Mount Hor

Near Petra, Jordan.

"It's six kilometers that way, maybe more."

Drenched in dust, blinded by the sun, and suffocated by the stench of my own sweat, these were the last words that I wanted to hear. "Where is it then?" I asked the man, who was hunched over his camel to better discern my broken Arabic.

"That way," he repeated, pointing off toward a range of mountains. "Do you want my camel?"

Of course I wanted his camel, but I couldn't accept it. He was going somewhere too, and taking his camel seemed a bit unfair. I muttered a polite "no thank you." I could walk instead.

"As you like," he said. We split paths--I toward the mountains and he toward a large tent I had passed a few minutes ago.

Ignorant of the new southern climate, I had dressed as I would for Amman's mild weather. As the path began to rise before the mountains, I wished that I could trade a layer of my clothes for the water I had left back at Petra, or that I could borrow just one of Amman's myriad clouds to guard me from the sun.

Petra was now entirely out of sight, shielded by the sun's rays and hidden in a mountain ravine far off in the distance. It was still early--not yet noon--but I knew that there were hundreds of tourists there now, speaking myriad languages and awing at merchandise fresh from China. When they came shortly after sunrise, I knew it was time for me to leave.

There was a path to follow, at least at first. What began as a dirt road was now just combed grass, and the signs--once in English and Arabic, then just in Arabic--had now entirely disappeared. About ten minutes later, I realized I couldn't discern the path at all.

On the hills before the mountains was a herd of goats, seemingly lost without shepherds. I moved toward them. It was doubtful they knew where the tomb of Aaron was, but at least they would offer some company.

As the minutes ran by and the sun rose higher, I met the herd of goats sauntering aimlessly through the green hills. They baaed a polite hello (or whatever goats do), and some stopped to stare at me through their rectangular pupils. One nibbled my shirt, but none seemed to have any idea where we were. As the goats began to chaotically disperse across the hills, I looked for a shepherd who might point me in the right direction.

When the last of the goats had crossed the hill, an aging dog ran up behind. At his heels was a very young boy, who seemed entirely overwhelmed by his renegade flock. The dog, by contrast, seemed too old to care.

"Salaam!" I called to the boy. He seemed relieved to see someone, and he descended the hill as I ran up it. "Do you know where the tomb of Aaron is?" I asked.

"The prophet Aaron?" the boy asked, reminding me that there were probably countless Aarons that had buried in the area throughout the years.

"Yes, the brother of Moses."

"Up there," he said, pointing toward a mountain that was creeping over the hill. "He's on top of it."

I thanked him, and asked him where the path was.

"Oh, I don't know the path," he said. "The goats know the path, and I follow them." I looked down from the hill at the goats, who were baaing and dispersing in all directions. He grimaced at the task ahead of him and then said, "Ride a donkey; that's the easiest way to climb Aaron's mountain."

I told him I didn't have a donkey. He looked thoughtful and said, "Oh. Well it's definitely best to find one then." I thanked him, and he reluctantly followed the dog down the hill, who offered a feeble bark to reestablish order among the rebellious goats.

Aaron's Mountain--the biblical Mount Hor--didn't seem daunting at first sight. Yet as I stared at the other mountains around it, Aaron's rose above them all. Tucked away--on the far corner--was a small white building that was said to house the remains of Aaron.

Without the path, I began to walk up the mountain, pulling myself up on jagged rocks and twisty trees. The mountain began rather flat, but its incline grew with elevation. Soon the soil disappeared, and the mountain was naked in bare rock.

As the mountain grew increasingly vertical, I tried to find my way up it by creeping into small crevices between boulders. On about three occasions I thought it was impossible to go any higher, but some creative maneuvering always opened new paths and new heights.

Yet eventually I saw no way higher. Just above my head I could see the end of the boulders, and surely just beyond them was the tomb itself. But there was no way to get there; every turn upon the boulder led nowhere but straight below. Defeated, I sat down on a particularly large rock and looked out.

I had completely lost sense of direction, but this had to be East. Yes, surely. It was the great plane of Hor, stretching from the slope of my mountain and into the Negev of Israel. It was the very beginning of David's kingdom. The plain was more beautiful than the romantic legends that surround it; it cradles a sea of green hills that fade into a hazy desert in the east, and that grow into mountains in the north and south.

Long ago, the rabbis say, the Israelites walked up this same mountain to bury their prophet and ensure him a view of the Promised Land. They chose the tallest mountain en route from the wilderness of Sinai to the Land of Israel itself. As I heard the song of a young bedouin shepherdess echo off my mountain and felt the sun surrender to the cool breeze, I knew there was no better resting-place for the first priest of Israel.

There are places in this world that bear an awesome power, that resist the changes of time and guard the collective memory of the ages. Mt Hor is one of those places. It is fitting that upon its summit lies Aaron--the voice of Moses--who alone might have been able to articulate what that power was. For me, I am without words.