Masada

Short Fiction (Not really all that fictional, though...)

Trudging forward through the Judean Desert at 9 am, I’m already irritated about something. Or, possibly, irritated about nothing. Or, not irritated at all, just exuding irritability, afraid of coming across as irritated, hanging back and walking alone 100 meters behind my friends to prevent myself from acting irritably in their presence, and, thus, coming across as properly irritated, despite my best efforts.

Today we will reach Masada in the afternoon. The ancient fortress is supposed to be one of the historical highlights of the whole 60 day trek. My attitude towards such things is, “Yeah, if we’re passing by it, we might as well check it out.”

Forget the fact that the walk up, the stroll around the ruins, and the walk back would be a 2 hour detour, carrying our 20 kilo bags the whole way in the Israeli sun, which is nothing to be trifled with, even in March. Not that I’m lazy. I just know how to read a map. To make it to our intended campsite tonight, we’ll have to book it, especially if we want to spend 2 hours sightseeing. The last thing I want is to be stuck setting up camp in the dark on the side of the trail, in a protected desert, which may or may not have 50 year old landmines buried underneath its ground. I’m not paranoid, just practical.

***

Jon and Leor are stopped up ahead. Either they’re waiting for me, which means I’ll have to put on my friendly face, or they’re stopped for some other reason, which means time wasted.

When I catch up to them, Leor’s telling a new friend about our hike so far: the Negev, Barak Canyon, Ein Gedi, the Dead Sea. At least, based on his tone, I assume he is. I know about 8 words of Hebrew. Jon is smiling patiently and taking a sip of his water. The stranger is wearing Pit Viper sunglasses and tiny neon green running shorts. One hand is on his hip and his head is turned away from the words Leor is speaking (no telling what his eyes are doing behind those shades). He seems completely unbothered and uninterested that someone new (me) has arrived. His legs are two poles of uniform thickness; he has especially thin thighs and relatively muscular calves. He seems 2 or 3 years older than us, but, then again, every Israeli in their early or mid 20’s looks and acts about 5 years older than Americans of the same age.

“Beautiful stretch of desert so far this morning,” I say. This statement has 3 intentions: to greet the new person, to show Jon and Leor I mean to play nice, and to switch the discourse from Hebrew to English. Jon flashes me a smile, Leor turns, offended that I’ve interrupted him, and the stranger does not react at all.

Whatever, I tried my best. I blow past them and walk on, alone. I’m not gonna stand around listening to a language I don’t understand with a guy who won’t acknowledge my existence, when I have a campsite to get to. It’s only 9:45, and I’m irritated after all.

***

Around 11:30, Jon catches up to me and asks if I’m down to stop for lunch the next time we find a bit of shade. I think, “Look around, there’s not much shade to be found out here.” The tallest plants are knee high. All I say, though, is, “Sure.”

After 15 minutes, this promised lunch spot has yet to reveal itself. Behind us, Leor calls out, “Guys!” Him and the guy he was talking to earlier have dropped their packs in a small Nahal that, I guess, provides the illusion of cover, if not any actual shade. Leor gestures for us to come join.

I’m not fond of backtracking, especially for a guy who still hasn’t said a word to me, but we walk back, obediently, grab the food out of our packs, and join them in the spot they’ve found.

If there is one thing, historically, that can cure my irritability, it’s a proper lunch. I hand Leor the lemon and the spices, he brings out the tahini and bowl. Jon hands me a can of tuna in olive oil, I put a piece of tissue paper over it and light the end on fire while he slices a cucumber. Our new friend seems amused by our ritual.

“Why do you need all this?” he says (in English, finally).

Leor responds in Hebrew. I keep my eyes aimed at the flaming can of fish.

The guy says, “Yes, but do you have allergies? This seems like a lot of things to carry, no?”

“We split it up, it’s not too bad,” Jon says.

“We like to live good out here,” Leor says.

Our companion still doesn’t seem to understand but realizes he won’t get much more explanation out of us.

“Well,” he says, “I have fruit and nuts, if you prefer.”

For the rest of lunch, I keep quiet. It turns out the stranger’s name is David, pronounced with a long “eed.” Leor and him talk about hiking, the most delicious lunch foods and healthy snacks in the country, the natural beauty of the desert, etc. Jon and David speak to each other in French. Apparently David speaks French. I don’t.

***

We fill our water bottles from the reserve water we have in our packs, clean up our lunch area, and get back on the trail. Our campsite doesn’t feel so far away, now that I have some lunch in me.

“Jacksón,” David says, after a while. “Look.”

I scan the area. We are descending from a hilltop and, ahead, the trail rises once again over a ridge, into an area that looks rockier, more indicative of steep ascents and canyons to come. It is beautiful, but I don’t know what he’s referring to, specifically.

I look at Leor, who smiles as if he already knows the surprise I’m in for. I look at David, who points at a mountain or plateau ahead and to the right.

“That is Masada,” he says.

It’s difficult to notice if you don’t know what you’re looking for from our distance, but once he points it out, I see structures atop the plateau. Our trail approaches Masada from the Southwest, and takes us to the Western side of it. The East is the famous facade, facing out over the Dead Sea. From the base on that side, one can see the 700 steps leading up to it, the buildings and walls built into and on top of the plateau it sits on, the modern cable car that transports those not inclined to walk all the way up. There’s another way up from the West: the Roman Ramp. Obviously, the ramp has been renovated in the nearly 2000 years since the Romans built it, as have the steps on the East side.

As we get closer, David offers to keep an eye on our packs while we check it out. This will definitely make our journey up and back quicker and easier. On the other hand, though, can I trust this man? I don’t know what he’s been saying to Leor in Hebrew. We’ve known him for 4 hours and he has not exactly been friendly or shown the hallmarks of generosity and selflessness. Not that we have much worth stealing, but he doesn’t know that.

Neither Jon nor Leor seems suspicious at all, so I agree to leave the bags without raising any concerns. But, on the sly, I grab my passport out and secure it in my pocket.

***

The walk up the ramp is not bad without our packs. Leor’s speaking English again. It’s good to be back to us three.

There are signposts on the way up and among the ruins that tell the story of Masada. Leor, who knows about this type of stuff, adds additional context as he sees fit. 

Up at the top, there are way too many Americans. We brush past them and exclaim, “Slikha!” which means “excuse me!” in Hebrew but can be wielded aggressively. We can’t be bothered to suffer these ignorant tourists. After 20 days in the desert, we feel entitled to a simple tour of a historical site without having to witness chubby siblings in ball caps roughhouse near the ancient architecture and chubby parents do nothing about it. This must be how we seem to David, classless and reckless. We do our best to seem local. To impress who? Probably just ourselves.

After a while, we decide we’ve seen enough and head back down. We are still on track to make it to our night camp and I deem Masada a worthy detour. Any further dillydallying is out of the question, but, I remind myself, little side quests like these are usually worth it. What’s the point of walking for two months if all you do is walk all day? That could be done on a treadmill.

***

On the way down from Masada, Leor says, “What do you guys think about David?”

Jon says, “Yeah, I think he’s cool.”

“Kind of a dick,” I say. Then, to show I’m not actually in a bad mood, I add, “Not necessarily in a bad way.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of a dickweed,” Leor agrees, for my benefit. “But he knows this area really well.”

I don’t say it but I haven’t been impressed yet. Although, I guess all the knowledge he shared has been in Hebrew, so I wouldn’t know.

“I think he’s taking an alternate route this afternoon,” Leor adds. “Nahal Tzeelim. Supposed to be insanely beautiful. Like one of the highlights of this whole area.”

We walk on. Leor has not explicitly asked anything of us, but the implication is clear. Jon seems ready to say he’s down to join our skinny legged guide on any promising new adventures, but he keeps his mouth closed, knowing I might have a different opinion. They can probably guess where I stand on the idea of following David into a canyon that could add lord knows how many extra kilometers and hours to our route. Unless someone specifically proposes a change to it, I’m gonna assume there’s no reason to think we’d do anything but what we already agreed on.

Certainly, it is stubborn of me to behave this way. I am more than capable of reading between the lines. But why should I be the first to back down? Leor wants to put the burden of saying no to a good time on me. I want to put the burden of changing our well planned schedule on him. And David? Who knows what he wants. If I was him, I wouldn’t want my solo vision quest journey into breathtaking locals-only canyons interrupted by 3 obnoxious Americans including one who is incurably grumpy.

None of us budge. By saying nothing, we kick the can down the road, and I’ve been down that road before. The further the can goes down it, the rockier it gets.

***

When we get back to where we left David with our bags, he is talking to two British girls.

“Ah!” he says when he sees us, more animated than he has been all day. To the girls he says, “This is my friend, Leor.”

Leor is polite in greeting them. No one says, “And this is Jon and Jackson,” so I grab my bag and step away from the group, pretending to organize some very important items.

While I am sulking, I imagine overhearing David tell Leor, “I invited them to join us in Nahal Tzeelim tonight.” I imagine Leor saying, “Oh yes, I’m so excited to hike in Nahal Tzeelim. The more the merrier!” I imagine stepping in and saying “Aha! So you were planning on taking the alternate route with him!” I can feel the bitterness poisoning me, but I have no way to stop it.

Eventually, too long chatting for my taste, we say goodbye to the British hikers and get back on the trail. David offers each of us a dried fig. Leor receives his as if it is the greatest gift anyone has ever given him, Jon accepts one, and I shake my head no.

“Jacksón, you know, it’s really good,” says David.

“Thank you, Davíd,” I say, very seriously, “I don’t like fruit.”

David’s eyes bulge and his neck jerks back as if he’s just been sprayed with water. He sweeps his head to look at Jon and Leor but they are not surprised. They’ve been with me for long enough to know I might like or dislike anything at any given time.

“Jacksón, please… this fig…” he says, and instead of reaching to find an English adjective, he closes his eyes and puts the tip of his thumb, index, and middle finger to his lips, contemplating the raptures this fig inspires within him.

I keep my head down and walk, unswayed and a little disturbed by the gustatory orgasm this man is pantomiming.

***

David says, “Ok, my friends. I am hiking to Nahal Tzeelim. The turn off is here.”

It was not an invitation. For a moment, I think he is simply saying goodbye and I feel a jolt that contains both regret and excitement at the prospect of getting what I think I want without having to fight for it. But he simply steps to the side and waits, giving us time to discuss amongst ourselves.

I hadn’t noticed the fork in the path, but, sure enough, there is a trail to the right. It is less worn than the trail we would take to our planned campsite, but that does not mean it is any less of a trail. For that matter, I’m not concerned about our safety. We refilled our water at the base of Masada and always carry enough food that we’d survive even a multiple day detour, which this shouldn’t be.

“There are two springs we can swim in tomorrow morning before we get back to the trail,” Leor says, in favor of the detour, “He says he knows of a place to camp. And it’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“How much further is it?” Jon asks.

“Only about 7 kilometers, I think,” Leor says.

“Is that gonna mess up the next day’s distance?” he asks.

“I mean, we can just walk 7 more kilometers and call it good.”

Jon looks at me and then says, “I mean, if we can get to where we need to be tomorrow, then I’m down.”

“Fuck yeah,” says Leor.

I feel a little put on. The vote has already happened without me saying a word. It seems they have gone through this charade of discussing the pros and cons just to make it seem like it wasn’t a foregone conclusion, to give me the chance to step in and raise my objections. As if they already knew I would have objections.

And, as much as I hate to confirm their worst ideas of me, I do have objections. David says it’s only 7 kilometers, but how do we know that’s true? He seems to operate off vibes and memory. Even if it’s only 7 kilometers, it is a canyon, after all. That distance says nothing about the elevation we’ll lose and then have to gain again tomorrow. For what? Two springs? I don’t care. I don’t like swimming anyways (or at least, tomorrow I won’t).

But my primary hesitation is: Do we really want to cast our lot with this guy? The only time I’ve had fun all day was when the three of us were up at Masada, free from the stranger who has the ability to perceive every experience the universe has to offer within one small bite of a dried fig.

I don’t say any of this. I say, “Let’s do it.”

Everyone’s stoked. We march on like the four musketeers into the great unknown. Leor’s smiling and clapping me on the back. I realize, now that I’ve said yes, that it was never a power struggle. He wasn’t just trying to get what he wants, he wanted me to come along with him and enjoy a bit of adventure.

I’m glad I acquiesced, but I didn’t do it because I went through some instant and major transformation of the soul. It was a simple political maneuver. I saw the votes were stacked against me. It would have done me no good to pitch a fit just to get outvoted anyway. Now, I have some political capital to use next time a decision is made. If this excursion turns out to be a nightmare, I can say “remember that Nahal Tzeelim debacle that I knew was a bad idea? How bout we trust me this time?” 

Truthfully, it isn’t really as cynical as it sounds, but it’s close. If you wanted to spin it more generously, you could call it compromise. On any trip, everyone has to give in once in a while. I just hope the times I give in are properly acknowledged in future negotiations.

***

As the three of them walk ahead, giggling and enjoying the way the low sun is hitting the orange rocks, I start to second guess my decision to let them get away with this one. I lag back a little, pull out my phone, and plug the alternate route into my map.

Yes, it’s approximately 7 kilometers, maybe a little closer to 8 according to my phone. But, I discover, those 8 kilometers include nearly 3000 feet of descent and 2500 feet back up. That much down and up over a relatively short distance means it will be one of the steepest stretches of trail we’ll have done yet. The sun is beginning to set. We haven’t even come upon the start of the descent yet, which means by the time it’s dark, we’ll be on steep terrain. It’s easy to underestimate how difficult it is to walk down switchbacking, rocky trails with limited visibility. 

All of a sudden, the facts support my misgivings. I feel a bit dizzy, reinvigorated to raise a whole new set of objections. Whereas before I had only “bad vibes” on my side, now I can show them the map and let them decide for themselves that following David is a bad idea. I have a small, terrible desire to yuck their yums.

I stop where I am and call out, “Guys?” 

Leor, still in high spirits, responds with a cheerful “Yoooo!” without stopping.

When I don’t say anything else or walk any further, they notice the mood shift.

“What’s up?”

“Can y’all come back here?”

“Come to us!”

Begrudgingly, I walk to where they are. Jon and Leor’s smiles have gone a bit sour. David is still wearing his ridiculous sunglasses, but I think he knows exactly what shit I’m about to pull.

I catch up to them, take a deep breath, and say, “I don’t think we should do this.”

Everyone’s shoulder’s sink with exasperated disappointment. No one says it, but there is a collective feeling of, “Goddamnit, Jackson.”

“Look, it’s a ton of descent. I mapped it on my phone. I don’t want to be stuck on a trail in the dark slipping and sliding, just because you guys want to follow this dude to some swimming hole.”

David’s face doesn’t change, but he speaks enough English to know it isn't great to be called “some dude.” My rudeness drowns out the merits of my argument.

Just a second ago, I was giddy with the supposed power to get my way. Now that my big rebuttal is here, though, it feels empty. No one else is struggling. I am fighting against myself.

David speaks first: “Jacksón. What is it you are afraid of?”

“Davíd,” I blurt, almost interrupting him, “I can’t speak freely with you here.”

This seems unlikely. If I haven’t been speaking freely so far, one can only imagine what I would say if I was. But actually, I think everyone kind of agrees that it might be a more productive conversation if he gives us some space. So, without saying anything, he walks about a hundred meters away and peers out into the canyon.

Jon says, “Let me see the map,” and I hand him my phone.

Leor sits down on a small shelf of rock and seems caught between yelling at me and feeling sorry for me. 

“Davíd asks a good question, though,” Leor says. “What are you afraid of?”

The wind is out of my sails at this point, so I keep my eyes fixed on some dirt I’m kicking.

He goes on, “No one thinks you’re actually scared to go down this canyon.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t care about whether or not something’s a good idea.”

He’s right and I have no response.

“Why are you actually doing this?”

I hesitate for a second and then say, “I don’t really like Davíd.”

“Yeah! He can tell! He keeps asking, ‘Did I do something to offend Jackson?’ It’s not some big secret.”

If I had a tail, it would be firmly tucked between my legs at this point. I guess, truthfully, I knew I was making a scene. It’s difficult to prevent, sometimes. I tried to take the lesser of two evil paths by wallowing in my self-pity rather than participating in the conversation and inevitably exploding. There is a third way, though. Or rather, there are tons of other ways.

Jon hands my phone back and says, “I’m willing to do it if you guys are. Jackson, I can see how you think Davíd is kind of a douche, but he’s also pretty cool.”

“Yeah! Of course he’s a douche!” Leor yells, as if it’s completely obvious and also a little funny.

I start to laugh and when I sort of choke on my laughter I realize I’ve been crying. It really is obvious and a little funny.

“Jackson,” Leor says, and his voice is much quieter now, “You know you’re not gonna regret following Davíd into this epic canyon. You’re the most adventurous person I know.”

This last bit is clearly a bold-faced lie. Even so, it’s flattering.

All of a sudden, every part of this situation is obvious and a little funny: how serious David is about Nature and every one of Nature’s gifts, how serious I’ve been about not buying into his schtick, how childish and jealous I was being until just a few moments ago, the fact that Leor and Jon just wanted to check out a canyon and don’t care about any of this neurotic nonsense.

At this point, I’m sitting on the ground playing with sand, possibly dehydrated or something. Leor is squatting above me and Jon is standing next to him.

We call David back over.

“Well, Davíd,” I say, “You win.”

“What do I win? There is no competition,” he responds. I think he understands what I’m saying but seems worried it’s a trap.

“I just mean we’re going with you,” I say.

“Ok. I’m glad.” 

“Are you sure it’s worth it?” I ask.

“Do you think I would be going if it wasn’t worth it?”

It’s a good point.

I get up off the floor. We load our packs back on our backs and head out.

David is walking next to me, seemingly unbothered by any tension that has ever existed between us. From some deep fruit-pocket somewhere on his person, he produces a fleshy, succulent, allegedly mind-blowingly delectable fig. He offers it to me and I take it.