Feature: A Second meeting with the Guardian of Mt. Mantalingahan

But the man who once led the way—barefoot and beaming, with a machete in one hand and a story in the other—now sits beside a mug of coffee, legs stretched, laughing like he’s got nowhere else to be.

It’s been years since I last saw Maman Buano Layom, the legend of Barangay Ransang in Rizal, Palawan. The last time, he stood tall at 99, guiding climbers up Palawan’s highest peak, his gait steady, his gaze sharper than the ridgelines he knew by heart.

He didn’t recognize me at first.

His eyes scanned my face, soft and searching, as if trying to place me in a memory that hadn’t yet settled. It had been nearly three years since I last sat beside him, listening to stories that felt like they belonged to the forest itself.

“Ako po ‘yung bumisita sa inyo dati,” I said gently, pulling out a photo on my phone—grainy but unmistakable: Maman, grinning with a hiking stick in one hand, seated in his yard.

He leaned in, squinting at the screen. A pause.

Then a slow, quiet smile spread across his face—like sunrise over the ridge.

“Ahhh! Ikaw pala ’yan!” he laughed, shaking his head. “Ang liit mo pa noon!”

We sat side by side again that afternoon, glass mugs warm in our hands. The coffee was boiled over firewood, just like before—earthy, strong, sweetened just enough to take the edge off.

But this time, the conversation didn’t carry the weight of warnings. There were no stories of deforestation. No sacred geography to protect. Just laughter that came easily. Just silences that didn’t need filling.

He looked at me, squinting like he was reading a familiar page.

“Sumusulat ka pa ba?” he asked. Are you still writing?

I smiled. “Opo. Hindi ko pa rin maiwan.” Yes. I still can’t let it go.

He nodded slowly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I asked him if he still climbed. He tapped his knee with two fingers and gave a sheepish grin.

“Hindi na. May rayuma na ako ngayon.” Not anymore. The arthritis has gotten clever.

And just like that, the moment settled into something simple and sacred, not a guide and not a guest, just two familiar souls with stories behind them, sipping coffee at his makeshift home, where the walls are thin, the breeze is kind, and time moves the way it always has: slowly, gently, with no need to impress anyone.

Now 102, Maman no longer climbs. Time and arthritis have gently asked him to rest.

But the old man hasn’t lost his mischief. Or his memory. Or the way his voice drops into a whisper when he speaks of sacred caves and the spirits who watch over the mountain.

The years peeled away. Names returned. Stories flooded back. So did the giggles. And just like that, it felt like we’d never left his home.

No hikes, no trails—just a return visit to the guardian of Mt. Mantalingahan, right where I first met him years ago. Same humble home, same quiet wisdom… and somehow, the connection felt even deeper this time.

Maman Buano Layom still wears his age like a badge. It shows in the creases of his hands, calloused from years of planting crops and guiding souls.

But that sparkle in his eyes? Untouched by time.

There was something gentler this time around. We didn’t talk about altitude or trail risks. We talked about his grandchildren. About the chickens raiding his root crops. About how the wind sounded different in June than in December.

He poured coffee into thin glass cups—one for him, one for me—and told me about how, once, a tourist thought the mountain was magical.

He doesn’t guide tours anymore. His knees complain too loudly. But hikers still come to see him.

They sit under his bamboo porch, where the air smells of sun-dried leaves and distant pine. They ask about the mountain. And he gives them more than maps.

He gives them meaning.

“Dati, katawan ko ang ginagamit. Ngayon, kwento na lang,” he told me.

And in truth, the stories are heavier than backpacks, more nourishing than trail mix.

He speaks of the Tau’t Bato, his people, the “people of the rock”—whose history clings to cliffside caves and whose traditions live in the hush of forest rituals. He talks about the sacred places, the ones tourists shouldn’t touch. He names trees like old friends. He still remembers where the orchids bloom purple and where the eagle once built its nest.

In 2023, he was honored in Malacañang. The President shook his hand and called him the oldest farmer in the Philippines and Southeast Asia’s oldest mountain tour guide.

But back home, he’s just Buano. The guy with endless jokes and the best stories. The one who can fix a broken sling trap with just his teeth and twine.

He still plants root crops when the rains come. Still rises with the sun. Still watches the mist roll off Mt. Mantalingahan like it’s some old friend he’s outlived—but not forgotten.

There was a moment, just before I left, when we sat quietly—no words, just the sound of chickens clucking, the kettle whistling, and the wind moving through the trees.

“Babalik ka ulit ha,” he said, tapping my arm. Come back again.

I promised I would, on his birthday this August.

He’s a walking archive. A historian of the forest. A man whose fame never went to his head because he never believed he needed fame to begin with.

When I leave, he doesn’t say goodbye. Just lifts a hand and nods, like he knows I’ll come back. Like time is no longer something to fear or follow.

I step off his porch and glance back.

There he is—standing outside his home, watching me, smiling as if it just told him a joke.

He doesn’t climb anymore. But he still carries the mountain. And somehow, I figured, it carries him, too.

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