“There is actually a higher peak, but we cannot climb it, for there is no trail and the forest is still too dense,” wrote Joko Glemboh in his book Mountains of Java, describing the elusive true summit of Mount Raung.
For decades, the true peak of Raung seemed overlooked in history. Climbers of the 1960s through the 1990s never uncovered the mystery, assuming that the northern route—the established trail—was the only way to the top. Yet that path only leads to the crater rim. The true summit lies farther still, requiring climbers to skirt more than a quarter of Raung’s massive two-kilometer-wide crater.
Most exploration in those years focused on descending into the 500-meter-deep crater. The true summit was left unchallenged, as though reaching the rim was enough.
That perception changed in the 2000s. In 2001, a team from Pataga, the outdoor club of Universitas 17 Agustus Surabaya, pioneered a southern route beginning from Kalibaru. They completed a 17.6-kilometer trek to the true summit, measuring its elevation at 3,328 meters above sea level.
In 2003, a team from Mapala UI (University of Indonesia Mountaineering Club) also succeeded in reaching the true peak via a southern approach, but from Glenmore, further east of the Kalibaru ridge.
Toward the True Peak
Our current expedition set out with the same goal, to reach Raung’s true summit. We followed the Pataga pioneering route from the south, a more difficult climb that cuts directly toward the peak. For Mapala UI, this was a historic challenge—if successful, we would be the first team to reach the summit via two different southern routes.
The ridge was razor-thin for much of the way, just as described in the old US Army Map Service topographic maps from 1964. Even on the fifth day, the forest remained dense, forcing us to hack through rattan thorns at 1,800 meters. Some teammates grimaced in pain as the thorns tore their legs. Nurmulia Rekso, the youngest member of the team, swore never again to hike in shorts.
Above that elevation, tall pines began to appear, shrouded in mist, turning the journey into a dreamlike march among the clouds. The air grew colder, forcing us to don jackets at every stop to recheck the maps.
On the third day, Bagus Ahmad Santoso collapsed and suffered through the night. According to veteran member Bambang Melesom, who had once tried the Glenmore route, this was the work of Raung’s “inhabitants” displeased with Bagus’s demeanor. “Too heavy a social burden,” he muttered, as he made ritual-like gestures over Bagus’s back.
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By midday on the fifth day, we reached the vegetation line: sandy rocks giving way to reeds and cantigi trees. There we left behind Melesom and Sri Yuniardhani—the only woman in the team—at advanced basecamp to coordinate in case rescue was needed.
Seven of us pushed on to the South Peak, where an Indonesian flag marked the summit. Jamaludin from UI’s Faculty of Public Health and I were the first to arrive, followed by the others within half an hour.
But the true challenge lay ahead. To reach the real summit, narrow ridges had to be crossed. Jamal and Bagus, now recovered, were chosen to attempt the first ridge. We moved in pairs, tied together on a single rope, creeping across knife-edge spines with abysses on both sides.
At one point, a cliff nearly a kilometer deep loomed beside us, shrouded in mist. Later, on the third ridge, Jamal chose a side traverse, only to find loose rock. With careful scrambling—clinging close to the wall—we pushed through.
Then we saw it: a razor-thin ridge stretching 600 meters ahead, with sheer drops on both sides. Time was running out—it was nearly noon. We decided to split: five stayed behind, while Jamal and Bagus continued. Both were experienced rock climbers, with similar weight, reducing the danger of dragging each other if one slipped.
The Roar of Raung
The wind howled like jet engines, echoing as if the mountain itself were roaring. Perhaps that is why the peak is called Raung—“the roar.”
Jamal crouched low, shuffling along the spine, sometimes sliding forward on his backside to steady his nerves against the yawning voids. After more than an hour, they reached a 12-meter cliff. With only short webbing straps at hand, they tied four together and rappelled down. “Honestly, that webbing was more for psychological comfort,” Bagus later admitted.
Beyond, a field of rockfall loomed, but Jamal discovered it was solid enough to cross. Using their ice axes, they bounded over the boulders like mountain deer, climbing toward the final row of sharp pinnacles.
Then it came: the triumphant cry. Just before 2 p.m. on Friday, January 19, 2007, the familiar shout of “Mapala!” echoed across the peaks. We turned our heads from the third ridge, straining to hear. The radio crackled—Bagus’s voice came through:
“The summit… We’ve reached the summit! There’s a Pataga plaque here, marking 3,328 meters above sea level!”
Cheers erupted. The true summit of Mount Raung had been reached once again. (Sulung Prasetyo)
