Chapter 3. From City Lights to Basecamp

 

Photos taken by Travel Story

Leaving the city for the mountains always feels like stepping through a doorway between two worlds. One moment, there are traffic lights, busy streets, and the glow of shop signs. A few hours later, everything is darker, quieter, and somehow simpler. For this Mount Ungaran climb, that transition began on a regular evening in Yogyakarta. While many people were getting ready for bed, my cousin, two friends, and I were tightening backpack straps, zipping jackets, and preparing ourselves for a night on the road. Our goal was clear: reach Perantunan basecamp around midnight, rest a little, and start the climb before dawn.

We set off around 8 PM, each of us riding a motorbike. The air was still warm when we left the city, but it grew cooler as we moved farther away from the lights and deeper into the quiet of Central Java’s smaller roads. Streetlamps became less frequent, and the darkness around us slowly thickened. The familiar sound of the engine and the wind against my helmet created a steady rhythm that calmed my mind. With every kilometer, the worries of daily life felt more distant, replaced by a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation for the night ahead.

Photos taken by Nisa Arum

About halfway to basecamp, we made our usual pre-hike stop: a modest Pecel Lele stall by the roadside. It was nothing fancy plastic chairs, a simple banner, and the comforting smells of fried catfish and sambal but it felt like an important part of the journey. This unplanned “tradition” had grown out of earlier trips, and now it felt almost wrong to start a hike without it. We ordered our meals, placed our helmets on the table, and let our bodies relax after the ride. Over spicy food and sweet tea, we talked about the trail, joked about who would be the slowest, and shared our expectations for sunrise.

That dinner was more than just a way to fill our stomachs; it was a moment to ground ourselves before stepping into the unknown. Eating together helped soften any quiet fears each of us carried. Would the trail be too steep? Would the weather stay clear? Would our bodies be strong enough for a night climb? None of us said these questions out loud, but they hovered gently in the background. The warmth of the food, the laughter, and the shared ritual turned those worries into something lighter, something we could carry together instead of alone.

Back on the road, the air felt noticeably colder. The streets grew narrower, and the houses we passed looked more spread out. In some places, the only light came from our headlights cutting through the darkness. Above us, where city lights no longer drowned the sky, more stars began to appear. The outline of hills and trees slowly took shape against the faint glow of the horizon. It was as if the mountain was quietly revealing itself, inviting us forward without saying a word. The closer we came, the more real the plan felt. This was no longer just an idea discussed over chat; it was happening.

Around 12:13 AM, we finally rolled into Perantunan basecamp. The atmosphere there had its own special energy. It was late at night, but the place was far from silent. A few groups were chatting softly, adjusting their gear, or stretching before the climb. Some hikers were already resting on wooden benches, trying to steal a few minutes of sleep. Others were warming their hands around cups of instant coffee, their headlamps hanging loosely around their necks. The mix of tired faces, quiet excitement, and the smell of instant noodles created the unique feeling that only a basecamp at night can offer.

Registration turned out to be simple and relaxed. There were no complicated forms or long queues, just a basic logbook where we wrote down our names and group information. The fee was straightforward: Rp30,000 per person, plus Rp5,000 for parking. The numbers themselves were not what stayed in my memory; it was the casual, friendly way everything was handled. There was a sense of trust in the air as if the mountain community assumed that everyone was there to take care of themselves, each other, and the trail. After paying, we found a spot to sit, took off our helmets, and let our backs rest.

While we rested, we used the time to do small but important checks. We tightened our shoelaces, adjusted our backpack straps, and made sure headlamps were working properly. Some of us went to the bathroom one last time before the climb. We shared water, compared the weight of our bags, and gave each other small reminders: “Don’t forget to drink along the way,” “Tell us if you feel dizzy,” “We walk together, no one is left behind.” Under the dim light, these simple words made the group feel more connected and ready.

As we waited for 2:30 AM the time we had chosen to start the hike. The night around basecamp felt calm but alive. Crickets sang in the background, and the occasional burst of laughter from another group drifted through the cool air. Above us, Mount Ungaran stood quietly in the darkness, its slopes invisible but deeply present. Sitting there under the pine trees, between the city we had left and the summit we had not yet seen, I realised that the journey had already begun long before the first step on the trail. Chapter 3 of this story belongs to this in‑between space: the road from the city, the shared meal, and the simple, powerful moment of arriving at basecamp and saying, “We are really here.”