A whistle from behind, the clomping of hooves. We moved close to the wall. Five mules lumbered past carrying tourists, led by boys much younger than my eleven- and thirteen-year-old sons. Our guide had warned us about the mules. They didn’t always follow orders, he’d said, and there were no guardrails between the base of the mountain and Petra’s monastery, eight-hundred-and-fifty steps above.
I’d planned to count the steps. I stopped at twelve. I was too busy worrying about my wife and our boys, none of whom was particularly athletic. I liked to think I was. But even so, at fifty, my knees weren’t what they used to be. And the temperature was well over a hundred degrees, probably a hundred and thirty, assuming there is a wind-chill equivalent for blistering sun on stone.
The tourists who walked by us, going down, looked triumphant. Sometimes they encouraged us with nods and raised thumbs. One man told us the destination would be worth all the pain. We smiled and trudged on. Every once in a while we encountered local women beneath tents selling silk scarves, earrings and bracelets made of beads, handheld fans, water. We had water. Four bottles’ worth. Thirty minutes into our trek, it felt warm enough to brew tea. We made the boys drink it anyway. Brenda and I drank it too. When we found unclaimed shade, we rested and I wondered if this was a good idea. Adrian, our oldest, looked as if he was about to faint; his cheeks had gone from cinnamon-brown to maroon. Dorian’s mouth hung open like a fish long washed ashore.
We climbed. Occasionally, when the steps led us from the mountain’s interior to unobstructed terrain, Brenda reminded the boys to take in the views. They gave cursory glances left and right before returning their attention to the ground, more interested in secure footing and avoiding dung than towering rock formations ringed in shades of red, the infinity of blue sky, and, two-thirds up, a ravine that wound into the brush where, we had been told, there was a tranquil holy spring as clear and delicate as glass.
Another whistle. This time the mules charged from above, barreling down on us at frightening speed, their passengers nowhere in sight, and for an instant I was certain they had toppled to their deaths, but then three little boys followed at full sprint, hooting and offering their services. As we stood pressed against the wall, Adrian asked how much longer. I told him I didn’t know. The guide overheard me and said another thirty minutes. Brenda removed the water from my backpack, gave us a quick drink, poured some over our heads, and then we were off again. A few minutes later, when the boys complained of exhaustion, I decided to distract them with stories about my doomsday cult, even though they’d heard them before. But they would resonate more here.