It's easy to forget how vast the world is. I'd been feeling restless, which surprised me (I live in Jerusalem, after all). I wanted to get away from the city; from buses, trains, and loud parties. I was craving the wind in my hair, endless horizons, lush blue skies, and rich landscapes. I knew what I needed and decided a trip to the desert was in store. On Thursday afternoon, I piled onto a bus with a small group of friends to begin our journey. After three hours, one bus transfer, and the inevitable conversation in disjointed Hebrew, we were dropped off at a bus stop in Mitzpe Ramon. Dusk was settling in across the desert, and we still had to find our campsite.
Armed with headlamps, we made our way down the desert road. Dust kicked up, forming small traveling clouds at our feet. The stars flickered on and the moon hung high in the depths of the ocean blue sky. There was a peaceful eeriness to our walk. No cars, no trains, no buses. There was limited visibility due to the darkness, which had finally arrived. We followed our trail, and sure enough, eventually spotted what looked like a camp. As we approached, a dog's barking echoed through the empty land. We discussed the appropriate ways of entering a Bedouin camp (just in case), until a sign (in Hebrew) confirmed our arrival at Silent Arrow Campsite. We scampered up the path to camp. We were cold, hungry, and ready to settle in for the night.
"Welcome!" A warm voice greeted us as we approached the gate. It belonged to the owner, a small, unassuming man named Dror. He showed us to our tent, where we dropped our packs, and then led us on a tour of the campground. It was modest, only two large Bedouin style tents, two private dome tents, a shack with toilets and showers, and one toasty eclectic hut with couches and a kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the piped framing of the hut, and candles in glass vases cast a warm glow across the room. Yes, this place was perfect. A gentle silence spread through the camp once Dror left us, and we decided it was time to eat. By the time our comical attempt to get a fire started finally yielded any results, it began to rain. "To the kitchen!" We grabbed our food, ran into the welcoming warmth of the hut, and watched as the rain slowly extinguished our fire.
After some fumbling around, we had food simmering on the gas stove. New guests trickled in as we cooked. An hour later, our candlelight feast was ready. Grilled salami, sardines, potatoes, roasted garlic, and pita bread. Maybe it was the exhilarating freedom of where we were, the candles, the lack of electricity, or the sheer excitement of adventure...but everything was delicious. We turned in early, ready for the rest of our journey.
The night was cold, and the wind sneaked in from beneath the tarp walls of our tent, often causing them to flap noisily. Somewhere in the middle of the night, we woke to the sound of rain beating against the tarp covering. Concerns for the next days hike disappeared as I fell back asleep, hoping for the best.
We woke the next morning to hopeful skies, and I headed to the kitchen to start breakfast. One by one my friends trickled into the room, and it wasn't long before our mix of potatoes and salami was ready. The sun spilled into the hut as we ate, but there were dark clouds on the horizon. Within minutes the skies opened up and it began to rain, which turned to hail, which turned to snow. Yep, snow. In the desert.We grabbed a handful of garbage bags from the kitchen and ran for cover in our tent where we fashioned some fancy rain gear out of plastic bags and duct tape. By the time we were ready to leave the rain/hail/snow had stopped. We got a ride to the Mitzpe Ramon visitors center (despite Dror's persistent attempts to convince us to stay for tea and coffee).
Upon entering the visitor's center (in our homeless-style rain gear), the women at the desk burst into fits of laughter, snapping a few photos before we ventured out to the observation point of the world's largest erosion crater. I gazed out over the stretch of land before me and was transported to a Martian plain; the red landscape was endless, and large snake-like winding wadi's cut through the crater. The Martian wind threatened to run off with my hat, as my makeshift space-gear rustled noisily. As we walked along the top of the crater, the shadows below played tricks on our eyes making it impossible to tell how far we were, or how high up. Three men scampered down the face of the crater; moving swiftly like mountain goats, they soon became dots on the horizon and disappeared into Martian territory.
When we found the trailhead, we carefully descended the stairwell that had been carved out by nature. Inside the crater, we became specks on the scale of existence; here for a few brief, wonderful moments. The ever-changing landscape is the result of thousands of years of wind and water slowly morphing the stone walls. It is a reminder that we too, are ever-changing. Something can always come along, carving our life out of the very walls we built to protect ourselves. Nothing is permanent. Everything is beautiful.
The skies looked as though they might erupt any minute.We absorbed the scenery one last time, and made our way back up the trail. As we reached the top a steady rain began to fall, and we watched as the wadi's cut through the earth. Sand was washed from beneath the stones, and the eternal process that had given us this geographic wonder continued.
On the way home, I watched the world pass me by through a foggy bus window. Lush landscapes with fields of green and yellow became a blur, and I admired how quickly my surroundings had changed. The crater restored me; whispered the secrets of time, and of patience. The rains washed away my doubts, my fears; sent them away with the rushing waters of the wadi. The snow reminded me that there is beauty in the unexpected. When we arrived back in Jerusalem, I gazed at the old stone buildings with new eyes. The world felt infinite; I felt unlimited. My walls washed away, and I was free.
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