Sagada is not wanting in sights to see nor things to do: picking oranges in a fragrant orchard, spelunking at Sumaguing with a cool swim waiting at the end, bathing under the early morning rainbow at Bomod-ok, snapping shots of a gorgeous, foggy sunrise at Kiltepan, sighting the last few wild horses, doomed by a territorial dispute, at Marlboro, haggling for the plumpest strawberries at the Saturday town market, shouting your love for the Knicks (or someone right beside you, that would take a lot more bravery) at the Echo Valley, wondering what Sagada smelled like at the height of the popularity of the hanging coffins…

Which is probably why the town was crawling with tourists when I arrived. Never mind it was almost high noon when I clambered off the roof; George Foreman could not have been prouder of the grill marks on my ass. I was grateful enough to have caught the last full ride to Sagada, after chasing my previous rides on the Batad-Banaue-Bontoc route. On the way into town, I caught a whiff of the most amazing smell: baking butter and cinnamon. I resolved to find the source after I had put my legs back into commission.

The pine trees of Sagada, my fellow brash American toploader told me, were planted by his forefathers, who encouraged locals to do the same after the Spanish occupation. While not as tall as their Baguio counterparts, at least the Sagada pines don’t have to fear the invasion of the mall shaped like a shoebox (yet). The trees are an essential part of the quiet, mountaintop town ambience of Sagada. They serve a far nobler cause than any marketplace humans could think of.