Lombok to the Gili Islands: Sweat, Salt, and a Summit at Sunrise

Reese Highbloom
Jan 3
4 min read

Updated: Jan 5

December 9 – December 22

I arrived in Lombok on December 9th with sore legs, a quiet mind, and no real expectations beyond slowing down. After the emotional fullness of Bali, Lombok felt stripped back in the best way—less curated, less crowded, and more honest.

I was picked up at the airport by Surf Camp 79, where I’d be staying for the week. The camp sat just outside Kuta Lombok, perched on a hill overlooking town, close enough to feel connected but far enough to stay calm. I dropped my bags, met the kind local staff, grabbed a cheap lunch at a nearby warung, and spent the afternoon reading and playing guitar as the heat settled in.

That rhythm carried through the week. Early mornings meant banana pancakes, stretching sore shoulders, and loading boards onto trucks. Surf sessions were frequent and demanding, and despite how wrecked my body felt from paddling, I progressed quickly—eventually moving onto a shorter board. Recovery became its own ritual: massage, yoga, ice baths, sauna, and early nights with a movie before bed.

The group at camp shifted throughout the week. At first, two girls joined, then I had a couple quiet days solo before Chip and Roxy, a couple from Catalina Island, and Dana from Singapore arrived toward the end. I was lucky enough to be there for both Tuesday family dinners—long tables, home-cooked food, palm wine, and live music. I brought out the guitar and played for the group, something I’ve learned is often the fastest way to feel at home.

Kuta Lombok itself quickly won me over. Compared to Bali, it felt slower and less performative. I wandered between small restaurants, watched the Mandalika Festival of Speed at the race track one afternoon, and spent evenings listening to the ocean rather than traffic. On the final night, after dinner and music, the group went out together to the reggae Club, a relaxed send-off before the next chapter.

Mount Rinjani: The Hardest Day I’ve Ever Earned

On Wednesday the 17th, I left the surf behind and headed north toward Mount Rinjani. A tight taxi ride took me to Bangsal Port, then onward to Sendang, a small town at the base of the volcano. I met my tour operator, dropped my bags, and later linked up with Roxy, who was trekking with a different group. We spent the afternoon hiking to nearby waterfalls, rice paddies stretching out beneath us, before I rented cold-weather gear—jacket, gloves, poles—and stocked up on snacks.

That night I ate aggressively. Carbs were the priority. Sleep came easily.

At dawn, the call to prayer echoed across town—a sound I’d grown used to in Lombok—and by 6 a.m. I was on the back of a pickup truck with a dozen other trekkers, bouncing toward the park entrance. Because it was the end of the season, groups were mixed together. Most were on the two-day trek; I was doing the full route.

After a quick medical check, we began the 6.5-hour climb to the crater rim. My group consisted of two impossibly strong porters carrying 60kg baskets in sandals, our guide Adi, and two other trekkers—one from France and one from Malaysia. I underestimated the heat, over-layered, and quickly found myself shedding clothes and chasing my poles after leaving them behind at the start.

The trail changed character as we climbed. What began as dirt became loose volcanic sand. My legs cramped. The guide often moved ahead, leaving us to catch up at our own pace. When we finally reached camp around 4 p.m., the porters—who had already packed lunch, passed us, and set up tents—greeted us with fried banana and hot tea.

Dinner came at six. I watched the guide and porters cook their meal in the same pan as ours and learned theirs included bat. I declined, in fear of discovering the next Covid virus. At 7 p.m., I crawled into my tent and read until sleep took me, knowing what was coming.

At 1:30 a.m., I woke for the summit push.

Headlamps cut through the darkness as we started up steep volcanic sand that slid backward with every step. The altitude made itself known quickly. The second hour followed the crater rim—beautiful but deceptive—before the final hour and a half of near-vertical sand. I stuck close to a French climber who had summited every volcano in Indonesia. Even he was struggling.

At 5:30 a.m., we reached the summit.

I fell to my knees, fifteen minutes before sunrise. When the sun finally broke the horizon, Lombok, Bali, and distant islands lit up beneath us—360 degrees of land and sea from 12,224 feet. It was one of those moments where exhaustion dissolves into something quieter and deeper.

The descent was solitary and silent. I slid down sand, stopped often for photos, and passed climbers who hadn’t made it in time. By 8 a.m., I was back at camp and refueling with breakfast.

But we weren’t done.

The descent into the crater was treacherous—wet rock, ladders, narrow switchbacks. By noon we reached the lake. I soaked in the hot springs, ate lunch, and then faced the final challenge: climbing back up the crater wall. Candy bars kept me moving. I wrung sweat from my shirt. By 4:30 p.m., I reached the rim and collapsed again.

That day—by far—the hardest physical thing I’ve ever done.

The following morning, after six more hours of descent, rain, and aching joints, we exited the park. I felt wrecked and proud in equal measure.

The Gili Islands: Letting the Body Catch Up

From Rinjani, I took a public boat to Gili Air. The next few days were about recovery. Long showers. Yoga. Good food. Walks around an island so small you can cross it in 20 minutes. Evenings meant volleyball, outdoor movies, and writing.

On Monday, I crossed to Gili Trawangan on a rough boat and checked into Atlas Hostel. The vibe shifted immediately—more energy, more people. I met my German roommate Jonas, and we explored the island together. The following morning, I went snorkeling in choppy waters and was rewarded with sea turtles and sprawling reef systems. Lunch on the beach, sunburn creeping in, and a slow afternoon followed.

That night brought pizza, dancing, and games. Around midnight, on my walk back, I met a Dutch traveler I’d met earlier. We talked for a while, and I mentioned I was leaving in the morning for a Komodo Islands boat trip.

That story, however, belongs to the next blog.