Kibungan Cross Country: Hard Truths That Only Mountains Can Teach You

It was noon, but the sky was gray, and the trail was lined with dead bodies. Rain poured without mercy, making the mountains weep and swallowing the trail ahead. Drenched in rain and sweat, I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. Wooden coffins. Three or maybe even more. Some even had name tags. And for some bizarre reason, I knew, in that particular moment, the Kibungan Cross Country hike wasn’t just another climb.

It was messy, brutal and relentless.

And it was about to test me in ways I didn’t expect.

As I passed the coffins and the storm raged on, I began to see the truth. 

I saw what it really takes to survive not just this trail, but an insane, ever-changing world. 

And I uncovered the secret to why I’m still here, still moving, and still thriving despite the chaos and madness I’ve been through.

So, what happened on my Kibungan Cross Country hike?

And what lesson in life and hiking did I learn from the dead?

My Kibungan Cross Country Hike 

Finally, the Kibungan Cross Country hike was no longer just a plan or a story we kept postponing. 

It was real. 

It was happening.

After months of delays and a cancellation caused by a storm, we were finally about to take on one of Luzon’s most scenic and demanding multi-day hikes.

But there was one small issue.

I actually wasn’t as prepared as I was on our second attempt to take on the famed KXC hike.

I didn’t train. I didn’t stretch. I didn’t hydrate.

I didn’t even load up on carbs the weeks leading up to the hike.

Heck, I packed my bags just a few hours before my flight from Cebu to Manila.

Sure, I hiked Mount Purgatory a month earlier. But was that enough?

Was that enough to give me the strength and confidence to survive KXC?

Day 1 at 6:37 AM: Kibungan Municipal Hall

We arrived pretty early at the Kibungan Municipal Hall.

We had our breakfast, used the restrooms, and admired the towering mountains of Benguet from the view deck.

Even though I lacked sleep and preparations, there was no way I was skipping this multi-day hike.

As I admired the crazily beautiful emerald landscapes, I realized I was taking a huge risk.

You see.

Climbing a mountain like this isn’t for the faint of heart.

It’s not as easy and breezy as the videos and short reels you see on TikTok or Facebook.

It’s brutal. It’s humbling. And yes, sometimes, it’s dangerous.

And guess what? This crazy old man was more than willing to take the risk.

Because I’ve always believed one thing:

If it works out, you get what you want.

And if it doesn’t, you get knowledge, lessons, and wisdom.

I didn’t get to this point in life by sitting around waiting for apples to fall into my lap.

I climbed the tree. I took the risk and fell several times.

And every time I slipped, I discovered new branches that were stronger and closer to the fruit I needed most.

Day 1 at 7:56 AM: Tanap jump off

After registering our names at the municipal hall, we quickly made our way to the jump-off point in Kibungan, Benguet.

With our backpacks strapped tight and our gear ready, we hit the first section of the Kibungan Cross Country trail.

At first, the hike felt mild and manageable. We descended on a concrete pathway surrounded by lush, emerald-green rice paddies.

To our right, we were treated to a jaw-dropping view of the towering mountains of Kibungan, which were the same peaks we were about to climb later that day.

It was a surreal moment.

Not just because the view was heavenly, but because after all the setbacks and months of waiting, the KXC hike was finally becoming a reality.

Yes, Mt. Kupapey was beautiful.

But that was the backup plan and the trail we settled for when KXC was closed due to the storm.

The Kibungan Cross Country was the dream.

The big one. The hard one. The one we thought we might never get to do.

And after a brutal career-ending ankle injury at the hands of Mount Kalatungan, I thought I wouldn’t have the chance to go on 3-day hikes again.

As Kalatungan crossed my mind, doubts and fears began to creep in.

I thought about that nasty fall.

I imagined it happening again. This time on Litalit, a perilous downhill section of the Kibungan Cross Country trail.

Shit.

I couldn’t let that happen to me again.

Not here. Not now.

Even if I wasn’t as athletic or strong as I once was, I still had the tools to survive KXC: knowledge, wisdom, and experience.

And I earned those things the hard way simply because I kept showing up.

Because I took risks.

Because I climbed, even after I fell.

The first endless assault in Kibungan Cross Country

We crossed the first hanging bridge in the Kibungan Cross County. 

It was long, but not as long as the famous Inasan Hanging Bridge in La Union, which would come in the last section of KXC.

Then, the seemingly endless assault began.

We took on rocks, slopes, and stair-like ascents that burned through my legs and lungs.

And this was only the beginning.

My friend and I found ourselves ahead of the pack.

That surprised me.

Sure, I was used to leading during hikes.

But lately, my cardio has been a mess.

I hadn’t trained. I hadn’t even done regular walks before this trip.

Yet there I was, still moving and still pushing.

Along the way, we were treated to stunning views of the surrounding mountains in Benguet.

In a way, this section of Kibungan Cross Country reminded me of my hike in Mount Kabunian earlier this year.

We kept on hiking, until we arrived at Buga Camp Site.

Then, we followed the trail, and stopped by the water source, as recommended by our hike’s co-organizer, Aia.

We didn’t spend a lot of time resting during this part of the hike. Soon, we followed the trail that leads to Mount Tagpaya and Tacadang.

And that’s when the climb started to feel different for me.

The trail became wilder and more slippery. The sun disappeared behind thick clouds.

My shirt was soaked. My knees began to ache.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

But there was no turning back now. Not after everything.

This wasn’t just about finishing KXC.

It was about proving something to myself more than anyone else.

That I could still do hard things.

That I was still capable, even if I was slower, less prepared, and carrying more pain than before.

Every switchback, every sharp breath and every bead of sweat felt like a reminder.

A reminder that surviving doesn’t always mean being the fastest or the strongest.

Sometimes, it just means refusing to quit.

Even when your legs scream.

Even when your mind says “stop.”

Even when the mountain seems to grow taller with every step.

And then came the storm

The fog slowly covered the emerald mountains of Kibungan, the moment we arrived at the cave-like feature of the trail.

At first, the sky just wept, with a gentle drizzle tapping on our rain covers.

But minutes later, the heavens broke open. A heavy downpour crashed down, turning the trail into a slick, unpredictable mess.

We pressed on, moving carefully through steep, rocky paths that had suddenly become far more treacherous.

There were railings along parts of the rocky, steep, and mildly slippery trail.

Still, you’ll have to be extra careful as you walk on this pathway. 

One wrong move, and it wouldn’t just be a fall. It could be your last.

As I inched forward, gripping the railings and watching every step, my thoughts drifted to Litalit, the infamous downhill section we’d face later.

Is it really as deadly as they say?

What if the rain never stops?

What if the fog thickens and blinds us completely?

Once again, doubts and fears, the relentless demons inside my head, start creeping in.

My legs were already starting to feel heavy. My breath, shorter.

And the rain? It showed no signs of mercy.

It felt like the sky was testing how much I still wanted to complete the Kibungan Cross Country hike.

I dug deep, searching for something or anything to push me forward.And then, a line from my upcoming novel echoed in my mind.

“We don’t become better in the easy seasons. It’s the storms that shape us. It makes us stronger. And it washes away what no longer matters.”

That was just the thought I needed to go through this.

The thing is, rain can be a pain in the ass when you’re hiking.

It falls, it makes a mess, and it slows everything down. But then it stops. And when it does, the plants grow. The grass turns greener. The air smells like something new.

I’ve survived storms like this before. In life. In love. In grief.

So I kept walking.

Because storms pass.

And so do the versions of us we no longer need.

Day 1 at 12:30 PM: The intersection 

Earlier, Aia instructed us to take the trail on the right when we arrived at the Tagpaya and Tacadang intersection. 

With no guide or organizer in sight, we trusted the plan and went right.

The trail was quiet. There were no hikers and no signs of life. Just the sound of water dripping from pine branches and our shoes squelching against wet soil.

My heart began to settle.

The rhythm of my breath slowed, syncing with the steady beat of my footsteps.

We weren’t entirely sure we were on the right path. But sometimes, in hiking and in life, you just have to take a step in faith.

And keep walking.

My heart began to beat at its normal pace, just as the trail began to feel normal.

I slowed down and let my friend stay a good distance ahead.

Maybe five to ten meters.

There wasn’t a single soul behind us either.

And honestly? That was perfect.

This was the pace and space I needed.

Whenever someone hikes too close, like within a meter, I let them pass.

I like walking alone with my thoughts in the mountains and forests.

I don’t want anyone disrupting the rhythm in my head.

Hiking, for me, is meditation.

It’s how I escape the chaos.

It clears my mind from Slack pings, spreadsheets, reports, and never-ending meetings.

The longest 2 kilometers of the Kibungan Cross Country hike 

At the intersection, we were told Tacadang Proper, our campsite for the night, was just 2 kilometers away.

Only 2 kilometers.

But as we kept walking, it didn’t feel like 2.

The trail was mostly flat and gentle, yet it dragged on and on like some kind of slow-burn prank.

Each step felt like it led to another bend, another stretch, and another tease of an ending that never came.

Later, we checked the apps and GPS logs.

Turns out, it wasn’t 2 kilometers. It was closer to 5.

To make things worse, the rain was getting fiercer.

Soon, we reached another hanging bridge.

I paused, letting my friend go first across the shaky bridge.

While waiting, I looked around and spotted a few wooden boxes that reminded me of the hanging coffins in Sagada.

Holy shit! 

I wasn’t expecting that.

I knew these traditions existed, but I didn’t expect to see them here, along this part of our Kibungan Cross Country hike.

And yet, strangely, it was comforting.

It felt like a sign from the universe, a quiet message on how to survive the 3-day Kibungan Cross Country hike.

Sometimes, the Universe sends a message in mysterious ways. 

That moment gave me motivation to keep going.

So we did.

We kept walking until we finally reached Tacadang Proper, where we caught our first glimpse of the iconic “crying mountains” of Kibungan.

We were the only two hikers to arrive at 2 PM.

So, we asked some locals for directions to the school.

A few minutes later, our lead guide, Sir Mark, showed up, chasing after us, and guiding us to the homestay where we’d spend the night with the rest of the team.

Day 2 at 07:50 AM: The hike to the Crying Mountains

Well-rested and recharged, we started Day 2 on a high note.

The sky was clear. Our legs felt lighter. Our spirits, even lighter.

And as we made our way forward, the views just kept getting better.

Jagged emerald peaks. Gorgeous ridges. Rice terraces carved like stairways to the clouds.

Everything looked like it belonged in a fantasy film.

And then, we saw the highlight of the Kibungan Cross Country hike: the Crying Mountains.

And there’s no photo, no filter, no drone footage that can capture what we saw that morning.

Waterfalls spilled down the sides of the cliffs like veins. The mountains wept in silence, and we stood there, awestruck.

I remembered my friend Lina once said the Kibungan Cross Country hike felt like walking through Jurassic Park.

She wasn’t wrong.

It did feel like we had stumbled into another world that was untouched, prehistoric, and impossibly alive.

It’s a place where time slows down, and all you can do is stand still and feel small.

No wonder they call Kibungan the “Switzerland of the Philippines.”

But honestly? I hate it when people say that.

Why do we keep reducing our own wonders to secondhand comparisons?

Kibungan doesn’t need Switzerland’s name tag.

It is not a photocopy of some world-famous landscape.

It’s wild, raw, and breathtaking on its own.

Soon, the rest of the team arrived, and they were all in awe of the beauty of the crying mountains of Kibungan. 

The detour on our Kibungan Cross Country hike

My friend and I pushed on, tackling terrifying ascents and stretches of trail that felt like secret levels no one talks about.

I’d never seen a single video or read a story about this section of the Kibungan Cross Country.

Then came a part that stopped me in my tracks: a kiss-the-wall trail so narrow and sheer that one wrong move could send you plunging.

Still, we kept hiking, inching forward, until a guide appeared far ahead, waving frantically for us to turn back.

From that distance, he looked no bigger than an ant, which was proof of how far we’d gone since losing sight of the group.

We backtracked quickly and eventually found Aia waiting with an apologetic grin, explaining the little miscommunication.

Just another twist in a hike that refused to be predictable.

Although it ate a chunk of our time and energy, our quick detour didn’t bother me at all.

Because it made me remember the burnt toast theory and saying, “everything happens for a reason.”

Sure, detours are inconvenient.

But sometimes, they lead you to the exact lesson, view, or perspective you were meant to find.

Or maybe the Universe had something to say, and that was the only way I’d hear it.

As we rejoined the group and the trail stretched endlessly ahead, I paused for a breath and looked back at the mountains still weeping behind us.

And that’s when it hit me.

Maybe the detour wasn’t a mistake.

Perhaps I was meant to get lost not to test my endurance, but to teach me presence.

To remind me that not every path needs to be rushed.

To remind me to breathe, slow down, enjoy the moment, and appreciate what I’ve done.

And to stop living like I’m always running out of time.

Here’s the thing.

I’ve been so busy sprinting through life, chasing one milestone after another.

But somewhere along this muddy, misty, soul-stretching hike, I was reminded of something I forgot:

That the best views don’t always come after the hardest climbs.

Sometimes, they come when you slow down.

When you breathe.

And when you look back not to regret, but to acknowledge how far you’ve come.

I’ve missed too many quiet moments.

Laughed less than I should have.

Postponed rest, conversations, and weekend dinners with people who deserved more of my time.

Day 2 at 12:01: Batangan Elementary School

I wasn’t even sure how I made it through that last stretch.

It wasn’t the hardest part of the Kibungan Cross Country trail, but the heat was brutal.

I felt like a slice of bread left too long in a toaster, slowly roasting and sweating through every step.

So, I dug deep again. 

I tried to summon the hiker in me, the same stubborn soul who once conquered the highest mountains in the Philippines, like Mount Dulang-Dulang.

The same madman who day-hiked Mount Kitanglad, the fourth highest, like it was just another weekend climb.

But that version of me no longer exists.

The only way to survive this Kibungan Cross Country hike is simple: just keep showing up. One consistent step at a time.

And so, after arriving at Batangan Elementary School, I took time to rest and replenish. 

I took time to shift my mindset to complete the most perilous part of the Kibungan Cross Country hike: Litalit.

I Love You, Litalit

I’ve heard so many stories about Litalit.

While most people know Kibungan Cross Country for the crying mountains, real hikers know the truth: Litalit is the beast you have to face.

They say it’s slippery. Dangerous. Unforgiving.

You’ll need to grip whatever you can, like railings, rocks and even fragile branches, just to stay upright.

So I did what I had to.

I erased the memory of that nasty fall on Mount Kalatungan.

And I focused instead on the moments I survived.

The roped walls of Alto Peak.

The unforgiving trails of Mount Talinis.

The heart-pounding descent on the 85-degree slope of Licos Peak, where every step sent rocks tumbling.

All those climbs had one thing in common: take consistent, calculated steps

And when it was time for us to face Litalit, I did just that.

I held tight to railings and rocks.

And when things got too steep?

Well… I let gravity and my generous butt do the rest.

It wasn’t pretty.

But these mountains don’t create ballerinas.

They shape stubborn, scarred survivors who keep moving, one rough, unglamorous step at a time.

We kept on moving, until we arrived at a waiting shed where Aia congratulated us.

Damn, Litalit. I think I love you.

Then came the descent to Licungan Elementary School.

Honestly? I thought this part was even tougher than Litalit.

With the adrenaline fading and my legs turning to jelly, I took it slow—each step cautious and deliberate.

And somehow, my mind wandered back again to that fall on Mount Kalatungan.

That sudden slip. That helpless drop. That hard reminder.

Eventually, we made it to Licungan Elementary School.

We rested. Rehydrated. Refueled.

My legs were wrecked. My brain was fried. But guess what? I was still standing.

Day 2 at Licungan Elementary School

It was already late, and two of my friends from Cebu still hadn’t arrived.

Soon enough, Gen showed up, with all smiles, proudly saying she loved Litalit.

What a beast to fall in love with.

But Sir Francis was still missing.

Later, a porter from the other group said someone had been injured.

My heart sank. Was it him?

I’ve known Sir Francis for years.

He’s the kind of guy who just keeps moving. 

He’s steady and focused, even when things aren’t doing well.

A real warrior. Quiet. Consistent.

And I was right to believe in him.

He arrived much later than usual, limping, tired, but very much okay.

Just a minor cramp, he said.

No drama. No complaints. 

Like always, he made it.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. That was resilience: calm, quiet and unstoppable.

Later, the team celebrated with a bit of booze.

I joined the conversation, of course, but passed on the drinks.

I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in over 12 years. Haven’t touched a cigarette in 13.

And I have no plans of going back.

Some people find it odd. But I live my life on my terms, not the world’s.

Having a clean lifestyle and following the sober path have done more for me than any party ever could.

I’ve been down the road of nicotine and alcohol addiction before.

And take it from me, your mind is so much clearer without the fog.

Day 3 of our Kibungan Cross Country hike

The guides said Day 3 would be easier than the last two.

And sure, it was easier, but it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

After packing up, we took a few photos of the school and the misty ridges around it.

Of course, we had to snap one of Litalit.

That trail wrecked us.

But it also left us in awe.

And as I looked at the photo, something clicked.

Sometimes, we don’t realize how strong or resilient we really are, until we look back, from a safer distance, and see the whole picture.

Then came the climb to Santol, La Union.

From a grassy plain, the trail led us to a steep concrete pathway.

Now, going downhill sounds easy.

But when the path is concrete and slick?

It’s a whole different kind of struggle.

We found ourselves veering off to the side trails or doing quick little runs to avoid slipping on our butts.

My friend and I didn’t rush this stretch of the Kibungan Cross Country trail, especially since her shoes weren’t built for this kind of terrain.

Still, we walked downhill slowly and steadily, one careful step at a time.

Eventually, we reached the famous Inasan Hanging Bridge.

At 180 meters long, it’s the longest footbridge in La Union.

It’s so long, it takes nearly five minutes to cross.

And if you’re scared of heights, this bridge will test you.

From the bridge, we stopped by a small store that offered soft drinks, pancakes and snacks.

Afterward, we went on with our hike to finally complete the Kibungan Cross Country climb.

I thought it was going to be easy.

I thought it would be mostly flat.

But I was wrong. 

There were still stairs and slopes that we had to face before we could complete KXC.

And the worst part is, the heat was brutal.

But as I struggled catching my breath, my thoughts went back to the dead bodies along the trail on Day 1.

The rain, the struggles, and the coffins made me realize one thing: the future belongs to the consistent.

That’s how I survived the Kibungan Cross Country hike.

That’s how I stayed sane and happy in my life.

And that’s how I managed to survive and thrive, despite all the failures and falls.

The thing is, talent and strength can take you far, but it’s consistency that makes your dreams a reality.

The Universe does not reward the loudest, the flashiest, the strongest, or the fastest.

The Universe rewards those who consistently show up.

The ones who keep walking, even with shaking knees and blistered feet.

The ones who choose to rise again, even when the world has already moved on.

No matter how strong or talented you are, you won’t make it far unless you’re consistent.

And the moment you stop being consistent is the moment you start dying.

It’s the moment you stop growing.

The moment you stop evolving.

Because like mountains, life doesn’t care about your excuses.

It doesn’t care how tired you are, how scared you are, or how many times you’ve failed before.

It only asks you to keep moving, even when it’s slow, even when it’s ugly.

Step after step, breath after breath, that’s how you make it to the top.

That’s how you outlast the storms.

That’s how you turn pain into proof that you’re still here, still standing, still fighting.

And as the trail stretched on ahead of me, I realized something I hadn’t been able to say out loud until now:

This wasn’t just a Kibungan Cross Country hike.

It was my life in motion.

The pain. The setbacks. The falls.

The detours that almost broke me.

The moments I wanted to give up.

The climb was a metaphor for every heartbreak, every failure, and every quiet battle I’ve fought alone.

And just like life, it didn’t reward shortcuts or flash.

It rewarded presence. Effort. Grit.

This Kibungan Cross Country hike wasn’t about reaching the summit.

It was about remembering how to keep going when everything inside you screams to stop.

It was about surviving.

Thriving.

Becoming.

One brutal, beautiful, blistered step at a time.

How many mountains are there in Kibungan Cross Country?

There are 15 mountains to be crossed in the full Kibungan Cross Country (KXC) / Tri-Provincial Traverse.

How hard is the crying mountain of Kibungan?

The “Crying Mountain” is on the Kibungan Cross Country (KXC) route, which is commonly rated 8/9. Expect very long hours, steep assaults and descents, and mostly non-technical but punishing trails (roughly trail class 1–3)

What is the meaning of KXC?

KXC stands for Kibungan Cross Country. It’s a multi-day, major hiking traverse in Benguet that links three provinces (Benguet, La Union, and Ilocos Sur). The term “cross country” reflects how the trail cuts across municipal and provincial borders, passing through remote villages, ridges, and peaks.

How to take a Kibungan Cross Country hike?

The easiest and most convenient way to hike Kibungan Cross Country. If you prefer to take this route, I recommend Rabas Outdoors.