Wandering Wild: My Trek Through Sumatra’s Kerinci Seblat National Park
I’m still picking mud out from under my fingernails as I write this. Three weeks after returning from Sumatra’s Kerinci Seblat National Park, and I swear I can still smell the earthy dampness of the jungle in my hair. That’s the thing about truly wild places—they cling to you long after you’ve left them behind.
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Why Kerinci Seblat Called to Me
It started with a dog-eared travel magazine in my dentist’s waiting room. I was flipping pages mindlessly when I stumbled across a photo of Mount Kerinci shrouded in mist, jutting up from an endless carpet of green. Something about that image stuck with me—maybe because it looked nothing like the carefully curated Instagram hotspots I’d been visiting lately.
Kerinci Seblat isn’t exactly on the typical backpacker circuit. Sprawling across western Sumatra and covering over 13,000 square kilometers, it’s one of Indonesia’s largest national parks, and easily one of its wildest. The park spans four provinces and protects some of the most intact rainforest ecosystems left in Sumatra.
To be completely honest, I’m not usually drawn to jungle treks. I’m more of a mountain-vista-with-a-nice-café-nearby kind of traveler. Humidity and I have never been friends, and the thought of leeches makes my skin crawl. But something about this place kept tugging at me. The fact that it’s home to some of the rarest wildlife on the planet—Sumatran tigers, rhinos, and elephants—was definitely part of the appeal. Though realistically, I knew seeing any of these creatures would be like winning the lottery.
“You’re going where?” My friend Paul asked when I told him my plans. “Isn’t that, like, actual wilderness?” He wasn’t wrong. And maybe that was exactly what I needed—somewhere that would push me well beyond my comfort zone of boutique hostels and TripAdvisor’s top-rated attractions.
I had no idea what I was really getting myself into. And thank goodness for that, because if I’d known how challenging it would be, I might have chickened out entirely.
Getting There and Gearing Up—A Rocky Start
The journey to Kerinci Seblat was a test of patience in itself. After flying into Padang (West Sumatra’s capital), I had to endure an eight-hour bus ride to Sungai Penuh, the gateway town to the park. Eight hours quickly became eleven thanks to a flat tire and a driver who seemed to think lunch breaks were mandatory two-hour affairs.
The bus itself was an experience—packed with locals, a few chickens, and enough durian fruit to make my eyes water. An elderly woman sitting next to me kept offering me candies from a crumpled plastic bag while explaining something in rapid-fire Indonesian that I couldn’t understand a word of. I just smiled and nodded, popping the mysterious sweets into my mouth and hoping they weren’t medicinal.
Packing Woes and Wishful Thinking
I’d like to say I packed brilliantly for this adventure, but that would be a flat-out lie. Despite researching extensively (or so I thought), I managed to get it spectacularly wrong in several key areas.
For starters, my “waterproof” hiking boots turned out to be more water-resistant-ish. Fine for a light drizzle back home, but laughably inadequate for the monsoon-like downpours of Sumatra. By day two, I was squelching through the jungle with what felt like personal foot spas in each boot.
I also drastically underestimated how much bug spray I’d need. The small bottle I brought was nearly empty after the first day, leaving me to douse myself with a questionable local repellent purchased from a tiny shop in Kersik Tuo village. It smelled like a combination of gasoline and grandma’s perfume, but surprisingly, it worked better than my fancy imported stuff.
What I did get right was bringing layers. The temperature difference between daytime humidity and nighttime mountain chill caught many trekkers off guard. One French guy I met was sleeping in all his clothes plus his rain jacket because he only brought a summer sleeping bag.
Arranging a guide was another adventure altogether. After arriving in Sungai Penuh, I spent a day talking to various tour operators, trying to figure out who was legitimate and who was just trying to fleece the obvious foreigner. I eventually settled on a guide named Pak Andi, mostly because he was the only one who didn’t promise I’d see tigers and rhinos. “Maybe tracks, if lucky,” was his honest assessment. I appreciated the lack of false advertising.
The permit process was confusing—a blur of offices, paperwork, and fees that I’m still not sure I navigated correctly. I handed over rupiah in several locations and received stamps on various documents. Did I pay too much? Probably. But by the time everything was arranged, I was too excited about finally hitting the trails to care much about whether I’d been overcharged.
As I repacked my backpack the night before setting off, I felt that familiar mix of pre-adventure jitters. Part excitement, part fear, part wondering if I should have just booked a nice beach holiday instead. Too late now.
First Steps into the Jungle—Wow and Ouch
The trailhead started innocuously enough—a small clearing with a weathered wooden sign marking the boundary of Kerinci Seblat National Park. Pak Andi performed a brief traditional ceremony, asking the forest spirits for safe passage. I’m not particularly spiritual, but something about that moment—the morning mist hanging in the trees, birds calling in the distance—made me grateful for the ritual.
Five minutes in, the humidity hit me like a wet blanket. My shirt was already clinging to my back, and we hadn’t even started climbing yet. The air felt thick enough to drink, rich with the smell of vegetation and earth. It was overwhelming in the best possible way—like all my senses had suddenly been dialed up to eleven.
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The trail quickly narrowed and steepened, transforming from a clear path to what seemed like a vague suggestion through the undergrowth. Pak Andi moved ahead effortlessly in rubber boots, while I carefully picked my way over roots and rocks, already questioning my life choices.
Nature’s Welcome (and Warning)
About an hour into the trek, we had our first wildlife encounter. A rustle in the canopy above revealed a family of Thomas’s leaf monkeys, their distinctive white rings around their eyes making them look perpetually surprised. They watched us with what seemed like equal parts curiosity and disdain before disappearing deeper into the forest.
“Good luck,” Pak Andi said, pointing to the monkeys. “First animal we see is friendly, the forest welcomes us.”
I was about to ask what would constitute an unwelcoming sign when my foot slid out from under me on a patch of mud, sending me unceremoniously onto my backside. Pak Andi tried not to laugh but failed miserably.
“Maybe forest has sense of humor,” he added, helping me up.
That fall was the first of many. By midday, I’d developed a technique that was less “hiking” and more “controlled stumbling.” The constant up and down of the terrain was brutal on my knees, and I quickly realized that my regular gym routine had done absolutely nothing to prepare me for this kind of endurance test.
Mount Kerinci Looms Ahead
Late in the afternoon, the dense jungle canopy gave way to a small clearing, and there it was—Mount Kerinci, Indonesia’s highest volcano, rising 3,805 meters into the clouds. From this distance, it looked deceptively gentle, its slopes a soft green against the blue sky.
“We climb tomorrow?” I asked hopefully, thinking we were closer than we actually were.
Pak Andi’s laugh told me everything I needed to know. “No, no. Two more days walking to reach base of mountain.”
Two more days? Just to reach the base? I tried not to let my dismay show too obviously. The mountain seemed so close, yet apparently, distances in the jungle operated on an entirely different scale than what I was used to.
As we set up camp that evening in a small clearing, I found myself staring at the stars, thinking about how utterly disconnected I was from my normal life. No cell service, no WiFi, no electricity—just the sounds of the forest and the occasional headlamp beam cutting through the darkness. It was terrifying and wonderful all at once.
I’d forgotten what real darkness and silence felt like. Back home, there’s always some ambient light, some background noise. Here, when we turned off our headlamps, the darkness was absolute. The silence, however, was anything but—a symphony of insects, distant calls of night birds, and mysterious rustles that I tried very hard not to overthink.
“What was that noise?” I asked Pak Andi after a particularly loud crash in the underbrush.
“Probably wild pig. Or tiger,” he said with a completely straight face, before breaking into a grin. “I joke. Probably just wild pig.”
Probably. Great.
The Highs (Literally) and Lows of the Trek
Day two dawned with muscles I didn’t know I had screaming in protest. Every movement was accompanied by a symphony of aches as I forced myself out of the tent and into the misty morning. Pak Andi, meanwhile, looked as fresh as if he’d spent the night at a five-star hotel rather than on the forest floor.
“Today more up,” he said cheerfully, handing me a cup of strong, sweet coffee. “More difficult, but more beautiful.”
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He wasn’t kidding about either part. The trail steepened dramatically, often requiring me to use roots and vines as makeshift handholds to haul myself up muddy slopes. At one point, I was moving on all fours, more climbing than hiking, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Then we reached a ridge, and suddenly, the forest opened up to reveal a valley stretching out below us, wreathed in mist and morning light. The view literally stopped me in my tracks. Layers of mountains faded into the distance, each range a slightly lighter shade of green than the one before it, until the farthest peaks were just pale silhouettes against the sky.
“Worth it?” Pak Andi asked, noticing my expression.
I couldn’t even answer. I just nodded, trying to capture the moment in my memory since no photo could possibly do it justice.
That’s the thing about trekking that’s hard to explain to people who don’t do it—those moments of pure, breathtaking beauty are somehow made more intense by the suffering that precedes them. Would that view have been as meaningful if I’d reached it by cable car? Absolutely not.
The day continued with a punishing rhythm of climbs and descents. During one particularly steep downhill section, my knees were shaking so badly I had to stop every few minutes. “I’m never doing this again,” I muttered to myself, swatting at mosquitoes and wiping sweat from my eyes.
Three hours later, standing beneath a waterfall that plunged from a cliff covered in ferns and orchids, I was already mentally planning my next trek. I’m either incredibly resilient or just plain stupid—the jury’s still out on that one.
Our campsite that night was less than ideal—a slightly sloping patch of ground that meant I kept sliding to the bottom of my tent throughout the night. It also started raining around midnight, a proper tropical downpour that made me seriously question the waterproof rating of my tent. Water didn’t exactly pour in, but everything developed a damp, clammy feel that made sleep elusive.
Morning revealed that one of our food bags had been raided by some forest creature—likely a civet, according to Pak Andi. Half of our crackers and all of our dried fruit were gone. “At least it wasn’t the coffee,” I said, trying to find a silver lining. Pak Andi nodded gravely. Running out of coffee would have constituted a genuine emergency.
Wildlife and Wonders—What I Didn’t Expect
I’d come to Kerinci Seblat with dreams of spotting exotic wildlife, but the reality of jungle animal sightings is that they’re often brief, distant, or limited to tracks and sounds. The forest teems with life, but much of it remains hidden, especially the larger mammals.
We did see plenty of evidence that we weren’t alone. Fresh tiger tracks in the mud near a stream sent a shiver down my spine—the unmistakable pad marks and claw indentations of a large cat that had passed through only hours before us.
“Are we… safe?” I asked, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.
“Tiger not interested in humans,” Pak Andi assured me. “Too skinny, not enough meat.” He patted his own lean frame and laughed. I wasn’t entirely convinced by this reasoning, but I chose to believe him anyway.
What we did see plenty of were birds—more species than I could possibly identify. Hornbills with their prehistoric-looking casques, tiny sunbirds flashing iridescent colors, and the occasional raptor soaring above the canopy. Pak Andi could identify them all by their calls alone, pointing out species I would have completely missed.
The smaller creatures were equally fascinating. Butterflies the size of my hand floated through patches of sunlight. Stick insects so perfectly camouflaged that I only noticed them when Pak Andi pointed them out. And yes, leeches—the one wildlife encounter I could have happily skipped. Checking for these bloodsuckers became a regular ritual, especially after walking through wet areas.
I had a moment of pure, childlike wonder when we encountered a rafflesia flower—the largest flower in the world, with blooms that can reach up to one meter in diameter. The one we found wasn’t fully open, but it was still impressive, its mottled red petals and distinctive (read: horrible) smell marking it as one of nature’s strangest creations.
“Very lucky,” Pak Andi said. “They bloom only few days, then die. Many people trek for days, never see.”
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It struck me then how much of what we experience in nature comes down to luck and timing. That rafflesia might have been closed yesterday and gone tomorrow, but today, we happened to be in exactly the right place at the right time to witness it. There’s something humbling about that randomness—the realization that the natural world carries on its cycles whether we’re there to observe them or not.
As we hiked, I found myself increasingly preoccupied with the fragility of this ecosystem. Kerinci Seblat is a protected area, but throughout our trek, Pak Andi pointed out signs of encroachment—places where the park boundary had been pushed back for palm oil plantations or small-scale farming.
“Tiger need big territory,” he explained. “When forest becomes smaller…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
I’m not sure what the solution is. The local communities need to make a living, and tourism alone can’t support everyone. But standing in one of the last great rainforests in Indonesia, listening to the symphony of life around me, I couldn’t help but hope that some balance could be found before places like this exist only in stories.
Reflections from the Trail—Would I Do It Again?
On our final night in the park, camped near a small stream with Mount Kerinci finally within striking distance (though we wouldn’t have time to summit on this trip), I found myself in a contemplative mood. My body was exhausted—feet blistered, legs scratched, muscles aching in places I didn’t know could ache—but my mind felt clearer than it had in months.
There’s something about being completely removed from the digital world that resets your brain. No notifications, no emails, no news cycle—just the immediate concerns of putting one foot in front of the other, finding clean water, setting up camp before dark. It’s simplifying in the most complicated way.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat, though with a few adjustments. I’d definitely bring better waterproofing for, well, everything. I’d train more specifically for the relentless ups and downs. And I’d schedule more time—rushing through a place like Kerinci Seblat feels wrong somehow, like skimming a great book just to say you’ve read it.
What surprised me most wasn’t the physical challenge (though that was considerable) but how the experience affected me mentally. There’s a clarity that comes from being stripped down to basics, from having to be fully present in your surroundings because distraction could mean a twisted ankle or worse.
“Many people come to forest looking for tiger,” Pak Andi said on that last night, as we sat watching fireflies blink on and off in the darkness. “But forest has much bigger things to show, if you know how to see.”
I think I understand what he meant now. The real value of places like Kerinci Seblat isn’t just in the charismatic megafauna or the spectacular vistas—though those are certainly worth the journey. It’s in the way these wilderness experiences change your perspective, recalibrating your sense of what matters and what doesn’t.
There were definitely moments when I questioned my sanity—like when I was huddled in my damp tent, listening to the rain hammer down and wondering if the entire campsite was about to turn into a mudslide. Or when I realized I’d been carrying a leech on my ankle for who knows how long, the little vampire so engorged with my blood it looked ready to burst.
But those moments fade quickly in memory, while the good ones—the rafflesia sighting, the ridge-top views, the simple pleasure of hot coffee at dawn while the jungle wakes up around you—those seem to grow stronger with time.
So yes, I’d do it again. Though next time, I’m bringing twice as many socks, a proper rain cover for my backpack, and maybe—just maybe—a small flask of something stronger than coffee for those cold mountain nights. My calves are already demanding a serious apology, preferably in the form of a professional massage.
If you’re considering your own trek through Kerinci Seblat, my advice is simple: prepare for it to be harder than you expect, but also more rewarding. Bring less than you think you need, except for dry clothes and bug spray—bring more of those than seems reasonable. And most importantly, go with an open mind and the willingness to be uncomfortable. The best experiences rarely happen in your comfort zone.
As I write this from my very comfortable couch, with clean clothes and no leeches in sight, I find myself missing the simplicity of those days in the forest. The way each small comfort—a dry pair of socks, a warm meal, a break in the rain—felt like an extraordinary luxury. The way each day had a clear purpose, unmarred by the thousand small distractions of normal life.
I can’t say when I’ll make it back to Kerinci Seblat, but I know I will. There’s a summit still waiting for me, after all. And maybe next time, if I’m very lucky, I’ll catch a glimpse of those striped shadows that roam the depths of the forest—though honestly, just knowing they’re still out there, wild and free, is enough.
About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.
