40th day (Blue)

Sometimes things just don't go to plan. We met up late, there were traffic jams along the way and the morning just didn't flow. If I believed in omens, then the morning's tardiness certainly would have been one. It was close to eleven by the time we arrived in Dimona. Ronny, the taxi driver who I'd spoken to on the previous day and with who I'd arranged prices, put me on to his brother Eli. Eli was busy, so arranged for the third brother, Menachem, to take us out to the starting point. Who would have thought that we'd stumbled on to Dimona's transport magnate family? Since I'm the one who made the arrangements and am also the most adept at small-talk of the three of us, I was assigned the front seat next to the driver. It seemed strange to me that Menachem, a pleasant religious man with a very strong Moroccan accent, would make comment that my Hebrew was heavily accented. We would discover later that in Dimona if you don't speak with a pronounced Moroccan or Indian accent, then you have an accent. At any rate, after living a good many years in Dimona, Menachem had no idea where it was that we wanted him to drop us off and like many before him, couldn't quite get a grip on why in heaven's name 4 middle aged Australians would want to wander through the desert in the first place. I think I detected  a modicum of doubt when I claimed that we had actually walked this far from Israel's northern extreme.
 

It was almost midday when we hit the trail, believing that we could cover the 13 km in around 4 hours and get picked up around 4, with not quite an hour of sunlight up our sleeve. Sometimes things just don't go to plan. But more of that later.

Dimona is renowned not for its diverse ethnic population (which it doesn't have) nor for its diverse culinary traditions (which it also doesn't have) but for a certain top secret, heavily guarded military, whoops, sorry, civilian, facility just outside of town. We obviously didn't see it, but a very pretty, impressive zeppelin, similar to the Goodyear blimp that takes aerial shots over the super-bowl, certainly saw us. I imagine that our mugshots are now on the bulletin boards of all of Israel's security and intelligence apparatus.
The shvil itself was ok, you know, in a desert pretty way. We're getting used to this yellow rock and inner silence stuff. We passed 2 or 3 old Roman fort ruins, set up on a string of hilltops in the area in order to control this part of the Holy Land 2000 years ago. A Roman legionnaire from Liguria might have been sent to the Levant just like a reservist from Iowa might have been sent to Southern Iraq. Some things never change.  Matsad (fort) Tamar, where we started our previous trek, is part of this ancient defensive line, as was Matsad Tzapir, the best preserved of the ruined fortresses, which commanded views of the entire area below. It also commanded us to stop and eat our lunch here. It was undoubtedly one of the prettiest lunch stops we've had so far en-route.

Upon resuming, we followed the red marked path as far as a major shvil intersection, where a blue path came up from the south and continued west, a black path headed north and the red path couldn't decide what to do so it just stayed put.

The guide book instructed us to continue with the blue. The clearly marked path continued down and south. The weather was perfect, the views impressive and of course the conversation flowed. I made a comment to Yoni that I was glad that we were walking down the whole time, because it would have been a lot less pleasant doing it the opposite direction. At one point was came around a bend to the site of an enormous chasm below us, the Dead Sea in front and the Mountains of Moab in Jordan behind. For that split second all conversation ceased, such was the sudden and awe inspiring beauty. On numerous occasions over the next day and a half we would encounter views that took our breath away. We would also climb some mountains that would also take our breath away, but that's a different story. The sight of Jordan to our south east brought up a worrying thought. We were meant to be heading in a roughly westerly direction, not decidedly south east. Could it be that we took the blue path in the opposite direction and have now walked an hour out of our way?  Upon consulting the map and looking at the road beneath us for reference, Yoni and Garry, the map mavens, decreed that indeed we had wasted a full hour in the wrong direction. Fuck. We weren't meant to have seen that awesome sight of the chasm, Dead Sea and Mountains of Moab. We were meant to be seeing other awesome sights.

 
 
Now came the time for some adult decision making. We had the choice of continuing down to the road below, call one of the 3 taxi driving brothers and finish at the sensible time of about 3 o'clock. The alternative was to back track an hour, find the proper blue path and hope to get out as early as possible, knowing full well that there was little chance that we'd be finishing in daylight. Ah, the joys of behaving like a little boy and taking the irresponsible but more enjoyable path. How many of us have ever taken a knowingly "wrong" decision?  So there we were, making an about face, walking up a hill that I'd so smugly remarked that I wouldn't want to climb, following the wrong blue marking and traipsing back almost to the place where we had lunch. Mark had gotten us on to the subject of previous girlfriends and perhaps the blue conversation had distracted us from looking for the correct blue markings. Perhaps we were simply morons who are constantly getting lost. Whatever. We arrived back at the major shvil intersection, took the correct turn and saw the first white, blue and orange shvil sign that we'd seen for almost 2 hours.

From this point on, Mark was determined not to allow us to walk any more than 50 metres without finding a shvil yisrael marker and not just a blue marker. Every time he found such a marker, he would yell "shvil sign" at full volume, as if heralding the presence of the king. So much for desert peace and quiet.

Before starting today's walk we'd agreed with Yoni that we needed to change our walking philosophy, taking longer breaks and walking at a more leisurely pace. Philosophy is good only when conditions allow it to be relevant. We were racing against time to finish the day before sunset, so leisurely walking was not an option. The only breaks we had were 30 second stops to take 4 gulps of water before continuing on the cross desert run. And whilst it was clear that the lack of time dictated the pace at which we were walking, it was a pity, because the route was really quite beautiful. We passed more desert canyons, crossed wadis,  saw giant boulders strewn around as if they were child's marbles and almost fell into a deep crevice. And this was the "boring" part of the walk. After following the correct blue markings that had the shvill markings painted next to them for about 3 km we approached Ma'ale (ascent) Yemin. The steep descent into Nachal Yemin passed by a high, dry waterfall shaped like an amphitheatre. The rocks had slits and grooves etched into them, the result of millions of years of seasonal, violent  flash floods. More boulders, weighing many tons, were tossed here and there. We'd dropped from Matzad Tzapir, at almost 500 metres above sea level, down to the floor of Nachal Hatira which is not much higher than sea level.

that's the moon, not the sun

The path criss-crossed the nachal a number of times until it arrived to a point where Mr. shvil-painter decided that he'd had enough. At this point he decided that he'd had enough of Nachal Hatira and he wanted out. Straight out. Up-and-over out. With light fading fast, we were left with the choice of sitting down and crying or walking straight up a near vertical path. This was the ascent known as Ma'aleh HaPalmach. By the time we reached the top of the path, we were left with 2 light sources. The flashlight that I'd brought and the light of the full moon. The sun was a faded memory. If I'd been there with Angelina Jolie, I might have called it the most romantic moment of my life. Since I was there with Yoni, Garry and Mark, lets just say that the beauty of the moment didn't escape my tired attention. The spell was quickly broken when we realised that we may have finished walking up the incline, but that doesn't mean that we'd finished climbing. Not by a long shot. Before us stood an old metal ladder, cemented into the ground and attached to the cliff face. We were meant to climb this in order to get to the next stage of the trial.
When Mark is not accompanying us through the desert he holds a position that demands him to be always available to give authoritative answers to calls from certain people, often journalists, on certain subjects. He got one such call when climbing the ladder. It didn't interest the foreign editor of the Tokyo Times that he was answering his call stuck half way up a ladder on a cliff in the middle of the Negev Desert. The conversation went something like this:
Editor: haro, is dis mister Cohen?
Mark: Yes it is. who is this please?
Editor: Hayuki Kawasaka, the foreign editor of the Tokyo Times. I would rike your opinion on the ratest dewelopments in your sphere of work.
Mark: So nice to talk to you again Mr Kawasaka san. I'm actually taking a days holiday today. Do you think that you could possibly talk to my assistant Yossi?
Editor: No. I ront to give my readers an authoritative official statement.
Eventually mark convinced Mr Kawasaki that Yossi could be just as reliable as him. Mark continued up the ladder, safe in the knowledge that Yossi would deal with Mr Kawasaki and we would eventually stop laughing.

At the top of the ladder, hand rungs had been driven into the wall. Once we passed the ladder test, it was time to prove our dexterity and eye-hand co-ordination by swinging our legs onto the rungs and climb a little higher. Next was the balance test. The "path" narrowed to 10 centimetres wide and ran along the top of the ridge. Luckily there was a metal cable running along the wall to our side to hang onto. On the other side was a precipice. This series of acrobatic trials, to be bested by the light of the full moon, continued on until eventually we reached the top of the cliff and safe, straight, stable ground was underfoot. It was only then that we could appreciate the beauty of the scenery below, even, or especially, in this light. It was at once eerie, spectacular and special. To be honest, I'm perfectly aware that climbing cliffs at night is a tad, how should I put it?... irresponsible?... dangerous? But it was an experience that I will probably only have once in my life and it was exhilarating. Once we got into cell phone range I rang Eli, our contact brother with the transport magnates, and asked him to pick us up at Ein Yorkam.

night with the full moon

Dimona may not be one of the great cities of the world, but we were happy to get there after our big day out. The Drachim guest house proved to be a good place to settle for the night, but before testing the rooms we had some culinary issues to work out. It appears that for a city of 40,000 people, 4 restaurants is suffice. One is Kosher dairy (no way), one is an Aroma coffee shop, the McDonalds of Israeli coffee shop chains, another is "Capiot", the more up-market meat restaurant and the fourth is "Shipudai Ron" (Ron's meat-house), where you get authentic, simple, local fare. Gourmet it wasn't, but it was certainly fresh and clean. Washed down with a couple of beers, it was just right. Mark couldn't stay the night and said his farewells. We went back to the guest house where a hot, bubbling Jacuzzi was waiting for us. Now I wouldn't say that we are spoilt. Far from it. We've stayed in a couple of hovels so far, though most places have been ok. But the jacuzzi is a first. And its going to be really hard to go back to anything less. When you've walked 16 hard kilometres, 3 of them needlessly, drop 450 metres into a valley and then climb 350 metres up a cliff, your 52 year old muscles start to object. And as for the 52 year old feet...You can't imagine how good that jacuzzi felt. The ice cold Grey Goose Vodka that we were sipping just added to the ambience. For the second time today, I dreamt of  Angelina Jolie and got Garry and Yoni.
If little had gone to plan today, then why should it end to plan? The Israel Electric Company decided that the jacuzzi was using too much power and all of Dimona had to pay the price of a power blackout. So there we were, 3 grown men, sitting in a hot bath in the dark, sipping vodka. By the time we went to bed we were left to consider the fact that on the shvil, even if things don't go as planned, you can still have a great day.

39th day (Creek Beds)

4.45 muster. 5.30 Eli's taxi. 6.00 Arad airstrip. Today's walk started with clockwork efficiency. Just as well, since the shvil painter's inefficiency caused us to waste any time that we may have gained by getting out of bed at such an ungodly hour. But more of that soon enough.

Eli's white taxi

The Arad airstrip is the sort of place that Stephen King or Isaac Asimov may write about in their books. A few deserted hangars, a 200 metre strip of dirt track, sand, rocks, mottled dawn light and a cold desert wind. The undead or the aliens, depending on your preferred author, were about to jump out at us at any moment. In reality, the only other living creatures that we encountered on the first kilometre or so were mangy dogs that sniffed around indifferently from a distance.

It was nice walking, "nice" being that bland non offensive term when you have nothing else to say. The early morning light and sun rising from the east made the walking a bit more interesting. After half an hour of this "nice" walking we passed some markings painted on a rock that indicating that a red marked path branched to the right and the black marked path continued straight. After a further 20 metres, all the markings disappeared. Mr Shvil Marker once again was on strike, leaving us to the mercy of the Bedouins and the desert. Another fork 100 metres further on led us no-where in both directions and at this point it was safe to say that we didn't have a clue. My sense of direction  said that we were looking in the wrong place but my co-hikers have learnt over the years to do the exact opposite of my intuition. We walked backwards and forwards, took a path that led us down to a Bedouin camp, walked back, walked in circles, scratched our bums in confusion and didn't know what to do. We read and re-read the pertinent paragraph in the book and that was about as useful as a skipping rope is to an elephant. I branched off once again to check the area where I though the path should be, not expecting any results and lo and behold, there were the white, blue and orange markings that we were looking for. I tried not to be smug, but being right once in three years gave me a certain pathetic satisfaction. Having said that, I still agree that in all future deliberations as to which direction we should take, the correct route will be the one that is opposite to the one I indicate. No argument. A long steep valley lay out in front of us was, the sort that any kid would find too tempting to resist testing the echo. A loud coo-we was bellowed into the valley. Once the impressive echo had died down, a local unseen Bedouin lad tried his hand at the aboriginal call in reply.

Having wasted 45 minutes we didn't want to spend too long whooping into the distance and started our descent down the steep path into Nachal Canfan. Upon entering the nachal we were met with a pungent smell above us. Looking up we saw a herd of goats and their Bedouin goat-herds. Standing down-wind from the herd was not one of the most pleasant sensory experiences we've had on the shvil. Soon enough we escaped the goats and were treated to a far more pleasant fragrance, that of wild za'atar (hyssop). I have it growing wild in my garden, but up in the cooler and wetter Galil, the leaves are bigger and the smell and taste less sharp. In this desert canyon, the leaves are much smaller in order to reduce evaporation and the smell far more concentrated. It was quite intoxicating. At one point, when we stopped to eat our sandwiches, we sat down on a ledge overlooking the canyon below, picked a few leaves of the wild za'atar and put them into the sandwiches. Gourmet chefs search the world for new taste sensations such as this. Mark down another "it doesn't get any better than this" moment.
.

We spent a good few hours walking through Nachal Canfan, which changed its topography as we progressed. Sometimes it was deep with high walls, other times shallower and broader. Sometimes there were clear watermarks on the rock walls, either soft sandstone having been  washed out by rushing flash-floods or harder,  more resilient rock that had been eroded smooth over time. It wasn't "nice", it was beautiful and different to anywhere we've walked thus far. Amazing how such a small country can provide such a wide variety of views.

I have read accounts of people who have walked through the desert describing the peace and quiet in almost mystical terms. Not having walked through these landscapes since I was about 18, I never quite appreciated those descriptions. In the greener, more forested north, it is peaceful as well, but not to the same degree. There are more people, more animals, more sounds in the north. Here in the desert the quiet is almost hypnotic. Desert silence, desert peace. We walked for large stretches, happy not to communicate.

The desert silence doesn't mean that the route was totally devoid of life. Unlike the day before, we saw birds overhead and more than once heard them calling from inside caves or bushes. Whilst resting we saw a herd of camels wander over the hill opposite us. The most common animal however was far smaller than camels and birds. Flies, and they were everywhere. The area looked spotlessly clean and natural, but I fear that the flies that abounded indicated carrion or other organic pollution. For those that don't know the term, look up "The Aussie Salute" on google, and think of us.
Once we reached the bottom of the descent the nachal evened out, but the walking was quite difficult. Traversing over varyingly shaped and sized rocks in a dry creek bed is quite uncomfortable and as time wears on, quite tiring. It would be true that we didn't talk too much amongst ourselves, not just because we were having an hypnotic, holy Buddhist, spiritual experience, but because we had to concentrate so hard where to put our feet so as not to fall or twist an ankle or knee. We actually spent a lot of the time walking above the gulley, where the ground was firmer and intact and therefore more comfortable to walk in, rather than the rocks and pebbles below. Occasionally  the creek bed would form a canyon, narrow with walls 10 metres high. If this appeared more interesting, I would descend into the canyon, walk though it for a while and leave Yoni and Garry to continue above











Gradually the valley broadened into a wide moonscape,
 dotted here and there by large lone acacia trees. These trees look so inviting, supplying the only shade in the wide open expanses.  We obviously weren't the first to discover the shade of the acacia tree and judging by the stench of the camel dung and the accompanying fly invasion, this was a permanent pit-stop on the trans-negev caravan route. Bedouin camel herders may not notice the smell and the flies, but we certainly did and were very upset that we couldn't enjoy this little bit of shade before continuing on in the sun. The lesson learnt here is that not every lone tree in the desert is a haven.

using hiking poles as antennas in order to find cell range

Our last break had us sipping the usual herbal tea when an aberration appeared before us. A lone man with what appeared to be his entire personal belongings on his back appearred on the horizon. As he neared we invited him to share our tea with us. Turns out that he is a lone shviller that is also walking Israel in stages. He sighed that his wife would only let him out every now and again, so he had to make the most of his shvil times. We were embarrassed to hear that he was covering in 2 days what we aim to cover in 4 shvil days. Very humbling indeed.
Nachal Canfan turned into the wide Nachal Kina which led to the wider Nachal Dimona.  It was refreshing not having seen jeeps so far but unfortunately it was almost inevitable finding them in the wide, rough Nachal Dimona. These jeeps were serious off-roaders, with heavy duty shocks, raised bodies, big, thick tread tyres and exhaust pipes up the side rather than under the bottom of the vehicles. We'd been on the trail  now for close to six hours, and after an hour of walking through these wide valleys, were happy to see our version of a desert vehicle, Eli's white taxi,  pull up exactly where we'd asked him to. Midday beer and chips at the Muza was the perfect end to our 2 day adventure.