Perched on the highest usable branch of a pine tree atop Mount Kalawitan, I could see to my far right a woman in repose -- Mating-oy Dinayao, the Sleeping Beauty of southern Kalinga. The rooftops of the hill town of Sagada shimmered in the temporary noonday heat to the northwest. And immediately below me were two vandalised summit markers. The older piece of metal lay face down and rusting in the dirt, its originators now unknown. Right beside it stood a chrome sign with the name of the mountain and the incomplete word _AYY_. Put up by the people of Bayyo, the letters B and O had been savagely punched out with crowbar blows.

Much like the tribal water wars of old over the scarce resource, the small mountain towns of the Gran Cordilleras are locked in a new and potentially explosive conflict to grab a share of the region's hottest must-have thing -- tourist dollars. Why should Sagada and Banaue have all the fun?

At 2,714 metres above sea level, Kalawitan (Calauit in the topo maps) is the Philippines' 10th tallest peak. It opened to the local climbing community sometime last year, and the town of Sabangan, owing to its ideal location beside the main north-south Halsema Highway, assumed the still contested role of the de-facto gatekeeper. Its community guides insist the summit is within municipal limits since it lay on the near side of a creek that marks its boundary with Bayyo. One of the two rival claimants insist the stream must be reckoned from its source, said the guides.

The climb is unique in that the locals limit access to only up to 14 backpackers at any one time. They currently average about two trips a month in the dry season -- the mountain is closed to tourism in the wet months. Two AMCI teams visited the mountain this month, including my group of Bugsy, Pie, Kim, Ai, Rica, Josh, Bitoy and Alvin.

Backpackers are a notoriously skinflint bunch. Left to their own devices, all they really need is a reasonably flat, open patch on which to pitch their tents and not much else. It does not even need to be dry. By requiring them to leave their tents, portable stoves, mess kits, and frozen food at home, the locals maximise the value-added to the local economy. The local guide association, trained in business sense by a recent Swiss visitor, provide all these for a fixed fee. Just in case you forgot your sleeping pad and sleeping bag they can even provide you with extra blankets. All visitors must follow a set three-day itinerary (shorter ones for beginners) and must stay during the night at a cluster of mountain huts located above the Kapangdanan River at about 1,190masl.

But let no one be fooled into believing the mountain is a cakewalk. The trek from the highway trailhead at 1,156masl to the Apa camp site and back in themselves are a breeze, leisurely walks past the bleached-white rocks of the docile and meandering Chico River. The trail rises only gradually as it enters the narrow valley created by the tributary. The walk beneath the forest canopy reveals the ingenious improvisation of a mountain people who have mastered the use of water and stone, two of the more unyielding elements of nature. Two layers of ditches, one a few feet above the river and the other high up on the cliff side irrigate the terraced rice fields below. Pie and I used some parts of this upper section as the setting for an impromptu and a bit terrifying trail run.

The summit assault by contrast is daunting on its face  -- a net elevation gain of more than 1,500 metres. The long-haired lead guide Raymund set a 5:00am start and said we must reach the summit by 12 noon or turn back wherever we would be, since they do not allow night treks for laggards and the return hike itself would take another six hours. In the end we made the summit in just six hours flat  -- an amazing 250 metres per hour ascent even though the team stopped frequently to take tonnes of pictures. It also took us just four hours to get back to camp.

Kalawitan, meaning the tallest according to Raymund, is remarkably unspoilt. A moss-backed montane forest covers most of the trail after a short patch of old pines in bloom on the lower slopes. This is game country however. The trail is studded with snares, all booby-trapped with huge shotgun rounds. We were firmly warned not to stray beyond five metres either side of the path.

The relatively expansive summit area is marked by patches of dwarf, yellow-green bamboo and a recently disturbed shallow water hole. "Deer," said the betel nut-chewing middle guide. "It went that way," he motioned toward the trees. All throughout the climb, he would look at some unseen footprint hidden on the ground beside the trail and interpret it for us amazed city dwellers.

I had not realised how steep the climb through the mossy forest was until it was time to go down. My hamstrings immediately cried bloody murder, though I managed to walk it off after about 10 minutes and began to enjoy the descent, using the tree branches and my long legs to propel myself downward at speed.

Although I do not normally write about it, let me just say that the victuals were great. The woodfire at the camp grounds were almost always crackling alive, for the heavy coffee drinkers like myself. Tomatoes, my favourite vegetable, and onions were a mainstay of the meals, except at the summit lunch when I forced myself to eat three hard-boiled eggs from out of the all-meat packed lunch. The young male cooks actually wore aprons and prepared the flour wrapping to the minced vegetable rolls themselves, and joined the guides at night for their traditional war dances complete with small brass gongs.