I’ve always been an early riser, even as a child, but I’ll admit, getting up at 4:30 a.m. to experience the sunrise at the top of Masada in Israel seemed a little bit crazy for 8-year-old me.
“At what time?” I asked my father, convinced I had misheard him.
He gave me his usual reassuring smile, tousled my dirty-blond hair and repeated the phrase he’d been using to sell me the idea: “You’re going to see, it will be so worth it.”
This was in the late 1970s, before the existence of the cable car that now effortlessly glides to the top. Back then, the 3.5-kilometer trek up the winding Snake Path was the only option.
As a sabra, my father was no stranger to this iconic landmark. He’d done part of his military training near the Judean Desert when the State of Israel was in its infancy. But this was the first time he was taking his family to experience it up close.
“Let’s see who will get to the top first,” he said, appealing to my competitive nature.
“I will,” I answered, taking the bait without hesitation.
We headed out in the pitch black, canteens and flashlights in hand. My mother took on the role of the caboose, the children were in the middle and my father, along with a good friend of his who had joined us, led the way. We began the hike, and I kicked into high gear. Pebbles rolled under my quick-moving feet as I darted past my older siblings. Within moments, I had caught up to my father and his friend, but their talk of politics quickly bored me.
“I’ll meet you at the top,” I declared, darting ahead. In the far distance, I heard my mother shout, “Alona, be careful up there!”
At that moment, my father gave up solving the government’s problems, engaging me in a spirited climb instead. Together we zigged and zagged up the winding path, the steps of the others growing fainter, the bright moon the only witness to our ascent.
This mountain I was climbing was rich with history — the fortress at its summit was built by King Herod, later conquered by Jewish freedom fighters and eventually besieged by the Romans. Rather than be captured, the people of Masada chose mass suicide, a story of heroism and courage still told today. But as I hurried alongside my father, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. My sole focus was to reach the top first.
The hike was supposed to take an hour and a half, but I reached the summit in under an hour. My father followed shortly after, breathless but smiling. It was just the two of us watching the sun begin to rise as we waited for everyone else. The surrounding mountains glowed with deep red hues, and the light danced across the Dead Sea’s blue waters.
That morning, I learned that adventure feels richer when shared with someone you love. As we stood there together, bathed in the warm light of the rising sun, I felt deeply connected — to the place, to the moment and to my father. Of all his memories of Masada, there was now one with me in it. Some moments don’t just linger; they shape you. In the end, it wasn’t the climb or the view that mattered most — it was the memory of sharing it with my father that would stay.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com