The explosion carried ash, fire, and soil. Peaks of dirt were forcibly pried from the earth and shot across the sky from the volcano. But the fury of the fire and the tension among plates eventually grew tired of tearing the ground apart. Gravity’s free fall took hold of the soil, letting each piece slowly fall upon the ground of a nearby island. The yellow sand given several dashes of pepper from the black ash; the higher ground a recipient to new life for its landscape.
This is obviously an apocryphal story–one I have yet to confirm with actual geological data. But such is the story the locals insist on: the pine trees that populate the designated camp site of Anawangin Cove said to have come from the destruction of Mt. Pinatubo.The tall yet thin trunks and their needle leaves are an odd sight on a beach front as most Filipinos associate pine trees with the cool comfort of Baguio. But the trees we slept between seemed at ease at their new landscape; the branches reaching up to the vast, seemingly infinite stretch of the night sky. The stars teased us with their far reaching light, peeking between the needle leaves that formed silent shadows high above. Only the hush of the mountain above, the rhythmic crash of the waves, and the muffled banter of a jovial group could be heard before our eyes slipped into the surrounding darkness.