The Wrong Mount Sinai: A Night of Biblical Proportions (and Stupidity)

Three Strangers in Egypt

In 1999, I went to Egypt to research alternative world history for a book I was interested in writing. Among the many adventures on that trip, the most memorable—and terrifying—was my time temporarily stranded on the wrong mountaintop.

I met my future climbing companions after our ferry crossed from Jordan to Egypt. Roger was about ten years my senior, a small-framed New Zealander who'd retired early as a corporate stock trader in Australia after making a fortune. He'd decided to travel the world indefinitely, and he had the easy confidence of someone who'd solved money problems permanently.

He struck up a conversation as we disembarked. He explained that when we'd surrendered our passports upon boarding the ferry, the Jordanian crew had chosen him to sort through them by nationality for their logbook. He already knew where I was from and even my name.

It probably should have seemed creepy, but I'd traveled enough by then not to get weirded out so easily. He asked how long I was staying in Egypt and why, and I began sharing as we walked in search of cheap accommodations. It didn't take long to realize he was the much more seasoned traveler, so I let him take the lead.

Within a few blocks, we were joined by a young Japanese man wearing sandals and a heavy woolen ski cap over his medium-length black hair. He looked like an Asian Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. His name was Katsu.

We were now the three amigos—Roger the Kiwi, Katsu the Japanese guy, and me—strolling down the sandy main street of Dahab, Egypt.

The $1.50 Paradise

I would've given up the accommodation search much sooner, but Roger was a sucker for a good deal. We continued going door-to-door looking for the absolute rock-bottom price. We finally found a Gilligan's Island-looking compound of straw huts scattered on the beach, owned by a Danish entrepreneur—basically a hippie transplant who'd sold everything to start a business in this exotic foreign land.

The price worked out to about $1.50 a night. I'd been all over Central America by this point and had never paid so little. I was ecstatic.

That evening we met some Australian girls—always a blast to encounter in my travels. We had great local food, plenty to drink, and eventually settled in for the night.

The next day was complete with snorkeling in the Red Sea, combing the main strip for cheap clothing and sandals, and beachside feasts. We'd signed up for a van to drive us out to climb Mount Sinai at night, summiting by sunrise—the spot where Moses supposedly stood before God, holding the Ten Commandments aloft.

The Pot Brownie Factor

Just before we embarked that evening, we were guests at an Egyptian hippie's small apartment in Dahab. We were offered delicious treats that appeared to be nothing more than brownies. Unbeknownst to us, they were pot brownies.

We kind of started to realize this as we left the party, but it wasn't until we were well into our trek that it truly became manifest.

Into the Desert Night

The van dumped us in a parking lot. We began walking toward the silhouettes of mountains in the background. It was incredibly dark in the desert night.

Before long, we found ourselves in a field full of camels and Bedouin. It was surreal—weaving in and out of these huge beasts, hearing their grunts and spits, the Bedouin quieting them in their unknown languages.

Once past the gathering, we saw a mountain face before us. There was a clearly defined path going up. We were under no impression at all that we were lost.

We started walking, and the pot brownies really began to kick in. Each step felt like walking on the moon. We individually remarked about how messed up we were feeling as we continued from a leisurely walk to an effort-filled climb.

It was funny, someone mentioned, that there was no one else around. One of the most trafficked tourist attractions in Egypt, and we had the place to ourselves.

We passed what looked like a small Christian chapel made of stone and continued upward. The path got steeper and less developed, then eventually disappeared entirely. All that remained was mountain in front of us.

Our only option seemed to be scrambling up the rock face. So we did. And we scrambled and scrambled and scrambled.

The Ledge

We took a break on a ledge, sitting with our legs dangling over the precipice. We knew we were pretty high up, but there was no fear—the adrenaline was still flowing, and besides, this was a pilgrimage that even seventy and eighty-year-olds did with great ease.

The hallucinogenic substances coursed through our veins. I started getting concerned but didn't want to show it. After all, I'd professed to be a world traveler. I couldn't look defeated by a little weed.

After resting, we continued climbing until we could go no higher. There was a small section about fifteen to twenty feet above us, but no way to reach it. We were technically at the top for all intents and purposes.

Another ledge became our home for the next few hours.

The Terrible Realization

We sat on that ledge and stared out across the Sinai Desert. It was absolutely breathtaking. We were so high that the camel field below was hardly discernible. Saint Catherine's Monastery was a tiny speck.

And across from us, far across the desert, was a tall, beautiful mountain with a steady stream of light running up its side all the way to its summit.

Wait a minute. Those were people with flashlights and candles walking up that mountain.

That was Mount Sinai.

We were on the wrong mountain.

If we hadn't been so high from pot brownies, we might have been more ashamed. Here we were—three seasoned international travelers let out into a parking lot by a package tour—and we couldn't even walk to the correct attraction.

We'd screwed up big time.

The Cold Night

We were exhausted, hungry, and freezing. Desert nights are merciless. Katsu had sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. Roger had a light jacket but thin cotton pants. I had a light jacket in my backpack, a short-sleeve shirt, cheap Egyptian cotton pants, and boots.

Roger lent clothing to Katsu. We bundled up and sat close to each other, talking about what idiots we were.

At some point, each of us fell asleep sitting with our backs against the rock wall and our legs dangling off the side of a sheer cliff dropping hundreds of feet.

It seemed like a dream, watching the procession of light streaming up that distant mountain. How beautiful. How majestic. How sacred. And how stupid of us.

The Dangerous Descent

As morning light broke, we began to stir and fully realize our predicament. I started snapping photos with my 35mm Canon. The irony was delicious—we could actually photograph Mount Sinai at sunrise, while the pilgrims who got their directions straight could only see three idiots on the wrong mountain.

Then enough light revealed our doom. We'd basically scaled brittle sandstone. Roger's first attempt to shimmy down saw him slide thirty or forty feet before catching an outcrop that stopped him from hurtling over the edge.

Things got real. Real fast.

We had no idea how to get down. Rock crumbled under our feet. We seemed truly stranded.

We joked about Cairo newspapers publishing photos of three stupid foreigners trapped on the wrong Mount Sinai. But the fear was real.

We coached each other down, little by little. Rock crumbling. Losing footing. Sliding and catching ourselves. It took forever.

I swore I'd never do anything this stupid again. I made bargains with God, listing vices I'd give up if He'd just get me down safely.

Salvation and Shame

Halfway down, we noticed mountain goat excrement—but we hadn't seen any higher up. Even the goats were smart enough not to go where we'd gone.

We finally made it. Just before reaching ground level, a small Bedouin boy came running toward us, shouting. When he got closer and realized we spoke English, he told us the obvious: we were stupid for going up there because nobody goes up there. He pointed to the other mountain—that's where we were supposed to go.

We made our way back across the desert floor, briefly looked at Saint Catherine's Monastery, and found a cab back to Dahab.

It was a quiet journey. Katsu slept the whole way. Roger talked to the driver. I sat silently reflecting on what had happened—a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and profound gratitude to be down off that mountain.

The Lesson

I never wrote that book on alternative world history. But I learned something more valuable on the wrong Mount Sinai: that hubris, poor planning, and pot brownies make a dangerous combination. And that sometimes the most memorable travel experiences are the ones where everything goes spectacularly wrong—and you somehow survive to tell the story.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​