The return matters more than the peak

HIKING has grown into Sabah’s weekly rhythm. Before sunrise, small lights move up Bukit Perahu in Tamparuli. On Bukit Botak in Sepanggar, footsteps echo before faces come into view. Families gather at Bukit Padang and friends climb Bukit Kopungit to watch the city wake. After work, when the day has been heavy, people go again, this time under the calmer light of evening. The hills and trails have become places to let the mind loosen and return to itself. Kokol Hill, Bukit Tirig, Bukit Janggut, Nulu Lapai, Bongkud, the ridges of Tambunan, Mount Wakid and Sosodikon Hill in Kundasang. And always, beyond them all, Mount Kinabalu stands as it always has. These places are no longer just landscapes. They are where we go to breathe.

Climbing changes our pace, quieting the mind and allowing the body to begin speaking. The world falls away until all that remains is breath and step. Hiking has a way of showing us who we are without asking our permission.

But the mountains we love also ask for honesty.

I have climbed Mount Kinabalu three times. The first was in 2013 before the earthquake. The trail felt familiar and whole. The second was in 2018 when the mountain had changed shape in ways that were not easy to describe. The familiar granite spires of the donkey’s ears had been altered by the 2015 earthquake, leaving the summit plateau feeling raw and unfamiliar. It was a stark reminder that even the most ancient landscapes are not permanent. The realization came during my third climb in 2019 that the trail does not just change physically; it changes you, teaching you that ego and past experience are often the heaviest things we carry up the slope.

The climb to Panalaban begins easily enough, with cold air, tall trees, and the steady sound of boots on rock. At first the body feels strong, but higher up the legs tighten, the breath shortens, and the heart grows loud, until the mountain begins to speak in its own clear language, asking that you listen to your body now.

The way down from Laban Rata to Timpohon is where many forget to listen. There is relief. There is laughter. There is the joy of knowing the peak is behind you. But the descent is where the knees take every impact. Where the joints carry every memory of the climb. Where the back must hold the balance of each step. The summit fades. The strain remains. This lingering strain is the silent price of the downhill journey. While the ascent tests the lungs, the descent tests the frame, as the force traveling through the knee joint can amplify to several times a person’s own body weight with every downward step. It is a physiological reality that the mind often ignores in the rush of relief, yet the body remembers every impact long after the car has left the trailhead.

Mount Trusmadi teaches quietly. The trail feels longer than expected, and the climb tests patience more than strength. I remember friends starting with laughter and ending in silence as leg cramps came without warning and the body began to feel heavier than the bag. Someone took out muscle spray, the sharp sound cutting through the forest air, followed by a short burst, a held breath, and a whispered hope. The spray helped, but it also reminded us that preparation is not a formality. It is respect for our limits.

We do not always talk about the small risks. The selfie taken too close to a slope. The decision to match the pace of a faster group. The breath we pretend is steady when it is not. The new trail someone suggests on a familiar hill that becomes unfamiliar too quickly. The danger often begins with the things we are too proud to say. We pretend our breath is steady to keep pace with a faster group, or we step closer to a crumbling edge for a photograph that was never about the view. In the forest, silence is not always peace; sometimes it is the sound of a group losing its connection, and the forest rarely announces the exact moment when familiar turns into lost.

We have seen the consequences. Last year, in 2025, a 65- year-old man in Tawau went hiking alone late in the afternoon. He did not return. He was found along the trail. In Manggatal, a 77-year-old man who had been missing for days was discovered near a ravine. In Kota Belud, two young women who lost their way at Bukit Bongol were found tired but safe.

Our safety felt fragile just this past weekend at one of our most popular urban parks. A 20-year-old man went jogging alone at Bukit Padang on January 11, 2026, and was reported missing after failing to return. He was found safe a day later in Pekan Tuaran, nearly 35 kilometers away from his starting point. This incident serves as a sobering reminder that the forest does not announce when we are lost. Even a familiar trail can lead us far from home if we are not careful.

In Perak, a 34-year-old man at Gunung Liang was left behind by his group during descent last year. When his body was recovered, his mother asked one question. Why was he left alone? That question is not an accusation, but a truth that is difficult to avoid. Hiking is not about the peak. It is about returning together. This truth is backed by a grim reality. The Fire and Rescue Department responds to hundreds of calls annually, with Sabah and Sarawak frequently topping the list of mountain rescues. These are not just numbers on a report; they are often the result of a single person being left to navigate their fatigue alone. The strength of a hiking group is not measured by its fastest member, but by its commitment to the slowest.

The darker side of hiking is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is the strain that builds slowly. Studies in Malaysia show that chronic knee and lower back pain are among the most common musculoskeletal complaints in adults. These are the parts of the body that work hardest when descending a hill, where the force travelling through the knee can become several times a person’s own body weight. The mind may be eager to climb. The body remembers every descent.

Yet we continue to climb, and we should, because hiking is one of the most human ways we step away from routine and return to ourselves. It reminds us that our bodies are not just vessels of work and stress. It reminds us that the land holds space for us when the world feels overwhelming.

Respecting the mountain begins with small acts of care. Tell someone where you are going. Start when the light is kind rather than when pride insists. Carry what your health requires without shame, and rest when the breath becomes unsteady. Walk with the person who slows instead of pushing ahead, because the strength of a climb is never measured by its fastest member. The climb is shared, and the return must be shared as well.

The summit is never the goal. The goal is to come home to the people who wait for us. The mountain will remain where it is. We are the ones who must return.

Melvin Ebin Bondi is a PhD candidate in Public Health at Universiti Malaysia Sabah. He writes a weekly public health column for The Borneo Post.