I’ve attended a few birding classes and have the guides at home, but my skills are amateur I can’t yet identify them by wingspan or flight pattern or birdsong. There are over 550 species that use the celestial highway known as the Red Sea Flyway, the path for birds as they move between their winter homes in Africa to the breeding grounds of Europe and Asia. We cycle on.īehind the trees, the sky is streaked with the pastel hues of sunrise and clouds illuminated by bright rays. It sounds like there are at least three or four, but we do not see them. Just after I attempt a sunrise selfie with the group, we hear high-pitched calls in the distance. At the top of the hill, we exit the area through a narrow green foot bridge designed to keep the cows enclosed but allow humans to pass. I would like to take off my biking glove and reach out and pet her, but I don’t. She is of uniform color and her hair is trim, reminding me of suede. My gaze is focused on the ground and where I need to step when I look up, I am face-to-face with a giant brown cow, five feet away, grazing with a few friends. When my endurance gives out, I hop off to walk for a few seconds. On the southern hills behind Modi’in, there’s a gradual but steady incline, a path I’ve never managed to complete without dismounting. When we veer onto a new path, someone waits to point me in the right direction. Their biking skills are far better than mine, but I prefer this rear position, appreciative of the time and space to reflect and observe and be, knowing they are just up ahead. Echoes of conversation and easy laughter filter through the breeze and reach me at the back of the group. I am the sole native English speaker after 24 years in the country, my Hebrew is adequate, but I am quiet in groups, the limits of my vocabulary constrain my full self. Once a week, for eight years, I ride with the same women and our male bike guide, beginning in the pre-dawn of 5:30 am. I feel a sense of wonder to coexist in a world with these colors, grateful for the temperate weather that graces central Israel in late February. Tiny white buds that remind me of baby’s breath and Persian cyclamen sprouting from rocky areas, their pink and white heads bowed at daybreak. Delicate lavender flowers popping up intermittently among the mustard. Smatterings of red anemones with pearl necklaces. Against this backdrop, fields of white mustard with tall, delicate petals sway in the wind despite its name, a feast of yellow for the eyes. What I saw on my ride this morning: Rocky terraces and verdant rolling hills, greens so abundant and fresh my words cannot adequately express their hues and saturation. Posted by benjwoodard on Augin Published Work | No CommentsĪll Photos: Julie Zuckerman Snapshot of the Southern Hills
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