A year ago, I would never have imagined myself climbing Mount Ophir. I’d read about it before—the historical legends, the myths whispered about its slopes but the idea of actually standing on its summit had never crossed my mind.
At 4,186 feet above sea level, it is ranked the 64th highest mountain in Malaysia. The highest, of course, is Mount Kinabalu in Sabah a peak I had only ever admired from photographs. I was not the outdoor type. Physically, I was small, hardly the picture of a rugged trekker. My roommate could put me to shame in stamina and endurance.
At twenty-three, I still looked more like nineteen. My nursing friends often told me I hadn’t aged a day since they first met me at the School of Nursing only now without the baju kurung and headscarf that had once been part of my daily uniform.
Most of my free time had always been spent indoors—curled up with a book, sewing at my desk, or sitting in front of the computer. Recently, I’d decided to take up computer programming, starting with BASIC and COBOL, just to keep myself updated and to challenge my mind in a different way.
And yet, here I was on the brink of doing something my past self would have laughed at. The climb ahead wasn’t just about reaching the summit it was about seeing if I could carry myself beyond the edges of the quiet, sheltered life I’d always known. Everything had changed since I met Suresh.
Before him, my idea of an outdoor activity was a walk to the nearest bookstore. But now, I found myself spending weekends canoeing, trekking, and camping. Our usual camping trips were at the People’s Association campsite safe, civilised, with proper toilets and the comforting glow of streetlights in the distance.So when Suresh suggested camping on Mount Ophir, my first reaction was hesitation.
I’d read enough to know that it was one of the most climbed mountains in Southeast Asia… but also that it had one of the higher climbing fatality rates. Just a few days ago, I’d come across a report of a climber who had slipped into a ravine and died. The words were still fresh in my mind, replaying like an unwanted echo.Still, I reminded myself—you’re going with army guys.
These weren’t casual weekend hikers they were experienced, trained, and alert. They’d been on jungle exercises, mountain climbs, and even survival training. One of them had tackled Mount Ophir before and knew the trail.
And then there was Suresh, with his easy confidence.“If you’ve been through Brunei jungle training,” he told me, “Mount Ophir’s nothing. We just need to be alert, take precautions, and we’ll be fine.” His tone made it sound so simple, as if the mountain was just another obstacle in a well-rehearsed drill.
Part of me still felt the prick of anxiety, but another part stronger, louder—didn’t want to miss out on the adventure. The thought of sitting at home while they made the climb, sharing stories later that I couldn’t be part of, was unbearable. And so I said yes, even though my heart was still weighing the risks against the thrill.
And then I remembered a conversation I’d once had with my roommate. It was during our block study, when the ward schedules finally gave us some breathing space. She had invited me to join her for a run at MacRitchie Reservoir. I decided to go along, more for the company than the exercise. Junita was supposed to join us too, but she had to cancel at the last minute, citing some urgent commitment.
The morning at MacRitchie was fresh and green, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and leaves. I had thought I might try my hand at cross-country running, just to see if I could keep up. But within minutes, my enthusiasm faded into reality—my legs protesting, my breathing uneven.
Eventually, I slowed to a walk, watching my roommate’s figure grow smaller along the winding trail. By the time I reached the finishing line, she was still somewhere on the course. I found a shaded spot, sat on the grass, and waited.
When she finally appeared, flushed and triumphant, I couldn’t help asking, “How did you even start running like that?” She smiled, still catching her breath, and began telling me the story—how it had started with short jogs, almost by accident, and how it had slowly turned into something she couldn’t imagine her life without.
“It happened by accident back in Secondary School. I was active in sports, but more in field events never a runner. My comfort zone was hockey, basketball, table tennis, and my absolute favourite, badminton. Running? Not for me.
That year, they introduced a novelty event: the 400 Metres × 8 Relay. Eight runners per team, each covering 400 metres, with the competition running over eight weeks — one race every Saturday evening. Points were tallied at the end, and the house with the highest score would win.Even though I didn’t run, I always turned up to support my house.
One Saturday, I went to the track after my badminton practice, still carrying my racket, when the team captain spotted me. She called out urgently — they were short of one runner, and if they didn’t find a replacement, the whole team would be disqualified.I felt trapped. The last thing I wanted was to let my house down. Before I knew it, I’d agreed.I was terrified. I had never run in a track event before, let alone a relay.
My mind was racing faster than my legs ever could: What if I come in last? What if I slow the whole team down? What if they regret asking me? The team captain an Indian girl named Maheswari took me aside.
“You only need to remember two things,” she said, looking me squarely in the eye. “First, when the baton is passed to you, hold on to it no matter what. If you fall, you get up, but you do not let go until you pass it on to the next runner.
Second, you must complete the race. It doesn’t matter if you’re the last one or the slowest — you must finish.” She already had a plan. “You’ll be our third runner. Junita will be the fourth. We’ve got strong runners in the first, second, fifth through eighth positions. Even if you come in last in your leg, we’ll catch up.”
Her words were oddly steadying. The rules were simple: hold on to the baton, finish the race. I could do that. Or at least, I would try. Now I understood how Junita came into the picture. No wonder during block postings I always saw her with Junita, they were schoolmates and had been part of the same running team for years.“
And what do you know,” I said, smiling at the memory, “I did it. I completed the whole race — and that’s not all. I overtook other runners along the way. When the baton reached me, our team was in fourth place. By the time I handed it over, we were in second.
And in the end, we came in first.”It was one of the most memorable moments of my school years. As I stood on the track that day, my hands outstretched, waiting for the runner ahead to pass me the baton, I heard Maheswari shouting from the sidelines.
“Just say it in your head! I can do it, I can do it!” And I did. Every stride, every breath, those words carried me forward. From that day on, I became part of the relay team. I had never imagined myself as a runner, but I learned something important: you never know what you’re capable of until you try.
Sometimes all it takes is the courage to take that first step — and everything you thought you knew about yourself begins to change.I never looked back after that race. I kept running, not just on the track, but in life — chasing things I once thought were out of reach.
So, as I thought about Suresh’s invitation to climb Mount Ophir, I realised my roommate might have a point. I hadn’t even tried yet how could I know what I could or couldn’t do? Why let my size, or my fears, hold me back? If I said no, I might be missing a moment as unforgettable as that first race.We took the train from Tanjong Pagar Station to Segamat Town.
I’d been on trains to Malaysia before, but always at night. This, however, was different. In daylight, the journey unfolded like a moving postcard — stretches of green fields, sleepy villages, the occasional cluster of shops by the tracks. It was an eye-opening experience, as if the country had been keeping these colours hidden from me until now.
There are several entry points to Mount Ophir. Some climbers approach from Malacca, though it’s known to be more dangerous. Johor remains the preferred route, and most begin their climb there. From Segamat station, we caught a bus to a nearby town, and from there it was only a short ride to the trailhead.
Thirty minutes after arriving at the starting point, we began our climb. The guys set an easy pace, stopping often so us girls could catch our breath. They never complained once, and I felt grateful for their patience. It was clear they were here for more than just the summit — they wanted all of us to enjoy the journey.
There were five of us: two women and three men — all of them Suresh’s army buddies except for me.They were very accommodating, never rushing us, always checking if we were all right. Kevin, the one who had been here before, took the lead. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew the mountain, though he admitted the path had changed since his last climb.
Fallen trees blocked sections of the trail, forcing us to weave around them or climb over their damp, moss-covered trunks.He told us how, on his last visit, he had marked the way with strips of white tape tied to tree branches — a simple guide for the return journey. But now, the markers were gone, swallowed by the forest or torn away by wind and rain.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves, heavy with humidity that clung to our skin. Yet beneath it was a faint, almost sharp coolness, the kind that seemed to come from deep within the jungle itself. It was the kind of air that made you breathe slower, as if in respect for the living, breathing world around you.I struggled more than I’d expected, especially on the slippery slopes.
Every step felt heavier with my backpack tugging at my shoulders. I knew I was slowing everyone down, and guilt kept whispering in my ear. But Suresh and his friends never once made me feel like a burden. They were patient, encouraging, and quick to offer a hand when the trail got tricky.At one particularly steep section, Suresh offered to carry my backpack. I refused.
The last thing I wanted was for someone else to carry my load. I needed to know I could bear it myself — that I could push through my own limits. Still, it comforted me to know they were willing to slow their pace for me.The other woman in the group, a Chinese girl on her first mountain climb, was taller and stronger. She moved with an ease I envied, though she admitted later that her legs were aching just as much as mine.
Usually, the Mount Ophir climb can be done in a single day if you start early — half a day up, half a day down — reaching the base before sunset. Coming down is faster, of course, but our plan was different. Suresh had set no strict time limit, other than three days as the maximum. He wanted us to enjoy the jungle, to breathe it in, to share the company of friends without rushing.
“That’s the point,” he said to me on the train ride to Segamat. “Climbing isn’t just about reaching the peak. It’s about discipline, endurance, and total concentration. Out here, the jungle is like meditation to me.”
I remember looking at him then, realising that for Suresh, the climb wasn’t an escape from life — it was a way of being fully in it. And somewhere between the sweat, the slippery slopes, and the laughter of our small group, I began to feel it too.
We reached the first campsite just before nightfall, the fading light slipping quickly into shadows under the trees. Everyone moved with quiet purpose — some clearing the ground, others unpacking the tents. Soon, the soft metallic click of tent poles and the rustle of nylon fabric filled the air.
Dinner was simple but welcome: sardines straight from the tin, instant noodles bubbling in a pot, steam curling into the cool air. I had a packet of biscuits tucked into my pack, my emergency rations in case hunger struck during the night.We ate sitting close together, our breath visible in the growing cold.
The darkness around us thickened, pressing in, broken only by the pale glow of our torches. By the time we finished cleaning up, the night felt complete — quiet except for the distant sound of insects and the occasional creak of branches overhead.I was exhausted. Every muscle ached from the day’s climb, and the chill had begun to settle deep into my bones.
Suresh noticed and handed me strips of aluminium foil. “Wrap them around your legs,” he said. “It’ll keep the heat in. Nights up here can get very cold.”I followed his advice, feeling the strange crinkle of the foil under my hands. It wasn’t elegant, but soon I could feel a gentle warmth returning.
We turned in early, slipping into our sleeping bags, the forest breathing quietly around us.We didn’t sleep immediately. Once the tents were up and dinner was done, someone lit a small campfire from the dry wood Kevin had gathered earlier. We sat in a loose circle, letting the warmth chase away the mountain chill.
The light from the flames flickered over our faces, and the conversation moved easily from teasing about the day’s climb to swapping stories of other trips. Laughter came easily in those moments, but as the fire burned lower and the jungle sounds grew more distinct, the talk began to quieten. That was when Suresh, sitting just across from me, spoke in a softer tone, as if the darkness around us had invited something deeper.“You know,” he began, staring into the flames, “people think I’ve always been this happy, easy-going guy.
But it wasn’t like that when I was growing up.” He paused, as if weighing whether to go on. “I’m the youngest of four. My father… drank himself to death. And when he was drunk, he didn’t just hurt my mother — he hurt us kids too.” I realised that, I was seeing different sides of Suresh — aspects I had never noticed before.
Out here, away from the familiar rhythm of the city, he seemed like a completely different person.Until now, I had known him as gentle, good-humoured, always smiling. I had never seen him angry, and certainly never sad. But as we sat by the campfire one evening, his voice grew quieter, and he began to share pieces of his past.
He continued about his family. After his father’s death, his mother struggled. She couldn’t manage the household alone, especially with Suresh, who was the naughtiest of the lot. He skipped school, fell in with the wrong crowd, and began mixing with gangsters.
Seeing the danger, his mother sought help. She placed him in the Ramakrishna Mission Home for Boys, where he grew up until his National Service. Suresh spoke of the home with gratitude. “It saved me,” he said simply. He knew his mother had done the right thing.
I listened, picturing the boy he must have been — restless, mischievous, perhaps angry without knowing why. I couldn’t help wondering if his constant jokes and easy laughter were a shield. Was the jovial man I knew hiding a lifetime of pain, or was it simply who he had chosen to become?
Either way, I found myself quietly glad that he was my friend here, now, in the middle of the jungle, with the night air cool around us and the sound of leaves whispering overhead.
We’d met by chance during my last month as a pupil assistant nurse, at a barbecue at East Coast Park. N had invited a group of National Service men, mostly medics, and that was how I first saw Suresh tongs in hand, tending to the grill, joking with the others.
At the time, I’d been feeling adrift. My letters to Sharil had gone unanswered for months, and I knew, deep down, that I needed to move on. The silence had left a hollow space in my life — and without meaning to, Suresh began to fill it.
Our friendship started casually: the occasional badminton game, then chess matches that stretched into long, companionable evenings. We discovered we both loved the quiet strategy of chess how each move could be both a risk and a rescue. Perhaps that was what kept us together: the steady, thoughtful pace of our friendship, and the unspoken comfort of knowing we didn’t have to fill every silence to enjoy each other’s company.
The next morning, it was wonderful to wake to the crisp, fresh air of the mountain. I had never felt such purity in the air — cool, sharp, and alive. After a quick breakfast, we broke camp and continued our climb. We stopped briefly for lunch, then pressed on, the trail narrowing under a canopy of towering trees.
By the time we reached our second campsite, the temperature had dropped noticeably. My legs, already sore from the previous day, began to cramp, and the guys decided it was wiser to call it a day.In the dark heart of the rainforest, there isn’t much to do once the sun sets except gather around the campfire, eat, and talk. The flames threw a soft orange glow over our little circle, shadows dancing on the trees.
The guys slipped easily into their usual banter about army life, sharing stories from their jungle training in Brunei — tales laced with both hardship and humour. Their closeness was easy to see, a kind of unspoken bond built from years of shared challenges.
Someone suggested we do something different that night: everyone had to present an “item” — a song, a joke, or a story. Mark, who had a rich, warm voice, sang an English ballad that floated out into the night. I was told he played the guitar beautifully too. Kevin followed with a Barbra Streisand number, surprising us all with his control and range. Grace sang a haunting Chinese song I couldn’t understand the words, but the melody was enough to hold me still, letting the sound wrap around us like the night air.The only one who didn’t sing was Suresh — but he more than made up for it with his jokes.
He had a knack for building up a story, his voice shifting tone at just the right moment, his expressions perfectly timed. By the end of his bit, we were doubled over in laughter, the sound carrying into the dark like a promise that, for tonight at least, nothing else mattered but this fire, this company, and this place.
Then it was my turn. I couldn’t think of any other song except one from Alleycats, one of my favourite bands from Penang. Their songs had been the soundtrack to so many quiet evenings, and the one that rose to my mind in that moment was Andainya Aku Pergi Dulu Sebelum Mu — If I Have to Go First Before You.
I sang it softly at first, the words in Malay weaving through the flicker of the campfire. When I finished, Suresh leaned forward. “Translate the whole song for us,” he said. So I did — line by line, turning the imagery and tenderness into English. When I was done, he nodded. “It’s beautiful,” he said, and I could tell he meant it.
The night was still young, but our list of songs and jokes was running short. Then Suresh stood and, with a grin, told the group, “Nita likes to write stories. And she’s one good storyteller.” All eyes turned to me, smiling in quiet expectation.
I felt a small jolt of panic — they had been such wonderful friends on this trip, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. Writing was something I usually did in silence, without an audience.
My stories lived in notebooks, half-finished, waiting for me to shape them into something whole. Now, for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to give them a voice.
