Travel Literature: Malaysian Mount Doom

Part One

I find Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi to be the most effective because of its engaging diction and atmosphere. His road trip is told as if it is a thriller. He focuses on describing the landscape more than his car and his mood, which makes it more about the area he travelled to than himself: “The road sliced through a broken, hilly landscape of forest, corn and cattle.”

The way he turns his road trip into a thriller not only engages the reader in the story, but also draws the reader into the situation he is in: “I twiddled my way through the burble on the radio.” He makes himself sound superior to his surroundings, which is necessary in travel literature, even vice-versa.

Part Two

After what a madman might call “rest”, my father and I woke to prepare for our journey in the darkness. Once we had eaten a mediocre breakfast, we walked into the chilly night.

Endless wooden steps began to mark a pathway through mountainous forest. Crickets spurred on the walkers with their soothing chirps, as did frequent breaks. Each step seemed like an arch-nemesis as we crawled up the beginnings of the peak.

Massive slabs of rock painted the second section like a post-apocalyptic final frontier. Torn ropes were our only support now, with a three thousand kilometre drop either side. But as the steepness died down, we had nut bars to feed our hungry leg and arm muscles.

With only half a kilometre to go, frozen plants were illuminated by the beginnings of a sunrise. The top of this mountain seemed like the end of the universe, like a rocky heaven with clouds far below. “We’re so high,” we joked.

Half a kilometre turned into a third as we dragged our dying legs over the desolate plateau of frosted rock. Little cracks where slabs joined gave me comfort, providing me with something to observe.

The peak was a random arrangement of boulders into a wave shape. Ropes were draped down our destination, although they were of little help.

After fifty thousand photos were taken, we edged back down the peak. Then galumphed over the plateau before I leaped down the steps.

The nut bars had kicked in.

With little rest, I sped down the forest, rocks and ridges I had climbed before. Pitcher plants turned into signposts as rock turned to dirt. The vapour dripped on my shoulders no more, because tropical air was in its place.

It was only when I hopped on the coach that I realized how hard climbing Mount Kinabalu was.