IX. MAN IN ARID LANDS: NORTH FROM JIDDAH
545
The Mountain of the Camel—it's actually an enormous butte, not a
mountain—is a towering ridge at the western edge of the valley. It stands
in a brooding purple haze like a great Gothic cathedral, distant, intriguing
and somehow mysterious. We've been calling it the Mountain of the Camel
because we thought it was the mountain from which Salih called forth the
miraculous she-camel. We're not as sure of that now, but we do know
that it is the mountain into which the she-camel's calf is supposed to have
vanished when the aroused residents of the valley sought to kill it. It is
also the scene of a new and fascinating postscript just related to us by
a Bedouin from Yemen.
"On certain moonlit nights, when the cool winds blow across the sand,"
he said, "the Bedouins of the valley have heard a strange sound in the distance, from high up and far away—the sound, they say, of a frightened
baby camel crying for its mother."
I had planned to hike over there anyway, but since hearing that story
and noting that a full moon is at hand, I've given it first priority. . . .
Well, I have seen the Mountain of the Camel.
This morning, from here, I thought it imposing. Tonight "imposing"
just won't do. I left camp early, expecting to reach it in less than an hour,
and even though I detoured through the clusters of jabals west of camp
(on the off-chance that there might be unrecorded tombs tucked away in
there) I still thought I'd reach it quickly. But after crossing a flat clay plain
and climbing a high dune I discovered that the butte still seemed to be
a good distance away. It certainly was. It took another 2 hours to get there
and only then, as I trudged down the far side of another dune, did I realize
just how large it is. Large? It is stupendous! From the base, where great
hills of black shale slope down several hundred feet more and fragments
of broken rock as big as cottages form jagged pyramids, the sheer cliff,
streaked with tawny stripes of rust as wide as highways, rises up and up
and up. A thousand feet? Twelve hundred feet? I couldn't begin to estimate. Moody will have to get it on film.
MARCH 9
In the moonlight, as in the sunlight, Mada'in Salih has an unforgettable
beauty. Off there to the east the weird shapes of Jabal Ethlieb lean at
drunken angles against the dark sky. In the west, the bulking shadow
of the Mountain of the Camel looms large and mysterious. Above, the
heavens are alive with glittering pinpoints of brilliant light; you could hang
your coat on the Big Dipper and almost read by the North Star. The wind
is cool and the moon is rising higher. Since this is our last night, it is a
good time for summing up. . .
545
The Mountain of the Camel—it's actually an enormous butte, not a
mountain—is a towering ridge at the western edge of the valley. It stands
in a brooding purple haze like a great Gothic cathedral, distant, intriguing
and somehow mysterious. We've been calling it the Mountain of the Camel
because we thought it was the mountain from which Salih called forth the
miraculous she-camel. We're not as sure of that now, but we do know
that it is the mountain into which the she-camel's calf is supposed to have
vanished when the aroused residents of the valley sought to kill it. It is
also the scene of a new and fascinating postscript just related to us by
a Bedouin from Yemen.
"On certain moonlit nights, when the cool winds blow across the sand,"
he said, "the Bedouins of the valley have heard a strange sound in the distance, from high up and far away—the sound, they say, of a frightened
baby camel crying for its mother."
I had planned to hike over there anyway, but since hearing that story
and noting that a full moon is at hand, I've given it first priority. . . .
Well, I have seen the Mountain of the Camel.
This morning, from here, I thought it imposing. Tonight "imposing"
just won't do. I left camp early, expecting to reach it in less than an hour,
and even though I detoured through the clusters of jabals west of camp
(on the off-chance that there might be unrecorded tombs tucked away in
there) I still thought I'd reach it quickly. But after crossing a flat clay plain
and climbing a high dune I discovered that the butte still seemed to be
a good distance away. It certainly was. It took another 2 hours to get there
and only then, as I trudged down the far side of another dune, did I realize
just how large it is. Large? It is stupendous! From the base, where great
hills of black shale slope down several hundred feet more and fragments
of broken rock as big as cottages form jagged pyramids, the sheer cliff,
streaked with tawny stripes of rust as wide as highways, rises up and up
and up. A thousand feet? Twelve hundred feet? I couldn't begin to estimate. Moody will have to get it on film.
MARCH 9
In the moonlight, as in the sunlight, Mada'in Salih has an unforgettable
beauty. Off there to the east the weird shapes of Jabal Ethlieb lean at
drunken angles against the dark sky. In the west, the bulking shadow
of the Mountain of the Camel looms large and mysterious. Above, the
heavens are alive with glittering pinpoints of brilliant light; you could hang
your coat on the Big Dipper and almost read by the North Star. The wind
is cool and the moon is rising higher. Since this is our last night, it is a
good time for summing up. . .