From its cloud-crowned peak, I understood why someone as particular as Neil would fall in love with Mount Ilihan.
The mountain looked just as he had described. Wrapped in thick dew, surrounded by a forest that smelled of rain and resilience, it stretched endlessly and faded into the sea. The horizon, painted gold by a sun still deciding whether to rise or rest.
“I could stay here forever,” I whispered, half to myself, half to the wind.
It was eerily beautiful. Mount Ilihan wasn’t the kind of place that begged to be admired. It simply demanded silence.
Before Dawn in Ilihan
“Alas tres sa kadlawon ta manaka sa Ilihan (Let’s climb Ilihan at three in the morning, right before dawn),” he said. We had talked about this trek for days, but only decided on Black Saturday. We thought of hiking in the afternoon and camping overnight, but we had no tents or sleeping bags, just eagerness and legs empowered by the hike to Binangawan Falls a few days prior.
By 3 a.m. on Easter Sunday, we set out with Neil’s younger brother, Benjo, one of those locals who seem to have been born with a compass in their bones. He volunteered as our guide.
A swift motorbike ride from Sagay to the town of Butay in Guinsiliban brought us to the edge of Mount Ilihan, the easiest and closest jump-off point for the trek.
The Ascent to Mt. Ilihan
The trail wound upward through foothills, boulders, and stubborn shrubs that scraped my ankles. My legs felt heavy. My lungs worked overtime yet the air was delicious – earthy, cool, and alive.
Every few minutes, I’d ask, “Dool na ta?” (Are we near yet?)
Neil would laugh, point toward the still-distant summit, and say, “Almost.”
That “almost” stretched for what felt like hours. But eventually, Benjo spotted what we’d been looking for:
A staircase!
“Didto na! (There it is!)” he shouted.
Before the locals cemented the trickiest parts of the trail, hikers had to grab shrubs or crawl on all fours to reach the peak safely. Neil told me a few fell or got injured back then, some ignored advice to hire guides, or tried tackling the trail on oversized motorcycles.
Today, thanks to the barangay’s work, the path is safer, though no less humbling.
The Forest at the Summit
By the time we reached Ilihan’s old crater floor, my shirt clung to me, soaked in equal parts sweat and wonder. The forest ahead was dark, damp, and quiet. The air had that unmistakable mountain chill, biting but clean. The fog rolled in like silk, wrapping everything in mystery. It’s the kind of place horror movie directors dream of but never truly capture.
We sat on one of the long wooden benches near a small structure almost hidden among the trees. I thought it was a house.
“It’s a chapel,” Neil said, smiling.
Sun or Moon?
I fought sleep and waited for the world to wake up. A small, bright, and somewhat disorienting circle of light emerged from the haze. I squinted, hands over my eyes, trying to find where the glow was coming from. I gazed at the source, too small to be the sun, too bright to be the moon.
The clouds lifted. Streaks of orange light spilled across the sky, touching the sea below. It was the sun, finally rising over Camiguin.
It was breathtaking. The sea burned orange, and trees turned emerald as the world slowly opened its eyes. For a moment, wonder outweighed instinct, and I forgot to film it at all.
Keeping Ilihan Sacred
Still, not everything that glimmers is gold. Neil explained that every Holy Week, locals from Barangay Butay hike here as part of their Lenten devotion. Some bring families, others camp out to reflect or pray. By Easter Sunday, the mountain quiets down again, leaving behind traces of human presence.
As sunlight reached the clearing, it revealed ghosts of previous hikers: plastic wrappers, bottles, bits of food packaging.
Standing there, I felt that familiar ache: the one travelers get when beauty meets carelessness.
When I finally looked back from the summit, the clouds began to roll in again, soft and gray. I realized that what makes Ilihan magical isn’t just its view, but the people who keep climbing it with reverence, and the hope that each of its guests will learn to do the same.
Will you find it in you to do so?
