At first, the climb out of Ain Zibde is easier than I had expected, a fairly gentle meander along wide agricultural tracks, but then the fun begins.
The mountain suddenly becomes much more vertical, as the track peters out and we are confronted by an intimidating 45 degree incline, which we will have to navigate on barely discernable tracks, which Joseph says have been made by goats.
The disadvantages of only having two feet, neither of which are hooved, quickly become apparent on this rocky mountainside, as toes are stubbed, ankles are twisted and tempers are tried. The climb is tortuous and our pace is immediately reduced to a plodding. Not exactly the fittest walker, my lungs go into overdrive, and I wheeze my way upward, following a trail that in places is barely wide enough for one foot at a time.
We have 600 vertical metres ahead of us before we will once again reach anything approximating flat ground. I’m ashamed to say that it doesn’t take long before early morning bounce gives way to vexation and I grump my way (silently, at least) up the slope, cursing fate, geography and plate tectonics.
Fortunately, the views over the vineyards of Kherbet Qanafar to the north and Lake Qaraoun to the east are absolutely amazing, even though the Beka’a is partially obscured by a hazy, silvery veil of mist mingled with smoke from winter fires. Magnificently, the snowy peaks of Jabal al-Sheikh hover above it all in the distance.
Although we have not reached the top of today’s walk, the panoramic views are god-like, and after an hour and a half of demoralising slog – which to my darkest delight has tired out even the hardiest amongst us - we stop for a quick break to give our screaming thighs a rest and summon energy for the remainder of the climb, allowing us to bask for a while, in the feeling that we have briefly become all-seeing, if not all-knowing.
A little later, the tracks widen into a trail and the climb becomes gentler as we rise the final 200 metres to the rolling uplands of this part of Mount Lebanon. We’ve reached the top of today’s walk, where we’re at around the 1750 metre-mark, and we will remain up here for a while, until we begin our decent to our stop for the night in the mountain resort of Jezzine.
Today, we cross from the Beka’a Valley side of Mount Lebanon to the Mediterranean side, and it isn’t long before the coast comes into view for the first time. Lebanon’s narrow coastal strip is the most densely inhabited part of the country, and the location of its four largest cities, which also happen to be some of the longest continually-inhabited in the world - Tyre, for example, has been a city for over 5,000 years and inhabited for at least as long again.
The view from here is relatively more recent and our first sight of the coast includes the old French Mandate airfield at Ba’adaran, which Druze leader Walid Joumblatt used during the civil war, and two jumbles of red tiled roofs far below that are the villages of Mresti and Moukhtara, where the Joumblatt family has their feudal palace.
As we take another quick break, and possibly to make us feel better about out slog, Joseph relates a story about the historic links between Ain Zibde, where we’d spent the night, and Mresti, one of the villages below. It is about a bride in the 1950s, who travelled over the mountains to her wedding in Ain Zibde on a donkey, because there was no road linking the two villages, and travelling down to the coast, up to the main pass across the mountains and back down to Ain Zibde would have taken several days. Whether her hurry to be wed was driven by longing, or some other, growing concern, he did not say.
The path up here is a series of gentle rises and dips, and winds its way along the top of the mountain, switching between the Beka’a and the Mediterranean side. Though the peaks of Mount Lebanon are mostly bare as the result of ancient deforestation – which flocks of voracious goats have helped maintain, we do see a few low trees, bent almost double by the furious winds that howl over the peaks in the winter.
Normally, there would still be a lot of snow up here at this time of the year, but it has been a poor winter and most of it has melted, leaving large pools of water fringed with lush, temporary meadows but after a while, we begin to come across thick swathes of snow, surfaces covered in the dust that blows out of the Syrian Desert, to the east. The sun is blazing and its quite hot, despite the nip in the air, so after scraping away the dust, we grab handfuls of snow, by now more ice than flake, and rub it over our faces and heads. The trickle of cool water down flushed faces and sweaty backs is invigorating. I scoop up a handful, form it into a ball and squash it onto the top of my floppy sun hat, where I leave it to melt, as a kind of air-conditioning for the head, it is extremely effective.
This part of the trail is mostly old military roads, cut through the earth during the civil war. In two places, it has been deliberately severed, forcing us to clamber up the hillside and around to continue onwards. These trenches are relics from 2008, when Lebanon experienced a short spasm of violence initiated by Hezbollah and its allies in retaliation for what was perceived as an attempt to shut them out of the political process. They were dug by Joumblatt's men to prevent Hezbollah fighters from using the old military roads to reach Moukhtara. A flash in the sky catches my eye and looking up, I can see a pair of contrails as two Israeli warplanes fly overhead on reconnaissance missions. Since moving here, I’ve become inured to the sight, as it’s an almost daily occurrence, but not only is it a flagrant breach of Lebanon’s sovereignty, it is also a violation of international law, but this rarely gets mentioned in discussions about tensions between the two countries in the press.
As we are climbing up a large rise, Alfred, whose wife Salam is the only other person walking the entire trail, spots a fox on the far hill. He hands me a pair of binoculars but even so, I strain to see it, until it moves and then it suddenly becomes clearly visible. It’s the largest wild animal we've seen so far, apart from eagles, although there must be plenty around, as the ground is full of mole holes, and there are butterflies, lizards, spiders and large black glossy beetles all over the place.
We come to another break in the road, which looks more like it might be a bomb crater from 2006, and a little later, we walk through a desolate camp, that had been in use by Hezbollah fighters. It's empty now, but when she passed this way two years earlier, they had come out and offered Salam water and sweets.
The camp may be scrappy, but the views from atop the surrounding rocks are spectacular and take in both sides of the mountain, which is clearly the reason the camp was built here, in the first place.
Especially compared to earlier, the walk has taken on the feel of a Sunday stroll in the park. It is hot, though, and when we stop for lunch in a wide bowl, half filled with snow, two of our companions, Nils and Nasser, both accomplished long-distance walkers, decide it’s time for a snow bath. With admirable Nordic élan, Nils strips off completely, while Nasser keeps on his underwear preserving his Middle Eastern modesty, and they roll around in the snow, heaping it on top of themselves and throwing it at each other like delighted children.
After the enforced cliquishness of the first two days, when we’d been accompanied by hordes of weekend walkers, the group dynamic has become more relaxed and as they walk, people are falling in and out of conversations, and lingering longer after dinner to talk. They are an interesting bunch and at 48, I’m no spring chicken but with a couple of exceptions, the other walkers are older than me. One, an American who normally lives in Hawai’i and who last visited Lebanon in its ‘Golden Age’ just before the Civil War, is in her late 70’s. They’re also in better shape than me, a realisation that is simultaneously inspiring and chastening.
We meander along the top of Mount Lebanon for the next few hours and in mid-afternoon, begin our descent towards Jezzine. The bare slopes give way first to grassland and then to pine forests.
Pines are a crop in Lebanon, prized for their nuts, which are used liberally in Lebanese cuisine and the trees are undergoing their spring trimming to encourage growth, so they look naked and a little sad, but also quite sculptural. They prefer sandy topsoil, which makes large swathes of the mountains ideal and for the next few days, we’ll be walking through the largest pine forests in the Eastern Mediterranean. Unfortunately, sand is also ideal for mining, so Lebanon’s mountains are being quarried, often illegally, for this resource, leaving enormous holes into mountainsides. As we pick through the trees, the ground is littered with brightly coloured plastic shell casings, evidence of the lethal and similarly illegal bird hunting that goes on, often with the connivance of local authorities.
The mountains above Jezzine are striated by crests of rock forced up by earthquakes that run in curving ridges along their flanks. Bizarre rock formations begin to appear, wildly eroded sandstone sculptures in bright shades of pink, yellow, red and orange that contrast starkly with the greenery of the pines. It has a faintly alien appearance, as if instead of southern Lebanon, we are walking across the surface of Mars after centuries of terraforming.
We descend towards a small river that we will follow almost all the way to Jezzine. We first encounter it just before it rushes through what, for lack of a better description, is a sandstone wadi, that looks for all the world like a piece of Saudi Arabia pinched off and dropped on Mount Lebanon. The river forms an inviting pool beneath a small waterfall. The water is clean, clear and green and on a warmer day and with a little more time, it would be the perfect place for a dip, or at least to cool aching feet. Today, with at least two hours walk ahead of us and the day drawing on, we content ourselves with admiring it longingly as we pass. Then, as we wind up and out of the mini wadi, we pass into lush, flower-filled fields and knee-high grass.
The change is so abrupt, it’s almost comical. In the space of five minutes, we’ve gone from Mediterranean pines and Martian landscapes, through the Arabian Desert to Switzerland. I half expect to find a blonde girl in a dirndl just around the next bend. It’s a reminder of how quickly the landscape changes in the mountains, and of the incredible natural diversity to which Lebanon, a land that boasts a dizzying range of micro-climates that range from the sub-arctic to the sub-tropical, is heir.
Our long descent follows the river, air alive with the sound of rushing water and, as the sun sinks, croaking frogs. Before the end, we wind our way up again, and exit on the broad plateau just above the town. Thankfully, it’s all downhill from here and as we enter the outskirts, the final stretch takes us onto the steep concrete staircase that winds between the houses and down towards Jezzine’s famous naba’a, a freshwater spring that flows out of a cave and into a large pool that might date back to Roman times, from where it flows into the town’s justifiably famous waterfall.
The town’s name apparently means ‘treasures’ in Syriac, possibly for its abundant water sources, but these days, its most precious commodity is tourism. Jezzine was a popular summer getaway for those down on the coast. The town’s star has waned in recent decades because until the turn of the millennium, it was occupied by Israel, and so it was cut off from cities like Sidon and Tyre, which historically provided it with most of its visitors.
We've been walking for almost 9 hours and frankly, I’m shattered. We limp into a cafe and order drinks before heading to our accommodation for the night, which unusually, will be a hotel.
The relatively greater comfort of the rooms this night is offset by a shockingly mediocre dinner, served to us reluctantly by maids. After our lovely breakfast on the terrace in Ain Zibde that morning, the incredible meal the night before, Antoinette’s cracking manquoshe and the delicious meals and warm hospitality we’ve enjoyed at homes so far, this sudden return to the commercial is jarring, and so as soon as dinner is done, I decide it’s better to retire and judging by the dampened atmosphere, I sense the sentiment is shared.