Mountain of Angels

Mountain Of Angels.

It seems as if I have been lying here for years, not just hours, on this landscape that looks like the moon with its minarets of red rock and apricot valleys, jaggedly descending into darkness.

We have spent the whole day hiking u this moonscape, Mt. Sinai, and still have a quarter of the way to go before we reach the pinnacle and begin our trek downwards.

The rest of the team lies sprawled across the ground, baked hard during the day, under thick blankets made of coarse camel hair, to keep out the biting cold of the desert night which gnaws a the edge of or cluster of blankets.

The occasional sigh rises from the shadowy pile of blankets but other than that all is silent bar the rustle of the sleeping camels tethered to a lone, skeletal tree nearby. Even the Bedouins who travel with us through the spindly, finger-like paths and lead us up this holy mountain with much singing and talking have quietened down. Yet their melodious tunes, lingering with spices and memories of dusty streets and worn cloth, still ring in my ears.

If I wanted to, I could probably fall asleep into a warm, comatose state beneath the coarse blankets like my companions. But really, I don’t want to. I have been wide awake since I awoke and began this trip. Although my body ached as I pushed it up the mountain of minarets my mind was fully alert.

We have been surrounded by a beauty so harsh and vivid it was almost painful to look at. The sky, above us, the color of Indian sapphires, a striking contrast to the spires of golden-red rock that reached up to scratch at it. In places it tumbled down in solid clouds to meet the dusty earth.

As we walked along the pathways, our feet stained red from the dust, I was filled with a profound sense of spirituality. The harrowing, knock turn paths I had heavily treaded on with painful muscles had been walked on by many a holy man, each on their own personal pilgrimage. All going back to Moses, proving he really was a man of God because if, in my youth this mountain was no easy feat it could not have been much easier at eighty.

Yes, I could sleep if I want to but I do not. I’m afraid I will miss something or not fully appreciate this extraordinary journey. As I lie here I marvel at the stars. Millions does not describe their extent. More like billions or even trillions. They are in such abundance and brightness that they light the world beneath them with thin tinsel beams and bathe it in liquid silver. Even f the sun had to rise now; I feel it would be outshone by the stars and their cool, shining glory.

I’ve lain here, in my own, silent thoughts, for so long that the earth has turned and the night is trickling away into the shadows beneath the rocks and their cracks.

I turn my head towards the summit of the mountain and am startled to see what appear to be strings and stings of twinkling Christmas lights strung round the mountain, broken in places, with large gaps in others. The strings of light spiral slowly up towards the summit.

I realize we have been hiking all day up difficult terrain with temperatures rising into the forties and perhaps I am delusional. After all, my dinner only consisted of ripe dates, guavas and dry flat bread of no taste produced from sacks trussed to the camels. I believe lack of food is getting to me however I soon realize they are the torches of other teams making their way up the last stretch of mountain in time for sunrise. Yet from where I lie he appear to be fallen angels gently rising up to heaven in the form of little glowing lights. And as I fall asleep slowly I realize, in the foggy border of sleep, hat on this holy mountain, fallen angles ascending to heaven makes perfect sense.