There are mountains you discover through maps, mountains you hear about from other hikers, and then there are mountains you only really discover once you are already standing in front of them, wondering why you had never heard their name before. Mount Kuntil was one of those mountains for us. Back in 2023, before the name started making its way into more hiking conversations, Trek Voyagers PH and Team ROMA — Rio Outdoor and Mountain Adventures — found us deep in Maria Aurora, Aurora, heading toward a mountain that was still largely unknown to the commercial hiking community. At that time, Kuntil did not feel like a destination. It felt more like a secret the forest had decided to keep.
Maria Aurora itself is a different kind of place. Unlike the coastal municipalities of Aurora, it sits inland, surrounded by mountains, forests, rivers, and agricultural communities. It is roughly 17 to 20 kilometers before Baler, but once you begin moving farther into the interior, the familiar feeling of a usual tourist destination slowly disappears. The roads become quieter, the settlements become fewer, and eventually you begin to realize that you are no longer simply traveling toward a mountain. You are entering a landscape that has its own rhythm, one that existed long before hikers started looking for it.
Our destination was Purok Dos, Villa Aurora, the innermost barangay at the foot of Mount Kuntil. At around 1,536 meters above sea level, or approximately 5,039 feet, Kuntil is not the highest mountain in the country, nor is it the kind of mountain that needs a massive elevation number to impress you. Its character comes from everything around it. The dense forests, the rivers, the grasslands, the steep and rough terrain, and the enormous silence that surrounds it. For the communities living below, however, the mountain is much more than a hiking destination. Its waters feed the lowland communities, providing sources for drinking water and irrigation for farms. In a very real sense, the mountain has been giving life to the people around it long before anyone thought of putting its name on a hiking poster.
Before it became known as Kuntil to the mountaineering community, locals referred to the area as “Tanawan” or “Tanauan,” a name associated with what could be seen from its summit. And when you finally understand what waits above, the name makes sense. From the grassland near the top, the landscape opens dramatically; forests and plains stretching into the distance, the Sierra Madre rising across the horizon, and the lowlands becoming almost impossibly small beneath you. But the mountain carries another name, too, one surrounded by a story that made our first night there feel a little different.
According to the local story shared with us, the name “Kuntil” is connected to the small, sharp, knife-edge formation near the summit. Between the mountain and the stories passed down by the people who know it, another character emerged the so-called “Half White Monkey–Half Grass.” A creature from local folklore said to appear in the middle of the night, something between animal and vegetation, a strange presence believed to have once wandered the area, sometimes guiding those who knew the mountain and sometimes leading the careless astray. Whether you believe the story or not, there is something about hearing it while you are actually sitting inside the mountain, surrounded by darkness and forest, that makes you listen a little more carefully to every sound.
Before we started, our local head guide, Kuya Virgilio, gave us a briefing about what we were about to enter. He did not describe Kuntil as an easy climb. What awaited us was dense forest, wild rivers, steep ridges, loose rocks, and sections of trail that were still very raw. The route had only recently been opened to the public in April 2023, which explained why the trail did not feel like the established hiking routes we were used to. There were no wide, obvious paths waiting for us. There were sections where the guides themselves had to work their way through the vegetation, carrying bolo knives to clear vines and make passage possible. And that was probably the first thing that stayed with me about Kuntil; the feeling that we were not hiking on a trail that had been prepared for us. We were following a path that was still being introduced to people.
The climb began with an orange hanging bridge. It looked almost out of place against the green surroundings, but crossing it marked the beginning of our real entry into the mountain. After the bridge, the trail quickly reminded us that Kuntil was not going to be gentle. We crossed cold, knee-deep rivers, stepping carefully over rocks while the water pushed against our legs. The temperature of the water was the kind of cold that wakes you up instantly, especially when you know you still have hours of climbing ahead.
Then came the “guho” sections.
There were parts of the mountain where fallen rocks and unstable ground made every movement deliberate. Hindi puwedeng basta lakad lang. You had to look at where you were placing your foot, check what was holding your weight, and make sure the person behind you had enough room to move. One wrong step could turn an ordinary descent into a much bigger problem. The mountain constantly demanded attention, but it never felt like it was trying to defeat us. It simply did not care whether we were experienced hikers or first-timers. You had to adjust to it.
As we went deeper into the forest, the landscape became increasingly wild. The sound of rushing water followed us in certain sections, sometimes loud enough to drown out conversation. The smell of damp soil and vegetation was everywhere. The forest felt alive in a way that is difficult to explain when you are only looking at photographs. There is a certain difference between seeing a forest and actually walking inside one when leaves brush against your arms, when your shoes sink into wet earth, when you hear something moving somewhere beyond the trees and you cannot immediately tell what it is.
That was Kuntil. It was not polished. It was not designed to impress visitors. It simply existed. And perhaps that was exactly what made the climb memorable. At the time, we were also beginning to understand that this mountain was carrying much more than what we could see along the trail. Studies of the broader area had documented an extraordinary range of biodiversity, including amphibians, reptiles, birds, and other species that make the forests of Aurora their home. Among the species associated with the region are the Philippine Eagle, Rafflesia philippensis, and the Philippine Deer. Knowing this changed the way we looked at the forest. Every clearing was no longer just a place to pass through. Every tree, stream, and patch of vegetation belonged to a much larger ecosystem that existed independently of our presence.
After the Guho sections, the mountain began to give us a little room to breathe. Along the route, we had actually come across two possible places where we could have established camp. The first was much earlier, near the waterfalls and streams before the Guho section, but we chose to keep climbing. We wanted to see what was waiting farther up, and eventually, we reached a clearing that had once been used for something very different from hiking—a former kamote plantation. That became our campsite, and we called it Kamotehan Campsite, a name that simply came from what the place once was. Before tents, backpacks, and hikers occupied the clearing, this part of the mountain had once been used for planting kamote.
Kamotehan was not particularly wide, but it was more than enough for us. At the time, only two groups were sharing the area, leaving plenty of space for our tents, equipment, food, and the simple gathering that would eventually become one of the most memorable parts of our stay in Kuntil. But what made the campsite special was not its size. It was its view. From the mountainside, we could look down and catch a glimpse of the bridge in Villa Aurora, appearing small against the vast landscape below. Looking one way, we were surrounded by layers of forest stretching across the mountain; looking another, the landscape opened toward the lowlands of Maria Aurora. It felt almost like Kuntil had opened a window for us—one that allowed us to see both the wilderness we had just passed through and the communities far below where our journey had begun.
The view became even more remarkable knowing that the skies around these forests are sometimes crossed by the Philippine Eagle, soaring freely above the landscape. Seeing or even simply knowing that such a magnificent bird can move through these mountains changes the way you look at the forest. It reminds you that what appears to us as a beautiful backdrop is, in reality, a living habitat—one that belongs to wildlife and communities long before hikers ever arrive.
We reached Kamotehan at around 5:00 in the afternoon. By then, the day’s exhaustion had already settled into our bodies, but the moment the tents were up and everyone finally had somewhere to sit, the atmosphere changed. The mountain became less about the climb and more about the people we were climbing with. That night, Kamotehan became our little gathering place in the middle of Kuntil. There were stories, laughter, food, and the kind of random conversations that naturally happen when people have spent an entire day moving together through difficult terrain. We talked about the climb, the things we had seen along the trail, the summit waiting for us the next morning, and, as usual, stories that had absolutely nothing to do with hiking. Perhaps that is what makes a campsite memorable. For a while, you stop being hikers. You are no longer counting kilometers, watching your footing, or wondering how much farther the summit is. You are simply there—under the night sky, surrounded by forest, with tired bodies and full conversations.
The following morning, we planned to resume the trek around 6:00 to 8:00 AM, continuing toward the summit for the morning light. Some members of the group chose to leave their belongings at Kamotehan and make their way toward the summit later in the day. It was another reminder of something Kuntil had already taught us: there was never just one way to experience the mountain. Some pushed forward, some took their time, and some stayed behind a little longer. All of us, however, were still part of the same journey.
Looking back, Kamotehan became more than just a place where we slept. It became a pause between two chapters of the climb—the difficult trail behind us and the summit still waiting ahead. A former patch of farmland, a temporary home for two groups of hikers, and a quiet viewpoint overlooking the forests and lowlands of Maria Aurora. Somewhere between the tents, the stories, the distant landscape below, and the darkness of the mountain, we realized that sometimes the best memories of a mountain are not made at the summit. Sometimes, they are made around the campsite.
Hours into the climb, the terrain began to change again. The forest slowly gave way to more open sections, and the slope became steeper. We were already carrying the accumulated weight of the climb; wet shoes, tired legs, sweat, mud, and the kind of fatigue that makes you stop talking for a while because you are saving whatever energy you have left.
Then we started seeing the bonsai-like trees. The vegetation became shorter and more exposed as we approached the summit. And somewhere in that final stretch, the mountain finally showed us what it had been hiding.
The knife-edge.
It was not some enormous rock formation towering above the landscape. It was small, sharp, and almost delicate compared to the scale of the mountains surrounding it. But standing there, after everything we had crossed to reach that point, it suddenly made sense why the mountain carried the name Kuntil. Sometimes the most memorable features of a mountain are not the biggest ones. Sometimes it is one strange formation, one ridge, one view, or one small detail that gives an entire mountain its identity.
And then the clouds opened.
From the summit, the exhaustion somehow became secondary. The grassland stretched around us while the mountains and forests extended far beyond what we could immediately see. The lowlands were spread beneath the ridge, and the Sierra Madre formed the backdrop of a landscape that still looked remarkably untouched. There were no crowds competing for summit photos, no long lines, no signs telling us where to stand. Just us, the guides, the mountain, and the view.
For a few minutes, we were simply quiet. I think that is one of the things I remember most. We had spent hours trying to reach the top, and when we finally got there, there was nothing we needed to say. That evening, the mountain became an entirely different place.
After the day’s exhaustion, the campsite slowly filled with laughter, stories, food, and the usual conversations that happen when a group of tired hikers finally gets to sit down. But the darkness surrounding us was unlike the darkness you experience in the city. There were no familiar streetlights in the distance, no constant sound of vehicles, no buildings illuminating the horizon. Once the sun disappeared, Kuntil became almost completely dark.
And that was when the stories came back.
Our guides talked about the mountain, the name Kuntil, the old stories, and the strange “Half White Monkey–Half Grass” said to appear in the middle of the night. Sitting there listening to them, it was easy to understand how stories like these survive. In a place as isolated and quiet as Kuntil, folklore does not feel like something written in a book. It feels like part of the landscape itself. You hear a story, look toward the dark forest, and suddenly the mountain feels a little bigger than it did during the day.
We had come to Kuntil looking for a mountain.
We left understanding that we had actually entered a living landscape.
That expedition in 2023 became significant for us because Trek Voyagers PH and Team ROMA were among the first commercial hiking groups to reach the summit and help introduce Mount Kuntil to the wider mountaineering community. But being among the first was never really about claiming the mountain. If anything, it made us feel more responsible for the story we were bringing home.
Because there is a difference between discovering a place and being the first to tell people about it.
The latter comes with responsibility.
Kuntil is not simply another mountain to add to a list of summits. It is a source of water for communities below. It is part of a forest ecosystem that shelters species found nowhere else. It carries local stories that existed before we arrived and will hopefully continue long after we are gone. And the very things that made the climb difficult; the rough trail, the rivers, the dense vegetation, the lack of infrastructure are also the things that made the mountain feel authentic.
That is why we hope Kuntil grows carefully.
We would love to see more people experience the mountain. We would love for it to become known, for more trekkers to stand on that little knife-edge and see the same horizon that stopped us in our tracks. But we also hope that its growth never comes at the cost of the very wilderness that made us fall in love with it. Because perhaps the greatest compliment we can give a mountain like Kuntil is not to make it famous. It is to make sure that when future generations finally arrive, they can still recognize the mountain we saw.
Still wild.
Still difficult.
Still beautiful.
Still protected.
Looking back, Kuntil feels like one of those pages in Trek Voyagers’ history that we did not fully understand while we were living it. At the time, we were simply hikers trying to reach a summit, crossing rivers, climbing through the forest, laughing around a campsite, and listening to stories from people who knew the mountain better than we ever could. But years later, the memory feels different. We realize that we were there during a very early chapter of Kuntil’s story in the hiking community before the crowds, before the familiar trail photos, before the mountain became another name people could easily search for. And maybe that is what makes the memory special. We did not just climb Mount Kuntil. For a brief moment, we became part of its story.
Maria Aurora has always had a way of reminding us that nature does not need to be loud to be extraordinary. Sometimes you just have to walk far enough to hear it. And somewhere beyond the familiar roads leading toward Baler, past the communities and into the deeper forests of Villa Aurora, Mount Kuntil continues to stand quietly at 1,536 meters holding its forests, its rivers, its wildlife, its stories, and that little knife-edge above the summit.
A mountain that once had to be introduced to us.
A mountain that we hope will never have to be introduced to future generations again because by then, they will already know its name, understand its story, and most importantly, know why it is worth protecting.
Iba ang ganda ng isang bundok kapag alam mong hindi lang ikaw ang nakikinabang sa presensya nito. May mga taong umaasa sa tubig nito. May mga hayop na dito ang tahanan. May mga kuwentong matagal nang ipinapasa bago pa tayo dumating. At may mga lugar na, kahit minsan mo lang marating, nag-iiwan ng marka na parang matagal mo nang kilala. Para sa amin, ganoon ang Kuntil. Isang bundok na hindi namin basta inakyat, kundi isang lugar na minsan naming pinasok, pinakinggan, at iniwan na may pangakong sana, sa susunod na bumalik kami, nandiyan pa rin ang parehong gubat, parehong ilog, parehong hangin, at parehong bundok na unang nagpakilala sa amin sa isang tahimik na bahagi ng Aurora. At kung dumating man ang araw na mas marami nang tao ang makakakilala sa Mount Kuntil, sana hindi mawala ang pinakaimportanteng bahagi ng kuwento nito. Na bago pa ito naging destination, tahanan muna ito. At bago pa namin ito tawaging isang adventure, matagal na itong buhay.