Once Upon a River Bank (copied from my old site)
I’d like to tell you a story about one of my most memorable experiences in Israel. It happened when I was there as an undergraduate doing archaeology. The year was 1996…
We lived up in the Golan Heights, in a kibbutz (communal village) named Snir. It was on the road that ran through the boundary of the occupied territory along the borders of Lebanon and Syria, an area which has been contested and fought over more than once in Israel’s modern history.
The site we were excavating is called Banias, which is a derivative of Panias, and is the location of the Cave of Pan, where the Satyr-like god of the pagans ate his victims alive. In the New Testament it is called Caesarea Philippi. Actually, the Dan River (the tributary to the Jordan named after the nearby tribal city) once issued forth from a cave at the base of Mount Hermon. This cave was built up into a Temple for the festive and violent Pan, and people were thrown in alive, never to be seen again, though they were often heard being slaughtered by the ‘god.’ What really killed them were the sword-wielding priests who stood just inside the cave’s entrance.
This tradition began before the time of Christ and the setting inspired Jesus to ask, “Who do people say that I am?” This pagan worship continued on into the early Christian era, until a local Christian priest (who was bad for business) was bound and thrown into the cave. After a few minutes he reappeared back outside the cave, standing in the river, unbound. It was the end of the Pan cult in that area.
A few hundred years ago, there was an earthquake in the region and part of the cave collapsed. The Temple was long gone by this time, but the river had still flowed out of the cliff-face. Today it begins a few paces below what is left of the cave. The water flows fresh and clear, chilled by the melting snows and cool rains of Mount Hermon. It’s brisk, refreshing, and begs to be explored.
And so it was one day that my friend Carl (a student from Pepperdine) and I set out on an adventure down the river toward the waterfall that was near Kibbutz Snir a couple of miles down stream. It was mid-afternoon, and we’d just spent an 8-hour morning digging in the accumulated dust of ages working down to the time of Christ 3 centimeters at a time. The river never seemed more inviting.We grabbed our gear, headed down the path out of sight and plunged into the stream with backpacks, cameras, hiking boots, wide-brimmed hats, shorts, t-shirts, and adventurous spirits in tow. I’d love to be able to describe the journey down that stream. There were times when the water was quick and shallow, causing us to sit and slide down slippery slopes into mysterious pools below. There were points where the banks were so steep that you had no choice but to go forward, even if it meant ducking under a fallen tree or swimming in dark water and swirling pools too deep to touch bottom. And, eventually, there came a point where we could go no further.
We’d been at it for about two hours when we finally came within sound of the waterfall as it fell into the shallow pool of the canyon below. We never got close enough to see over it. The river came to a shallow and slippery curve at that point, and we decided that it was too dangerous. It was easily a 60ish foot fall and we didn’t want to go over on accident. We’d hoped for a way down the cliff-face by land, but the banks were too steep to try to find one, so we headed back up stream.
That journey back up stream gave me a new appreciation for salmon. No wonder they die when they get back to the top! We worked for 20 minutes to regain 30 yards against the strong current and then we broke free for another 30 yards and found a path off to the left, which was away from the semi-distant hiking trail that most of our friends had taken hours before. But, it was a path, so we decided to use it.
Now, when I say it was a path, understand that such a term is generally relative. A path through the piles of boxes in Wal-Mart in the middle of the night and a path through the backwoods of the Amazon are two very different things. Our path was more like the second, and nothing like the first. It was a boar’s trail, and pulling out our knives in case we ran into its builders, we headed into it on our hands and knees.
I don’t remember who went first, but we pushed through the roots of the slender trees and tall razor-grass until we came to a fork in the road that was wide enough for both of us to huddle in together and survey our situation. We were tired, bleeding, dirty, and had only the vaguest idea of where we actually were. Should we take the right fork, which was darker and smelled more beastly? What about the left? Should we head back to the river and try to find a path on the other side that might lead us to the trail?
Carl, taller than I by a full foot, finally decided to see what he could see, and cut through the grass ceiling of our cave and stood. A minute later he descended, bloodier from the cutting grass, but with the news that he ‘thought’ he saw a road in the general direction of the left path. And so, off we went.
It seems that I went first at this point, which may mean that he went first from the river, but I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter. There’s really no advantage to either position, especially with the intersection of paths behind us. He was just as likely to get attacked from behind as I was to run into trouble ahead. So, we pressed on through the brush, still with our knives in our hands. I felt very much like Indiana Jones or a character in a Jules Verne novel.At length we came to the end of the tall grasses, and into a small clearing with a fence and a road only 40 yards away. We rejoiced at our good fortune, and made our way to the road, guessing that it the one that we traveled to get from Snir to the sight. In fact, it was a different road, leading to the back of the compound rather than to the front. But, what we saw next would remove any thoughts of leaving this road again, wherever it might take us.
As we crossed through the barbwire fence and stepped up onto the hot pavement we both looked back in the direction from whence we had come, to survey the conquered land of our adventure. What we saw instead was a sign handing on the fence, in Hebrew and in English. It was simple, easy to understand in both languages, and had a picture that looked like a radiating hockey-puck on it. It read simply: “Danger! Mine Field!”
We lived up in the Golan Heights, in a kibbutz (communal village) named Snir. It was on the road that ran through the boundary of the occupied territory along the borders of Lebanon and Syria, an area which has been contested and fought over more than once in Israel’s modern history.
The site we were excavating is called Banias, which is a derivative of Panias, and is the location of the Cave of Pan, where the Satyr-like god of the pagans ate his victims alive. In the New Testament it is called Caesarea Philippi. Actually, the Dan River (the tributary to the Jordan named after the nearby tribal city) once issued forth from a cave at the base of Mount Hermon. This cave was built up into a Temple for the festive and violent Pan, and people were thrown in alive, never to be seen again, though they were often heard being slaughtered by the ‘god.’ What really killed them were the sword-wielding priests who stood just inside the cave’s entrance.
This tradition began before the time of Christ and the setting inspired Jesus to ask, “Who do people say that I am?” This pagan worship continued on into the early Christian era, until a local Christian priest (who was bad for business) was bound and thrown into the cave. After a few minutes he reappeared back outside the cave, standing in the river, unbound. It was the end of the Pan cult in that area.
A few hundred years ago, there was an earthquake in the region and part of the cave collapsed. The Temple was long gone by this time, but the river had still flowed out of the cliff-face. Today it begins a few paces below what is left of the cave. The water flows fresh and clear, chilled by the melting snows and cool rains of Mount Hermon. It’s brisk, refreshing, and begs to be explored.
And so it was one day that my friend Carl (a student from Pepperdine) and I set out on an adventure down the river toward the waterfall that was near Kibbutz Snir a couple of miles down stream. It was mid-afternoon, and we’d just spent an 8-hour morning digging in the accumulated dust of ages working down to the time of Christ 3 centimeters at a time. The river never seemed more inviting.We grabbed our gear, headed down the path out of sight and plunged into the stream with backpacks, cameras, hiking boots, wide-brimmed hats, shorts, t-shirts, and adventurous spirits in tow. I’d love to be able to describe the journey down that stream. There were times when the water was quick and shallow, causing us to sit and slide down slippery slopes into mysterious pools below. There were points where the banks were so steep that you had no choice but to go forward, even if it meant ducking under a fallen tree or swimming in dark water and swirling pools too deep to touch bottom. And, eventually, there came a point where we could go no further.
We’d been at it for about two hours when we finally came within sound of the waterfall as it fell into the shallow pool of the canyon below. We never got close enough to see over it. The river came to a shallow and slippery curve at that point, and we decided that it was too dangerous. It was easily a 60ish foot fall and we didn’t want to go over on accident. We’d hoped for a way down the cliff-face by land, but the banks were too steep to try to find one, so we headed back up stream.
That journey back up stream gave me a new appreciation for salmon. No wonder they die when they get back to the top! We worked for 20 minutes to regain 30 yards against the strong current and then we broke free for another 30 yards and found a path off to the left, which was away from the semi-distant hiking trail that most of our friends had taken hours before. But, it was a path, so we decided to use it.
Now, when I say it was a path, understand that such a term is generally relative. A path through the piles of boxes in Wal-Mart in the middle of the night and a path through the backwoods of the Amazon are two very different things. Our path was more like the second, and nothing like the first. It was a boar’s trail, and pulling out our knives in case we ran into its builders, we headed into it on our hands and knees.
I don’t remember who went first, but we pushed through the roots of the slender trees and tall razor-grass until we came to a fork in the road that was wide enough for both of us to huddle in together and survey our situation. We were tired, bleeding, dirty, and had only the vaguest idea of where we actually were. Should we take the right fork, which was darker and smelled more beastly? What about the left? Should we head back to the river and try to find a path on the other side that might lead us to the trail?
Carl, taller than I by a full foot, finally decided to see what he could see, and cut through the grass ceiling of our cave and stood. A minute later he descended, bloodier from the cutting grass, but with the news that he ‘thought’ he saw a road in the general direction of the left path. And so, off we went.
It seems that I went first at this point, which may mean that he went first from the river, but I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter. There’s really no advantage to either position, especially with the intersection of paths behind us. He was just as likely to get attacked from behind as I was to run into trouble ahead. So, we pressed on through the brush, still with our knives in our hands. I felt very much like Indiana Jones or a character in a Jules Verne novel.At length we came to the end of the tall grasses, and into a small clearing with a fence and a road only 40 yards away. We rejoiced at our good fortune, and made our way to the road, guessing that it the one that we traveled to get from Snir to the sight. In fact, it was a different road, leading to the back of the compound rather than to the front. But, what we saw next would remove any thoughts of leaving this road again, wherever it might take us.
As we crossed through the barbwire fence and stepped up onto the hot pavement we both looked back in the direction from whence we had come, to survey the conquered land of our adventure. What we saw instead was a sign handing on the fence, in Hebrew and in English. It was simple, easy to understand in both languages, and had a picture that looked like a radiating hockey-puck on it. It read simply: “Danger! Mine Field!”
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