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 to Leor and Jon, hanging back and walking alone 100 meters behind them to prevent myself from acting irritably in their presence, and, thus, coming across as properly irritated, despite my best efforts.
Whether or not I’m in a bad mood doesn’t really matter. I have such a long track record of irritation-behavior that even my attempted version of irritation-prevention-behavior gives others the impression that I am downright pissed off. So, as Leor and Jon walk ahead of me, chatting amicably about this and that, I stew here in my own emotions, trying to figure out how to be friendly (and drawing a blank).
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 roughly 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.
And again, I have no qualms spending that time at Masada. It is a world heritage site, after all.
Just as long as it isn’t too much time…
And maybe we can focus on making progress the rest of the day. 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 mines buried underneath its ground, and have to endure a run-in with the Israeli cops. 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.
Getting closer, now. They’re speaking to someone. Or rather, I suspect, Leor’s speaking to someone in Hebrew and Jon is trying to follow the conversation through context clues and facial expressions.
Called it. When I catch up to them, Leor’s telling their new friend about our time in 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: shalom, humus, tel, aviv, and 4 others I’m forgetting just now.
Jon is smiling patiently and taking a sip of his water. The stranger is wearing Pit Viper sunglasses and tiny neon green running shorts. He’s got one hand 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, fuck this. I tried my best. In a tizzy, 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 now I actually am irritated.
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.” It’s a desert, after all, and the tallest plants are knee high. The tallest dunes and rocks are tall enough to provide shade under certain circumstances, but, at midday with the sun directly overhead, there is no hiding from it. All I say, though, is, “Sure.”
15 minutes more of walking and, predictably, we have found no shade.
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 hesitantly 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, beaming a wide smile at our confused companion.
He 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. 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. I’m not as irritated and our campsite doesn’t feel so far away, now that I have some lunch in me. Walking all four of us together, the feeling that David is trying to steal my friends away from me isn’t as strong.
“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 the distance we’re at, 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. From our side, it’s more difficult to notice the ruins until you’re almost right at the base. 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, how 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. In truth, I don’t believe he will steal our things. I am not usually afraid of being robbed. I resent his kind offer, though, and want to have a small secret pact with myself, just in case he does make off with all of our belongings. I don’t wish for it to happen, nor am I making a point of it to the others to flaunt my resentment. I just want to have some small piece of evidence that says, “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted that guy.”
The walk up the ramp is not bad without our packs. Leor’s speaking English again, now that David is temporarily no longer with us. It’s good to be back to just us three. I chill out a little, soak in the history, start laughing, and forget the tension.
There are signposts on the way up and among the ruins that tell the story of Masada. Leor, who genuinely knows a lot about this type of stuff, adds additional context as he sees fit. The fortress of Masada and palace within it were built in the first century BCE by King Herod, the Jewish King who was in cahoots with the Romans. Roughly 100 years later, the Romans were in the process of raiding and conquering nearly every settlement in the vicinity (not to mention most of Europe, Northern Africa, and Asia Minor). A splinter group of Jews, the Zealots (or one small group of Zealots among many; it’s not clear to my simplified understanding) held Masada and did not wish to succumb to the Roman conquest. Because of its tactically advantageous position on a high plateau and the lone, narrow path up to the top (there was no cable car or Roman Ramp at the time), the Romans had a particularly difficult time laying siege to it. They constructed barracks of their own around the base, assembled a large number of Roman and Jewish soldiers who were routinely picked off from above as they tried to storm the fortress via the path, and settled in for the long process of taking the Zealot’s stronghold. With no luck on the front side, they endeavored to build a ramp on the back, slowly moving chunks of earth into a large, long pile from the ground to the top of the plateau. Finally, with many soldiers and a battering ram, they wore down and eventually penetrated the walls of Masada. However, once they got there, they discovered that the Zealots had destroyed all supplies and food-stores, and completely wiped themselves out. Not keen on becoming Roman slaves, they had devised and enacted an elaborate network of homicides and suicides. Thus, all the work the Romans had put into the raid had been futile. Most of this is known because Josephus Flavius, a Jew loyal to the Roman Empire (traitor?), had been on hand to record it all and transmit it through history books and information panels to young interested scholars such as Leor and uneducated foreigners such as me.
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 if used the way we use it. 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 Israeli. To impress who? Probably just ourselves.
After a little while, we decide we’ve seen enough and head back down. I’m glad we went up. We are still on track to make it to our night camp and I deem Masada a worthy detour. But any further dillydallying is out of the question!
I’ll try not to be an asshole about it, though. I have to remind myself, little side quests like these are usually worth it. What’s the point of walking the entire length of Israel if all you do is walk all day? Simply walking 1100 kilometers over the course of two months 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 one way or the other.
“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 pretty much 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.
As for me, they can probably guess where I stand on the idea of following some silent, skinny-thighed dude who doesn’t care about me at all into a canyon that could add lord knows how many extra kilometers and hours to the detailed route I’ve been tracking on my phone all day. I don’t understand why, just because someone’s walking in the same direction as us, that means they’re all the sudden part of our group. Plus, I feel pretty good about the plan we had. 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 it has become a subtle power struggle and I will not 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. Jon just wants to enjoy the hike. 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 very 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 telling 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.
Now that he’s speaking English, I’m starting to wish he’d return to pretending I didn’t exist. It’s not that he’s talkative or annoying, he’s just very soulful in a way that makes me uncomfortable. He shows us pictures on his phone of rock formations without any context and mouths the words, “wow wow wow” while shaking his head and looking almost moved to tears by the beauty of it. It’s behaviors like this that keep me from fully letting go of my initial skepticism about him. That, and the fact that every time he and Leor switch to Hebrew, I assume they’re scheming about how best to convince me to take the alternate route.
At the peak of my paranoia, 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 yeah, I’m down. Sounds great.”
“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 who I am, 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 approximations from 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. This could be a much further excursion than we really want to sign up for. And 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 David guy? The only time I’ve had fun all day was when the three of us were up at Masada, bantering about Josephus Flavius, 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, he was never just trying to get what he wants, he always wanted me to come along with him and enjoy a bit of adventure. It wasn’t a power struggle between his idea of fun and my idea of fun. I was afraid, and he didn’t want any of us to be held back by my fear.
I’m glad I acquiesced, but I didn’t do it out of compassionate compromise or because I went through some instant and major transformation within my soul in which I overcame judgment, curmudgeonliness, and doubt.
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 at the end of the day. 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 a little more generously, you could call it compromise. On any trip like the one we’re on, everyone has to give in once in a while. I just want to make sure the times I give in are remembered and properly acknowledged in future negotiations.
Goddamn, I’m selfish.
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. Jesus christ.
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. It’s still perfectly light out, but the sun is beginning to set. We haven’t even come upon the start of the descent yet, which means by the time it does start to get dark, we’ll be on steep terrain. Before you find yourself in that exact situation, it’s easy to underestimate how difficult it is to walk down switchbacking, rocky trails with limited visibility. Everything seems doable when the sun is out.
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 has shifted.
“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 with concern about what I might say. 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. Jon, your knees can’t handle that. 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 the way I spoke about him was rude. Everyone is a bit distracted from the merits of my argument by the awkward tension I’ve created.
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 against me. I am fighting against myself and bringing them down with me.
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, although it’s rude to say, 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, “None of us think you’re actually scared to go down this canyon. Maybe you care a little bit about Jon’s knees, but that’s not really why you’re doing this. Jon said he wanted to go. Don’t act like you’re some big savior.”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“You don’t care about whether or not something’s a good idea. If anyone I know isn’t afraid of walking down a steep trail in the dark, it’s you.”
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’s asking me things like, ‘Did I do something to offend Jackson?’ It’s not some big secret. We can all tell. It’s not fucking cool.”
If I had a tail, it would be firmly tucked between my legs at this point. He has cut me down to size and I’m ashamed at how obvious my pettiness has been. I guess, truthfully, I knew I was making a scene all day. It’s difficult to prevent, sometimes. In my head, when situations like today are happening, it seems like I’m taking the lesser of two evil paths by wallowing in my self-pity rather than participating in the conversation and inevitably exploding at everyone. 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 it’s not until I sort of choke on my laughter that I realize I’ve been crying. It really is obvious and a little funny how much of a douche he is.
“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 part is clearly a bold-faced lie, but it’s still 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 after all,” I say.
“Ok. I’m glad.”
“Are you sure it’s worth it?” I ask.
“Do you think I would be going there 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. I’m no longer worried about it, but it really is getting dark. Or maybe I’m a little bit worried but I’ve chosen to go along for the ride.
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.
Love this J. Freaking Davíd, what a noble douche
Hell is definitely other people. But without them we go more insane.