one atop of another, and with a deadly finality Baguio has throttled and killed the mountains that once cradled it like a wee babe in arms. I hear tell that once upon a time nature tried to fight back—with an earthquake of fearsome magnitude (of which my wife is a survivor).

Yet Baguio won. Baguio grows larger—teems with life. Mountains lie cold, still and dead.

It’s no surprise. Baguio weather is like baby bear’s stuff: never too hot, never too cold, it’s just right.

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