If Nature had a penchant for eccentric architecture, Mount Tzin (or Har Tzin) would undoubtedly be her crowning achievement in the Negev. It stands there with the defiant flatness of a Victorian dining table, as if waiting for a party of gargantuan guests to arrive for a spot of afternoon tea.
One must, of course, approach such a monument with the appropriate level of seniority-induced respect. Mount Tzin is no geological newcomer; its plateau is a stubborn remnant of the Eocene epoch, making it arguably the oldest standing mountain in Israel. While other peaks were still indecisively shifting their tectonic plates, this flat-topped veteran was already settling into its role as a silent witness to the passing of some fifty million years.
Before one even attempts to scale this geological masterpiece, one must pass through the “Field of Bulbus” at its base. If our friends near Eilat were solitary giants, the stones here are a veritable crowd. Hundreds of limestone spheres huddle together like a vast assembly of bald-headed scholars, each whispering secrets of the Tethys Ocean into the desert wind.
But the real adventure lies upward. A well-marked trail zig-zags its way up the slope – a winding staircase of dust and flint that demands a certain level of enthusiasm from one’s knees. As you climb, the world begins to tilt and expand. You’ll find yourself sharing the path with the occasional inquisitive lizard, who looks at you with the disdainful air of a local resident watching a particularly clumsy tourist.
Upon reaching the top, the transition is startling. One moment you are scrambling up a steep incline, and the next, you step onto a plateau so unnervingly flat it feels as though you’ve boarded a stone aircraft carrier.
The summit of Mount Tzin is a place of profound silence and impossible horizons. From here, the vast Zin Valley (Nahal Tzin) unfolds below like a crumpled map of the ancient world. The great “Field of Bulbus” you just walked through now looks like a handful of scattered peppercorns. To the east, the desert ripples away in shades of ochre and burnt umber, and you realize that from this vantage point, you aren’t just looking at a landscape — you are looking at Time itself, laid bare and baking under the sun.
It is a view that makes one feel delightfully small, yet strangely significant. Whether this is indeed the final resting place of the biblical Aaron or simply a magnificent quirk of erosion, one thing is certain: a sandwich eaten on this particular “table” tastes better than any five-star meal in the city.
