At the Edge of the Golan (Part 2)
At the Edge of the Golan (Part 2)
Exclusive and rare views of biblical Israel's two regions, Syrian spook stations, camping on a canyon, and more.
Welcome to the second part of my journey at the edge of the Golan Heights. To understand what’s going on, take at look at Part 1 (or at least the last section. Make sure to notice my little warning there!)
Inside the Tower
Taking a deep breath, holding tightly to both the rusty ladder and the tower’s rusty frame, ready to jump if anything went awry, I slowly went up. Reaching the rusty floor, I poked around for any snakes or spiders. Seeing the coast was clear, I climbed in. This is what I saw.
After carefully climbing down, I hoisted my pack, waved goodby to three countries worth of spooks, and marched back along the Golan Trail.
About a mile later I met a large group of hikers who had been right ahead of me the whole time, blissfully unaware of all that transpires every day right over the ridge. Of course, they also hadn’t known to turn left before turning right. Poor things.
Outside Avnei Eitan
The afternoon was getting quite hot. I had wanted to reach the Daliot campsite by nightfall because it’s close to the bus I needed to catch early next morning. But after two days on the trail I was tiring, so I headed toward the nearby Route 98 to try my luck hitchhiking, that youthful art I’ve never found appealing.
To make a long story short, after a handful of rides from friendly local Israelis, and another handful of busses driven by local Druze Arabs, I found myself on the outskirts of the town of Avnei Eitan at the south-western corner of the Golan. Which was ironic, because our baby’s name is almost two-year-old Eitan. From Avital to Eitan.
Behind this town lies a lovely canyon, home to the El-Al stream nature reserve. On the other side of the canyon is a wide plateau with a few more towns, after which cliffs drop down to Lake Kinneret. A wonderful place to spend the night.
But Avnei Eitan’s campsite was basically the loud, dusty parking lot for the nature reserve’s visitors. I didn’t like that, so as the evening shadows lengthened I marched out on the boardwalk overlooking the canyon that connects Avnei Eitan with neighboring Nov. At some point there’s a gate heading down toward a sparkling spring, and that’s where I set up camp as the sun’s last rays fell inside the Kinneret.
As long as some light remained, the occasional family or couple walked by. But once pitch dark fell, I was all alone. The only sounds came from a distant party in town and the mooing of cows deep down in the valley. These quiet, dark moments alone with God in my tent are some of the most precious of my life. And some of the scariest, although, as I hope to explain in future posts, there’s nothing dangerous about lying alone in a tent in the midst of God’s beautiful world. (In some places, at least.)
Nevertheless, I was a bit unnerved when I heard a piercing cry just a few feet outside my tent. Peering out, I caught the jackal’s glowing, glaring eyes. Jumping out, I saw many more glowing, glaring eyes. Then they all disappeard. And I embarked on an evening stroll, alone with God and some jackals who were more scared of me than I of them.
Good Morning Cows and Nov Spring
I woke up shortly after dawn to the clamor of cattle on the boardwalk. After wishing them a good morning, I clambered down to the Nov spring, washed, prayed, packed everything up, and crossed Nov to reach the bus stop. Five hours later I was home.
Three days earlier, I had felt overworked, underappreciated, and afraid of the future. My trip taught me nothing in the way of solutions nor inspired any brilliant plans. I had spent very little time thinking about my problems and pondering the mysteries of the universe. Yet something inside me had dramatically shifted. I now felt free and open, ready to face life with renewed energy and curiosity. Everything seemed so much more manageable.
What had changed? As I’ve written in these pages (in an article published while I was packing up my first campsite outside of Katzrin), the heart of finding healthy balance is letting go: not just as a nice idea, but actively investing time into letting it all go, effortlessly and on purpose.
In my experience, letting go into the natural world is particularly powerful. I’ll explain more about this another time, because I wouldn’t want our still-free-subscribing brothers and sisters to miss out.