“Ten Students Washed Away in Flash Flood in the Negev” read the news headline on April 27th. Videos showed the raging waters that had swept 10 innocent and unprepared explorers to their deaths. It was a painful reminder that the natural landscape with its awe-inspiring beauty can quickly turn cruel and destructive and that we humans have no control over the forces of nature.
Watching videos of this tragedy brought me back to the early spring of 1974. I pictured myself sitting on a narrow ledge under a protective overhang at the bottom of Nahal Arugot. Just four inches below me, the waters were swirling over rocks and boulders, rushing towards the Dead Sea. Fifteen Israelis and I were caught in a sheettafon, a sudden flash flood. There was no way out; we sat glued to our perch, hoping that the floodwaters would not reach us.
This tiyul (hike) was sponsored by Haganat Hateva, the Israeli version of the Sierra Club. It was rated as an easy hike. We left in the early morning and were scheduled to return to Arad by 5:00 p.m. Families were invited, and 50 Israelis and I showed up at dawn, ready to depart, despite the threatening clouds above. We took a bus to the trailhead, and by the time we arrived, the sky was clear, the desert heat was upon us, and the menacing dawn clouds forgotten. The trail was flat, part of it overlooking Nahal Arugot, a system of desert canyons leading to the cliffs behind Ein Gedi and then emptying into the Dead Sea. After a leisurely walk, we arrived at the edge of one of the canyons, where we stopped for lunch. This was where the real adventure began.
We sat on our jackets eating our lunches, overlooking the expansive desert with its deep dry canyons, when one of the guides called to us, “Anyone who would like, just leave your belongings, while we climb down the canyon wall to explore the floor of the wadi (Arabic for dry river bed).”
I, of course, was ready for any new experience, and abandoning my jacket, water bottle, lunch, and snacks to the care of those remaining on the top, I joined the trek down the side of the canyon. The switchback trail led us deep into the canyon, where we could no longer see the vistas and sky. The rust, tan, and gray-blue-colored rocks gave way to white as we approached the canyon floor. Widening and narrowing, twisting and turning, we followed the path’s contour, fascinated by the pristine beauty, oblivious to the changing sky above.
“Why are the rocks so white down here?” I asked a veteran Israeli hiker.
“Over the centuries, flash floods wash the stones, and the relentless desert sun parches them until they become white,” he replied, neither of us dreaming that we would soon see this process in action.
Fifteen minutes later, we heard the sound of rain and rushing water. Suddenly, the dry canyon wall displayed waterfalls everywhere, and the bleached stones of the wadi floor were rapidly covered by rushing water. Could we climb out? No, it was too late! The walls were too high, too wet, and extremely slippery. One precarious misstep could be fatal. Where could we find safety? Someone noticed a ledge about eight feet high on the canyon wall opposite us. It had an overhang that could provide shelter from the elements. Seven of us quickly scrambled up to the ledge, thanking Hashem for providing refuge and cover. Without it, we knew we would have been “goners!” (The eight others were further ahead, and we could only hope that they had also been able to find shelter)
Our group, gathered under the ledge, included an eight-year-old boy and his elderly grandfather; two Latin American olim, a young man in his twenties and a doctor; the tour guide and another Israeli; and me, the only American. They were all Hebrew-speaking, while I had a mere month-and-a-half of beginning Ulpan under my belt! It was not easy to be in a crisis situation and not understand the language. Crouching under the ledge, we watched the water rise, praying that it would not reach us. It stopped only four inches below our perch.
Three hours later, as the water finally began to subside, we had some serious decisions to make. Could we really afford to stay where we were? The temperature was quickly dropping, and night was approaching. What should we do? Should we wait under the ledge until morning to climb out? Would someone find us sheltered deep on the wadi floor? Should we risk climbing up the wet slippery canyon wall without a path to follow?
There was no satisfactory choice. Darkness would soon be upon us, and the elderly man and child in our group would likely not survive until the morning. With the temperature dropping and some of us wearing only tee-shirts, cold and wet, we’d probably all freeze. So, it was decided – we had to take our chances and leave.
Four of the men anchored themselves at switchback points along the cliff while the rest of us scrambled vigilantly, grabbing each extended hand as we climbed. Though phobic about heights, I coaxed myself up the wall, whispering beneath my breath as I climbed, “Don’t look down. You are the American representative here. You must not let them think you are wimp.” It worked, and I soon joined the others at the top of Nahal Arugot. I looked down, unable to believe our feat. We had safely scaled the rock face and were ready for the next challenge. How do we get home from here?
Again, the counsel of the wise, including our Haganat Hateva guide, deliberated in Hebrew, leaving me to my quiet anxiety. “What is our next move; should we just remain where we are, hoping that some brave soul will find us?” The guide and Hebrew speakers of the group debated. (Cell phones would certainly have helped, but it was 1974, and they weren’t even on the horizon.
Soon we heard two gunshots, signaling to us that the other group of eight was also safe. After the rains, the moon was covered with clouds, and the sky was starless. With the soaked desert brush and a few matches, there was no way to light a signal fire or even to get warm. The guide had the only flashlight. No matter how dark, we had to keep moving.
The guide and another hiker seemed to know the way to the Kibbutz Ein Gedi, some three miles away. They left us standing in place at one point and tried to find a shorter way, only to return, afraid of falling off a cliff in the dark.
We continued to walk towards Ein Gedi, while praying that our leaders knew what they were doing! I don’t really know how long it took us to get there, but eventually, we saw a tiny light far below us.
“Form a human chain and lean your backs against the rock wall as we descend,” the guide directed us.
Looking down at the distant light, I remarked to my neighbor, “If only we could do this during the day; then at least I could see my way!”
“No,” he replied, “then you would know how crazy this is!”
I held fast, repeatedly whispering my mantra, “You are representing America, and you can’t let these macho Israelis think Americans are wimps. “
The distant light grew brighter and larger. Soon we were at the base of the trail. It was 12:00 midnight – Cinderella time – and all was well. The Ein Gedi kibbutzniks came to greet us, welcoming us into their warm, cozy kitchen, where they had prepared a hearty soup and home-baked bread. We exchanged stories. It turned out that the kibbutz had heard that we were stranded and sent a search helicopter to find us, to no avail. After scouring the area for four hours, they returned to Ein Gedi, worried and disheartened. Seeing us bedraggled but safe, everyone was relieved that a potential disaster had been averted and all had ended well.
If only there had been such a happy ending for the 10 tragic victims of this year’s flash flood.
Let us hope and pray that, just as we received inspiration during the 40 years that we spent in the Midbar protected by Hashem’s clouds of glory, so too, may all future hikers appreciate not only the desert’s breathtaking beauty but also the dangers and challenges that await them there.
Chana Singer worked as an urban planner for Israel in 1974-1975. She spent her leisure time hiking with the Haganat HaTeva, painting, and writing. She currently resides in Baltimore and is an artist specializing in landscape painting. She and her husband co-direct Tizmoret Shoshana, an overnight Music and Arts Camp for Orthodox Jewish Girls. She is available at TizmoretgirlsCamp@gmail.com.
