No Juan Is An Island

There is a distinct shift in the air when you leave the lower altitudes and begin the winding ascent into the Mountain Province. The breeze thins, carrying the sharp, clean scent of pine and limestone, and the world slows down. For the longest time, Sagada was a place I conquered with strides—running through trails, navigating dark cave systems, and rushing from one viewpoint to the next. But this time, the mountains demanded something entirely different from me: patience, grit, and the willingness to accept a slower, softer pace.

Since my vision became deeply challenged in August 2022, my world has naturally shrunk. When a core part of how you perceive the world changes overnight, you stop doing a lot of the things you once lived for. Traveling, an old passion of mine, quickly topped the list of casualties. The math of it just didn’t seem to add up anymore. How do you navigate unfamiliar terrain with very limited sight? How do you justify the logistics when physical limitations turn every step into a calculated risk? Add to that the financial constraints of life without a stable corporate desk, and staying inside feels like the only logical choice.

Yet, logic rarely satisfies the soul. When the opportunity came to join my friends from The Shared Table on a trip to Sagada, a quiet battle began in my mind. It was relatively far from my home base in Baguio, and the thought of navigating the mountains on my own terms was terrifying. I spent days weighing the variables, overthinking the mechanics of the trip, and desperately ensuring I wouldn’t become a burden to the group.

Ultimately, acceptance became my compass. I reached out to my friend Aris and laid it out clearly, identifying exactly which activities I would forgo.

Anything requiring strenuous mountain climbing or slippery trail trekking was out. I initially even opted out of the night activities, knowing how treacherous uneven mountain paths become when the sun goes down. It wasn’t an easy set of concessions to make, but it was the necessary price of admission for my own peace of mind.
This trip wasn’t going to be about standing on the highest peak at sunrise. It was going to be an ode to nostalgia, a test of personal grit, and a gentle reminder that some places are felt just as much as they are seen.

Part I: The Taste of Yesterday – A Nostalgic Tour of 5 Cafes

I set out to revisit five distinct cafes that hold sacred, permanent spaces in my traveling heart. Stepping into them felt like opening a time capsule, a sensory bridge connecting who I am now to the person I was years ago.

My first stop was The Yogurt House. This was the epicenter of my university travel days, a rustic haven where my friends and I would gather to swap stories over tart, creamy bowls of yogurt. It’s also the exact geographical location where I met a deeply special person who shaped my travel life. Sitting there today, I had to be honest with myself: the food quality has noticeably dipped over the years, and the menu prices have climbed significantly. Yet, as I sat with my spoon in hand, the cost faded away. The beautiful, pristine memories anchored to that dining room remained untouched by time or inflation.
Next was the Log Cabin. I remember when dining here required booking a reservation days in advance, a coveted culinary ticket in the heart of town. Today, they welcome walk-in diners on the spot if a table is free. I ordered their pasta, a dish I used to rely on for comfort after long journeys. To my absolute delight, it remains just as robust and satisfying as it was during my earliest visits.

Then came an extraordinary, sensory-rich evening at the Sagada Cellar Door. When I last spent significant time here back in 2020, my memories were hazy silhouettes of craft beers, open bonfires, and grilled franks. This time, however, we sat down to a beautifully curated, traditional Igorot dinner. The standout of the night was a surprisingly vibrant vegetable salad dressed simply with lemon, local honey, and olive oil. But the true revelation was the pinikpikan paired with tapuey (rice wine). The smoky, deep flavors of the traditional chicken dish washed over with the sweet, warm notes of the wine felt like an authentic embrace from the Cordilleras themselves.

No trip to Sagada would be complete without stepping into Gaia Cafe & Crafts. Years ago, Gaia was our mandatory, celebratory pit stop immediately after emerging muddy and exhausted from caving expeditions. Looking out from its windows, you are treated to a sweeping, majestic view of the Kapay-awan rice terraces. I am overjoyed to report that Gaia has only grown sweeter with age. They have meticulously renovated the area, making the physical space prettier and more enchanting than ever. It remains, without question, one of my favorite corners of the world.

My final historical stop was Bana’s Cafe, the very first food establishment I ever patronized in Sagada way back in 2009. On that inaugural trip, their thick, perfectly balanced banana shake left an indelible mark on my palate. I walked in eager to recreate that exact sensory memory, only to find a bittersweet truth: the shake was no longer on the menu. Like Gaia, the physical structure has undergone massive upgrades, creating an aesthetically superior environment, albeit at a higher cost per meal.

It is an unavoidable truth that Sagada’s food scene has become tremendously commercialized and expensive, sometimes at the expense of culinary consistency. But for me, this tour wasn’t a strict food review. Stepping over those thresholds was a time-travel exercise. For brief, shining moments, the smells, the ambient chatter, and the warmth of a mug between my hands brought my past self completely back into the room.

Part II: The Joy of Firsts in an Old Town
You would think that after visiting a small mountain municipality more than ten times, the destination would run out of novelties. Yet, Sagada proved me wrong by offering an entirely new slate of “firsts,” proving that discovery doesn’t require pristine eyesight—it requires presence.

For the first time in all my visits, I tried my hand at the wheel at Sagada Pottery, guided by none other than Ma’am Siegrid, the legendary master artisan of the region. Though I have touched clay and experienced pottery elsewhere before, feeling the cool, spinning earth take shape under my palms in this specific mountain studio felt grounding. In pottery, you don’t look at the clay to see if it’s centered; you feel the wobble through your fingers and correct it with the weight of your palms. For someone navigating life with limited vision, it was a profound moment of alignment.

I also finally walked into Sagada Weaving. It is a bit of a personal shame that it took me over a decade of visits to finally witness this with my own eyes, but watching the artisans work the looms was mesmerizing. The rhythmic clacking of the wooden frames, the tension of the colorful threads, and the sheer focus required to craft their iconic bags and textiles gave me a newfound appreciation for the physical labor that binds Cordilleran culture together.
Later, I made my way to the Wish Bridge at Rock Inn. Twelve years ago, my memory of Rock Inn was defined entirely by the bright bursts of color and sweet taste of orange picking in their orchards. The Wish Bridge is a relatively new attraction—a sturdy, narrow suspension bridge that stretches out over the landscape, guiding you toward dramatic, jagged limestone rock formations. Walking across it, feeling the slight sway of the structure beneath my feet while suspended in the mountain air, was an exhilarating leap of faith.

Even the transit itself was a milestone. Every single trip I’ve taken to Sagada in the past involved roughing it out on public buses, bracing myself against the sharp curves on hard seats. This time, I experienced the luxury of a private vehicle, smoothly gliding through a stunning, newly constructed access road that I had never passed before. The ease of the ride was a gentle, comforting bonus to an already monumental journey.
The Bittersweet Horizon
I won’t sugarcoat the entirety of the experience; it was a deeply bittersweet travel narrative. There were distinct moments throughout the weekend when a sharp pang of envy hit my chest. When my friends packed up their gear, laced up their shoes, and headed out into the dense foliage to trek toward waterfalls and scaling peaks chasing sunrise, a part of me desperately wanted to run alongside them. I had to sit quietly with my thoughts, take a deep breath, and do the heavy internal work of reframing my reality.
I had to gently remind myself: Hey, just being here, sitting in this air, listening to these mountains, is already a monumental win.

This trip was a declaration to myself that my diagnosis in 2022 was not the closing chapter of my adventures. It was a massive, successful experiment in grit and self-compassion. I want to prove that I can still step out into the wider world, preserve my independence, and immerse myself in beauty without being a burden to those around me.
I returned home to Baguio with a heart full of gratitude. This trip wouldn’t have been possible without the patience, inclusivity, and warmth of my friends at The Shared Table. Thank you for keeping a seat open for me, for understanding my boundaries, and for helping me realize that this isn’t the end of my traveling life. Rather, I hope, it is the beautiful, quiet restart of doing the things I will always passionately love.