I woke up (the morning after my last post) to clear skies. I packed up and said goodbye to the warmhearted students and walked out the hostel gate feeling like I was pushing my way out of the womb into an uncharted world. I had become accustomed to the comfort and security. But it was time to cut the cord. I stood on a bluff overlooking the Mediterranean, took a deep breath and let my jitters be carried away with the wind. And boy was it windy!

It felt nice and familiar to be back on the trail. I plodded across rolling sand dune’s along the coast without a specific destination in mind; my plan was to go until my ankle said stop. Three or four hours later as I approached the ruins of ancient Caesaria, I knew that was far enough.

The pay booth was closed but the gate was open and the old city was all but deserted.  I wandered around looking at the extensive remains of the magnificent coastal port that was once a cultural and commercial powerhouse. The innovative architecture was rebuilt by Herod in the first century in honour of Augustus Caesar.

 Storm clouds had been blowing in from the east and by early evening the rain hit with a vengeance. I was sitting under a three sided makeshift archaeological structure covered with vapour barrier within the ruins pondering what to do for the night. As it continued raining, the twilight deepening, an idea was taking shape. Hmmm…do I dare? It would be pretty exciting. I had a look around and found a mound of black landscape fabric behind a shed under the enclosure. There wasn’t room to put up my tent but I would have shelter and be off the ground. I didn’t want to draw attention by lighting my stove so there would be no supper or tea but it was an opportunity that was simply not to be missed.
 

K

 
 
 Later, In the dark, snug and comfortable on the landscape fabric, wind and rain tearing ferociously at the vapour barrier, waves crashing against the Byzantine break wall, the intoxication of actually sleeping within the famous ruins made my skin tingle. I fantasized that I had crossed some Narnia like portal and would wake up to the sounds of the Roman marketplace. Instead I woke up to the sounds of workman’s voices. I stayed quiet as a mouse and didn’t move. But I was discovered anyway. When the two workers saw me, they put their hands over their heart and brought me water and cookies and told me to be careful; soon the snakes would be coming out from under the black fabric to sun themselves on the rocks, then headed off with their wheelbarrows and shovels. I packed up pretty quick.

 The shvil left ancient Caesaria following a Roman road along the coast, abundant with ruins, and every so often you could see intact mosaics and small pieces of broken pottery. I was in my glory stuffing the pottery into my pack (reminding me of when Sabrina and I backpack through Greece and carried slabs of marble that we found). Eventually though, I decided that it was foolish for me to carry the extra weight, so I regrettably left my treasures behind and consoled myself inhaling handfuls of the wild Rosemary that grows everywhere here.

In the days since, I have been back in my tent (sometimes cozy, sometimes cold and wet) and continued north with judicious baby steps. The trail turned inland at the Arabic fishing village of Zorba. I crossed Mount Caramel and dropped down into the gardens at Zihron Ya’ akov. But that is a story for another post.

I am still at the hostel in Mikhmoret. It has been rainy so I am taking the opportunity to ice my ankles with the fervent wish that they will rally forth and be able to stay the course. My stomach flutters at the thought. The days with Kermit the car taking Jen and I wherever we wanted, carrying loads of delicious food and water without hardship, combined with the fact that I have been cocooned (with water and power at my fingertips) here in this resort hostel seems to have filed off the hard edge of my resolve that was so well honed in the desert. Tootie (one of the young students) told me that I still need to rest, that I am carrying too much weight (maybe she means around my hips). The food here is awesome. The picture is a representation of the food staples that Jen and I enjoyed every day.

  
Jen arrived back in Edmonton safely and received a warm welcome from her family, who are thrilled to have her home. Her leg is doing weird things with intermittent periods of numbness so she will make a doctors appointment to check that out and catch up on needed sleep before starting work again. I am sure she is enjoying not having to blow up her bed every night. She will send my solar charger back to the company in California and once they receive it, they will send me another one here in Israel. Her feelings about leaving are still mixed and I very much miss her company but we both feel she made the right decision

Last night in the rain, my sleeping bag wrapped around me, I scampered under a tarp sheltering a couple of couches, where I slept until morning. The owner of this establishment is returning in the next few days. The students living here have said that my being here will be no problem but in the same breath they say, “he is an asshole to put it gently”. I think I would rather be gone when he arrives.

I am eager to get back on the trail and find out that all will be well. I feel restless and soft but I’m grateful to have had this place to physically and emotionally prepare for the second leg of this journey, whatever that will look like. My plan is to leave tomorrow but I will let the final decision of when to emerge from the chrysalis rest with the weather. If it is raining in the morning, I will stay for yet another fitful day of leisure and continue to ice my feet. If not, I will quell my stomach flutterings and cautiously test my wings.

After a great time camping on the sandy beaches of the Sea of Galilee, Jen’s insurance confirmed they will pay for her early return. She has been conflicted about the decision of whether to stay or leave. So many things to consider! Her knee is better but still weakened and carrying her pack would likely cause a relapse. In the end, deciding to leave felt like the right decision for her. So we headed back to Tel Aviv, shell shocked that our time together here in Israel was finishing. She wanted to take me in the car to wherever in Israel I wanted to be. So sweet!

We finished up at The Resort Hostel in Mickmoren, north of Tel Aviv (which is actually closed for the winter but students renting here welcomed us in and told us to pitch our tents in the sheltered tent area) They are helpful and generous even though they were in the middle of their end of the season party.

The next day, with mixed emotions, we sorted through our gear. Jen took down her little tent, rolled up her leaky air mattress and packed them into her trusty red backpack for the last time on Israeli soil. We went back to the druz roadside stand nearby and ate incredibly delicious street food on fresh made druz bread with mouth watering Israeli spices before our sad farewell. Jen returned the car to the airport, spent a solitary night there, and is now winging her way home as I write. Today I sat looking out at the Mediterranean feeling very adrift. I suspect, while excited to see family and friends, Jen is also feeling somewhat lost, looking down on the same sea, having left a chunk of her heart here in Israel. But oh, the pictures and the memories we have!

So what now! I have pondered different options and received dire warnings of the consequences of rushing the recovery for my Achilles injuries. I am mindful of not wanting to worry family and friends by continuing on alone with compromised ankles and no solar power (sadly, my solar charger stopped working a few days ago) but I am compelled to stay on the trail if I am able. I feel that we have been guided and protected every step of this journey; even our injuries feel somehow purposeful. I will stay in the north where villages are frequent. I will go slowly, rest often and take the utmost care.

Time is a funny thing – our rich experiences hiking and surviving in the immense grandeur of the Negev Desert feels like long ago; it also feels like Jen and I have been dear friends for many years when, in fact, we only met a few times before leaving on this crazy adventure; and likely, once she is home for a couple weeks, Israel will feel like a lifetime away. By the same token, she’s only been gone a night and a day and it feels like longer. I deeply miss my hiking buddy already. It will take a bit to adjust to our suddenly changed realities.

You never know what’s around the next wadi or why it’s there. Sometimes it’s easy and predictable and sometimes it’s not – but I guess that’s the nature of adventure. And what an extraordinary and wonderful adventure we’ve had! Next post – part two. href=”https://theflipsideoffifty.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/image4.jpg” rel=”attachment wp-att-711″>

It is a dark night. We lay in our tents on a freshwater beach on the Sea of Galilee where we bathed and washed our clothes earlier in the day. I look across the ancient waters to the golden lights of Tiberius glittering on the far hillside. Crickets are chirping, there are low Arabic voices in the background. It is lovely and peaceful. I reflect on the past few days.

We decided to rent a car to give our knees and ankles more needed recovery time. If I am the trailblazer than Jen is the road warrior as she fearlessly maneuvered us out of the busy Jerusalem streets and into the agriculture-rich Golan Heights of northern Israel. Fields of volcanic rock and multiple signs warning of active mines reminded me that, regardless of the greenery, I am far from home. That fact was also reinforced, when thinking we had approached a standard Israeli security checkpoint, we were in fact, actually crossing the border into Lebanon. Crazy! Needless to say, we turned around.

 Winding our peppy, little green Mazda up and down the hills of Nazareth we agreed that Jesus must’ve been very fit. I miss being on the trail but I have been grateful for wheels as yesterday was the first day in weeks that I didn’t feel like I was walking on broken glass. The car also allows us to see many interesting sites and have adventures that would have been impossible otherwise.

We stumbled upon the Mount of the Beatitudes where Jesus preached (Blessed are they that…). It was manicured and beautiful, but the rows of tour buses and maybe the fact that it was so manicured, didn’t move us as much as other places. However, the haunting hymnal harmonies of a nun and three priests in the domed church was an unexpected pleasure

Merlon Golan is a hillside defence station that gave us a very small glimpse into the ravages of conflict. At the top of the hill, we talked with two UN peacekeepers who are positioned there (one from Ireland and one from Serbia) and they gave us a bit of history of the area. We looked down into Syria and saw a bombed out city. The trenches and shelters that we walked along were the site of fierce fighting in the 1974 Syrian war and now serves as a remembrance. Witnessing the raw pain on the faces of people moaning and praying there moved us to tears as we wondered about their stories and their lives.

Yesterday we went to Nimrod fortress (who knew Nimrod meant mighty hunter). Qal’at Nimrod (its Arabic name) is one of the largest and most impressive surviving fortresses of the middle east since the middle ages. In the 1100s when it was built it was surrounded by impregnable walls, domed archways, towers and a moat, and it controlled the important route to Damascus.

Nimrod, king of Shinar is supposedly the great grandson of Noah and, according to legend, in this place he was punished by Allah, who put a mosquito inside his head which drove him mad. The Crusaders tried to take over the fortress but were unsuccessful and it has been controlled mainly by Muslims and Sultans since medieval times. We walked through secret passageways, deep water cisterns (still containing water where we saw a turtle swimming) and of course the dungeons. We couldn’t help but shiver and speculate what atrocities had transpired in the dungeons of Nimrod.

 And on that cherry note, it’s time to sleep.

Jennifer and I arrived at the ancient gate of the old city of Jerusalem and we were both awestruck to be there. I couldn’t believe it actually – to be in a place with such historical significance felt surreal and was completely breathtaking.

The walking tour we started with its facts and stories was interesting, but shortly after it started we fell behind and lost the group as my gimpy robot walk couldn’t keep up. Jennifer staunchly stayed with me (her knee is finally doing better) and we wandered through the narrow winding alleyways of the four quarters; Muslim, Jewish, Christian, and Armenian, on our own. Down a small alley, a wizened old Jewish tailor beckoned us into his tiny shop where he had been sewing men’s suits for the last 57 years. Unbeknownst to him, a tailor was exactly what I needed. As Jennifer mentioned in an earlier blog, I had had a major seam failure days earlier down the backside of my pants (my big scarf saved my dignity once again as my undies had long since been tossed in a fit of unloading anything not absolutely essential). He repaired my well ventilated pants as I waited on a rickety old chair in a postage stamp sized fitting room. He entertained Jennifer with tales from the old days while he sewed.

In The Holy Sepulchre we looked at the stone where Jesus was laid out and washed after he died. The story goes, that whatever touches the stone is directly blessed with His divinity. People were placing religious souvenirs to be blessed and (presumably)to be given to loved ones back home, others were crying and kissing the smooth rock. My belief system leans more towards pagan-based spirituality but I do think that the universal petitioning that seems inherent to humanity is powerful. I think everybody’s personal truth has power but that collective faith-based consciousness has even greater power, regardless of religion.  I need all the blessings I can get, so I laid my forehead upon the rock and opened myself to what it had to offer.

Curiously, the rock itself seemed to emanate gentleness. With my head still down I mentally explored whether it was my own imaginings…but either way, I felt almost magnetized to the revered rock. We sat there for a long time, heads down, almost caressing the centuries old smooth contours; anyone watching must have thought us very devout. When I lifted my head my life wasn’t changed but I did feel a sense of peace. Jennifer was also very moved. Before I left, I touched my hiking poles on the rock for good measure.

Jewish tradition teaches that the temple of the mount is the focal point of creation. That in the centre of the mountain lies the “foundation stone” of the world. The Western (wailing) Wall is a remnant of the Temple Mount and Sages say that “the Devine presence never leaves the Western Wall”. Jewish people from around the world have been coming here for centuries to meditate and offer up their laments. They write their deepest hopes and prayers on little pieces of paper, rest their heads on the wall and stuff the paper into the walls crevices. Thousands and thousands of little papers from around the world are imbedded into the wall and have become an integral part of its uniqueness. I stood side by side with the faithful, rested my head on the wall and offered my own plea. I then backed away as they did, not turning my back to the wall.

Shabbat is almost over and we are sitting in a beautiful room of the David Citadel Hotel overlooking the old city of Jerusalem. The hotel room is a Christmas gift from a Jewish friend and client who wanted us to enjoy this special place. The hotel is ranked as one of the ten best hotels in the Middle East and I can’t begin to tell you what a treat it is. We have been transported into a world of luxury, quality and refinement. When we dragged our bedraggled selves in, backpacks loaded, the front desk staff initially thought we had wandered into the wrong place, not being the typical clientele. But they have treated us like queens. Since arriving, we have lathered our faces with lemon scented lotion, soaked up the ambience of the executive lounge in green plush chairs, ate sushi, smoked salmon, and an array of delicious middle eastern salads and desserts (also included in the very generous gift).

Looking out from our balcony under the starlit sky we marvel at our how fortunate we are. Wishing you peace and wishing Sabrina a pain free night recovering from her surgery. Shabbat shalom.

The large mountain block called Masada sits at the fringe of the Judaean Desert and overlooks the Dead Sea. During his reign from 37 BC to 4 AD, Herod, king of Judea, built an extensive winter retreat on the high plateau. In 66 AD it was taken over by the last of the Jewish freedom fighters who found refuge there from the Romans. When it was clear to the rebels that the battle was lost, together they made the decision to die rather than be taken into slavery. Husbands killed their wives and children, and then themselves. Within days, the Romans breached the high walls and found the 900 Jewish rebels dead. In the Byzantine era, hermit monks occupied the mountaintop fortress for a few centuries and it has stood empty since then. When it was rediscovered in the 1800’s, the tragic events surrounding the last days of the rebels transformed Masada into both a Jewish cultural icon and a symbol of humanity’s continuous struggle for freedom against oppression.
  
Wandering through the ruins of casement dwellings, ritual Jewish baths and synagogues, the air seemed to vibrate with echoes of the past. Sitting alone in “the library”, the pain in my ankles felt unimportant as I reflected on the communal decision to die as opposed to capture and abuse. Looking at the hidden wall niches where many artifacts were found, I could almost see husbands and wives clutching each other as they buried treasured family items and scrolled parchments before the mass suicide. Masada is the most complete surviving ancient Roman siege system in the world and stands as a powerful testament to the ideal of live free or die.

After visiting Masada, we moved on to a totally remote location and had another Dead Sea experience. Two kilometres in from an empty road, our tents were dwarfed by towering cliffs on three sides and sat on a large rocky shore facing a wide expanse of Sea. We didn’t see another person at our isolated retreat for the three days we were there. It had an abundance of the smooth black mud that people pay big bucks for in spas. But many of our mud goddess photos will never see the light of day as I had the mistaken impression that, because it felt like I was wearing a body sleeve, it would look like one too. (When I saw the pics the thought that I had somehow been transformed into the sleek Mystique of the X-men was forcefully shattered). We looked exactly like what we were – 2 fun-loving aging women au naturele covered head to toe in mud!

 There was also a sulphurous hot spring right beside our tents where we soaked in exceedingly hot, salted, mineral rich water that bubbled up from some deep underground thermal activity. And again, I imagined Roman legions soaking in the same hot thermal waters. I wondered what it must have been like 2000 years ago to come upon such a phenomenon. (Ice would have been better for our ankles and knees but, alas, no ice came bubbling forth from the bowels of the earth).

 
It was a lovely and restful but we had had our fill. Our water and food were almost gone, our bodies abraded by salt shards, every piece of fabric we brought was salt encrusted and stiff, but the most compelling reason for us to bid farewell to our private paradise was our skin – with no “sweet” (fresh) water to wash off the salt water, our skin was lizard tight, shrivelled, pickled and pruned. So, after a nutritious breakfast of powered eggs a la grit, and liquorice wash water tea, we packed up and limped off towards Jerusalem!

Jen and I decided that we would recuperate together at the Dead Sea. Her knee and my Achilles tendon are both not in great shape. From Arad, she got a lift from the guesthouse with a friend of Michaela’s. I slowly made my way back south having traveled quite a ways north. My hike back, combined with a variety of lifts, took the better part of the day but we finally connected and hobbled towards each other for a joyful reunion.
 

 We are camped on an empty beach facing the Jordanian mountains. The shore is an amazing landscape of white crystallized salt that looks like a northern ice flow. The Dead Sea is the saltiest place on earth and is 400 meters below sea level (my salt shaker container is 3 times the size of my sunscreen container so as you can imagine, I am in heaven. But Jen has forbidden me to suck on the salt). Floating in the heavy water feels like lolling around in a gigantic pool of expensive skin exfoliating bath oil. The amount of salt in the water makes sinking impossible and it leaves an oily residue on the skin that is impossible to dry, but at the same time, softens the skin. The salt also makes us acutely aware of every little abrasion on our battle worn bodies.

Our journey of 1000 km has become a journey of 1000 feet. We look at the water from our tent and gear up for the trip to the shore (it’s only a few hundred feet). We pack our lunch, take everything we need for the day, because, God forbid, we don’t want to make the journey twice. With my stilted waddle and Jen’s limp, both of us relying heavily on our poles, we hobble along like a couple of tired old donkeys. When we reach the water, we build a makeshift sun shelter by tying my large scarf to our poles and then collapse for the day in the hard salt sparkled sand. When the sun is low in the sky, we start the long journey back to the tent. How far the mighty have fallen.

 We will stay here for another day of rest, immersing ourselves in the waters of the Dead Sea in the hope that it’s unique minerals will work magic on our broken down bits. So far, it hasn’t had much effect. Jennifer’s knee shows little sign of improvement and is discouraging for her. My ankles are not faring much better. It’s a unique situation for both of us, as Jen has never had a knee issue, nor I a weak Achilles. We don’t know how or why it happened and that it happened to both at the same time is bizarre.

Also this week my daughter, Sabrina, slipped on ice while running to work and broke her ankle to the point where she needs surgery. What crazy forces are at work here?

  The house in Sansanna sat alone at the end of a long stone tree-lined walkway. It had a veranda overlooking a green valley. Outside the door was a picture of a boy and a write up.

I arrived at the little sanctuary in the pouring rain and was met by two young Danish boys were also there, also hiking the shvil. They were not long out of high school and were very sweet. It was fun to talk to someone else who was hiking the trail and I wished that Jennifer could have met them. She would have enjoyed it. They told me that the house was maintained by the family of a boy who was hiking the shvil and died when he fell into a river.

The next morning was finally sunny again. I was eating a breakfast of oranges and dates on the veranda, looking out over the valley and thinking what a wonderful way the family had chosen to honour their son – to provide shelter (in my case, shelter from the storm) to other hikers. I thought about all the losses we have to endure that are part and parcel of living and how we get through them.

  
I packed up and as I walked up the the stone pathway heading out, a light breeze was blowing the blossoms off the trees, and again it hit me how fragile life is and how precious and beautiful. With a silent prayer of thanks, I said goodbye to the little house and began the days hike. And what a day it was!

The scenery was a real mix. It began with the mud flats where 5 days of rain had washed the trail out. I opted to wade through the thigh deep thorn bushes rather than be swallowed by the soft mud, which measured half a pole deep. As the day progressed, the scenery changed to rolling, grassy hills with wild yellow flowers and vibrant red poppy-like flowers that made me think of wearing a frock and singing about the hills being alive. And then it was the forest…where I was almost attacked by a dog.

I am hiking along when a lady and her dog come down a hill in front of me. The dog runs up to me and starts to bark. Being a dog lover, I put my hand down for him to smell. Some kind of pointer/pit bull mix, he starts to growl and bare his teeth. I immediately put up my pole in defence. The lady is trying to call the dog off but he is ignoring her. Speaking to me in broken English with a strong Ukrainian accent she indicates for me to calm down and lower my pole…that I am scaring the dog. “Scaring the dog”, I say incredulously. Meanwhile, the dog and I are facing off, circling each other, me with my pole up and him with teeth bared. Very cautiously I lower my pole slightly, thinking that maybe she is right, maybe maybe my aggressive stance is making the dog aggressive. The dog lunges at me and tried to bite me again. My pole immediately goes up again, this time I’m steeling for fight mode. She says she is sorry, the dog only listens to her husband. “Then get your damn husband here fast”, I say. She’s frantically calling for him. Finally, (it was probably only a couple of minutes but felt like much longer) an older man walks up taking his sweet time. Without so much as a glance at me, he barks an order to the dog in Ukrainian and the dog backs down. They get in their car and a moment later I see them drive past, with the woman in the back seat and the dog in the front with the husband. The wrong pack order if you ask me. I wasn’t amused.

Shortly after, I was avoiding yet another mud flat and wading through tall grass when I scared up some kind of fowl right beside me. I nearly jumped right out of my skin. I cursed the old man and the dog again.

The trail was hard to follow. There were lots of turns and it was poorly marked. And as it happened, I hiked right past the camp where I was planning to stop because it wasn’t marked. According to the trail guide o hiked 33 kilometres. My Achilles’ tendons were (are) very swollen and sore, my legs scratched, and I was done for the day. I found a well hidden spot to make camp. Safely ensconced in my tent, I collapsed into my sleeping bag for the night after a bowl of warm oatmeal gruel for dinner.

We woke up well before light in our little cave after a wonderful, warm sleep. We choked down some barely moistened oatmeal (water and fuel were low) and were on the trail by dawn. Jen’s knee was causing her a lot of pain. But with no option except to walk out of the boulder strewn wadi, she got it through it with grit and chutzpah and emerged victorious on the up side. She has not had much experience hiking, making what she has accomplished that much more impressive. The strenuous desert terrain was far more challenging than either of us anticipated. When one thinks  of deser, they don’t think of mountains. 

When we reached Arad, we flagged down a young couple to ask directions and they drove us to the “Desert Bird” guesthouse. It’s a lovely home with an equally lovely host, named Michaela. Among other acts of generosity, she drove Jen to the clinic to see about her knee. The diagnosis – acute tendinitis. Doctors recommendation – rest for a week to 10 days. Jennifer is totally bummed about it, but she can barely walk, let alone carry a pack. After two nights at the guesthouse I left yesterday, with conflicting emotions, to continue north. Hopefully, by Jerusalem, we can be trekking together again. 

On my way to Har Amasa, a couple stopped and said it was dangerous to hike up the steep remainder of the trail due to the amount of rain fall and that higher up it might be snow. Mount Amasa is 850 m high and the weather is unpredictable. Arad is the dividing line with the dry desert on one side and the Yatir Forest on the other. The couple said that they were headed to Amasa if I wanted a lift. I excepted their offer and we soon arrived at the little kibbutz. I was promptly shown to a grimy little room reserved for Shvil hikers. That grimy little room was much appreciated as, by then, a bone chilling rain was slamming the green mountainside.

Later that night I was invited for dinner to the home of a humanitarian couple, both with PhD’s in philosophy. Their perspective was that the Bedouins had been treated badly by the is Israelis. This is a complicated multi-dimensioned society with many different points of view. Like everywhere, I suppose. It was a lovely evening and I slept well in their “safe room”. In Israel it is required by law that every house built have a “safe room” – a concrete room with reinforced windows and door in case of bombing. 

I left in the quiet, early morning fog before they were any stirrings of life. Once on the , realizing I couldn’t see 10 feet in front of me, I turned around. I didn’t know where the little dirt road went (it was marked as a red trail) but wherever it was going, it would be better than sliding into a flooded gully or getting lost because I couldn’t see the trail markers.

I wondered how Jen was doing. I felt like I was missing a limb. About half an hour later, I realized that I actually was; I didn’t have my hiking poles! I hurried back, crept into the silent house, got my poles, accidentally woke up the dog, who then tried to follow me. (How do you say go home in Hebrew?)

 
The little dirt road did go to Meitar, which was my next planned stop, but it took the long way around. Apparently, the scenery was stunning and the ruins noteworthy, none of which I could see. The fog didn’t let up for several hours and it also poured rain until evening. Eventually, A police car stopped beside me, asked where I was going and if I needed anything. I’m sure I looked a sight. I had a bag of oranges tied to my waist (while trying to dig out my raincoat from the bottom of my pack, they fell out and rolled down the road. I couldn’t fit them back in the pack in my haste to batten down). My broken water bottle was jammed in my waist belt and I was drenched. They looked dubious when I said I was fine. They moved the AK 47’s, opened the door and said they would take me the few remaining kilometres to Meitar. I hesitated for only a second before the lure of even momentary warmth won out. Once in Meitar I got a few groceries and decided to press on to a little shelter house for shvil hikers in the small 16 family community of Sansanna.

Thursday Feb 18th

Something eerie was in the air last night in Ein Yahov. Even the animals felt it. All night long, dogs were barking, sheep were blatting, roosters crowing. And to top it off, a pack of coyotes were growling and howling not twenty feet from our tents. They weren’t growling at us but we were a little spooked all the same. And then a car pulled in and sat there with the lights shining on us, and then left. It was just one of those weird nights. When morning finally came we were both tired and rattled and wanted to get back to the trail. 

We packed up and headed north on the little used road. I packed all of the road scavenged peppers, plus 2 eggplants, an avocado, the oranges, a grapefruit, the tomatoes, the onions and the cabbage. I know… totally nuts. (I sometimes wonder if I was a starving street urchin in some other life to account for my sometimes over the top “waste not, want not” philosophy).

Even though the little road was called “the peace route”, the scenery was uninspiring. We ditched the idea of walking back to the trail and caught a bus instead; now we are happily back hiking the Shvil. Within minutes, we were totally immersed again in quiet  isolation. We have enough water for three days so we are good.

This area is completely uninhabited. We have not come across any thru-hikers (yet on the trip so far) and we have not even seen a day-hiker for ages. We did pass a herd of camels. We thought they were wild until we saw a couple of surly looking young Bedouin boys ride over the hill on their donkeys. When they hopped off not far from us and started cruelly beating one of the donkeys, I was horrified and wanted to go over and say something. But I didn’t. I figured they could see that we were two old ladies on the shvil and I was acutely aware that we could be easily findable later if they chose. I didn’t want to give them any reason to want to find us. We just left. I don’t know if I was being cowardly or smart. I felt very bad for the donkey and kind of disappointed in myself. It made me remember that while we feel  

 completely safe and all the Israelis we met have been wonderful, we are in an area surrounded by conflict and people with very different values. It’s easy to forget here in this beautiful land. I was happy to be far away from those mean boys by night time. We are settled in for the night somewhere in the desert. It is peaceful and quiet and I am breathing easy.

Friday Feb 19th

It was an 11 hour hiking day. Tomorrow we will push the last 18 kilometres to Arad as we don’t have enough water to make another day. Jennifer’s toes and back are better but her knee has really been giving her a lot of pain. It’s slow going with a bum knee but she soldiers on.

At one point, in the heat of the day, she was resting under a rock ledge. I was sitting across the wadi writing in my journal when 4 wild dogs crossed right in front on me, leaped up to the ledge close to where Jen was resting and trotted on their way. They didn’t notice or bother with either of us, though it did get my heart beating a little faster, regardless. 

The terrain is changing. There is more green scrub and the rolling landscape in this area actually has the feel of the Scottish highlands. For several hours we picked our way through kilometres of a rock strewn wadi in gale force winds, our eyes scanning the wide expanse as we searched for a trail marker. They are easy to miss and a couple of times today we lost it and had to rely on the compass. I never thought seeing a little orange, blue, and white strip of paint would make me so happy.   

When Jen’s knee could go no further and darkness was imminent, we happened upon a cave. At first Jen was nervous as she had read that one tenth of the caves in Israel are infected with some sort of bat transmitted spores that cause a lung disease but there was no evidence of bats and no suitable place to pitch a tent. We decided to hunker down for the night. It is a small cave with a big opening at the front. As we cooked our supper, cozy and warm, with the wind blowing stuff all around outside, we began to love our little cave.

The peppers are all gone but I have to say, eating 20 peppers over the course of a couple of days does interesting things to your bowels.