The Wild, Wild Western Hajar Mountains, Oman | by Robert Mads Anderson

The Western Hajar Mountains had already treated us to more vertical than going up and down from Everest Base Camp, rougher trails than clambering up the Baltoro to K2 , and longer and harder days than the Bhutan Snow Man Trek, the “hardest trek in the world.”

Yet the way ahead, around endless hidden corners opened up new worlds of rock and trees and terrace, rocks of orange, black and gray underfoot, juniper trees clutching the cliffs and birds whooshing overhead at dawn created a sense of the earth not experienced before. Walking days without meeting people, yet past stone walls sheltering caves where people lived in ancient times, traversing ridges with 1,000 meter drops off into the valleys, while looking back over 100 kms. to our start, with only the occasional curious and very wild burro for company was pure magic.

Ahead of us was the promise of hanging gardens suspended in the depths of the wadis, of ancient, tiny villages tucked under the cliffs and more exposed wild terraces leading around blind corners, with the ever changing and improbability of where the track on the GPS said to go. After all, we had a track, a map and a route, how hard could it be?

The track started 10 km. up a rough road from the Sama Mountain Resort Lodge. Fortunately, we had met a like minded adventurer, Ian Wilson, on the slopes of Jabal Shams, who was up for our dawn start, and drove us up and dropped us off at the trailhead.

The trail led down and down, 400 vertical meters to wake us up, onto a terraced garden with a lone Pakistani gardener tending the fields. We passed on the offer for coffee, though if we’d know he was the last person we would see for four days, may have re-thought that.

It was the shortest day of the year and we had the longest distance to cover – we hadn’t quite timed this right? Exiting the greenness of the garden, the terraces and the plant life, the track soon faded. The terraces narrowed, bushes and scraggly trees filled the hillsides. We were bushwhacking through unstable slopes on skinny terraces – best not to topple off.

A wrong way up a cliff strewn wadi left me stranded on a cliff and down climbing a juniper tree to escape. This was not part of the guide, only a slight diversion. By 2 p.m. the afternoon shifted, shadows lengthened, a breeze blew, it was like nightfall was rushing towards us long before it’s time. At this point I admit to a moment of despair. The pack held five days of food, it was weighing me down. The bushes had torn up my ankles. The water had quit sloshing, it was nearly gone already.

The GPS track was jumping around every wadi we entered. The way ahead, the five days ahead, with bushwhacking, wasn’t looking very pleasant.

“Should we consider options? Like turning around?”

I guess I muttered that out loud, as Jo, far more stalwart than I, said we had done 10 km. already, so supposedly, just 6 km. to go. We resigned ourselves to camping without water, to hiding under a bush for the night or stumbling around in the dark. Committed to the adventure we bashed on, rocks sliding away below, thorn bushes tearing at our legs, sun slipping away. Oh ye of little faith.

A half-hour later the terrace widened, a path appeared, a sandy path. If we had our running packs we would have been off – we settled for a quite mad walking pace, accelerating into the rapidly setting sun. We were headed for a water tank, an old donkey camp, a peninsula of stone shooting out from the massive mountain of rock we had traversed through.

By 4:30 p.m., we had hopes of not being benighted, a final gallop, a final wadi dipped around and a water barrel, a cave under an outcrop, snuck us in as the moon rose orange on the horizon and the sun dipped into the valley below. We laid the sleeping bags out sheltered by rocks above, with our feet and the view west to the setting sun.

Before we had set out on our journey, we had talked with Mark Evans, a long time Oman resident and Chairman of Outward Bound, Oman. In our first conversation he had mentioned the importance of water. We had taken it in, but not really internalized it.

Of course you need water – but the basic, simple, life giving and absolute need to either carry a heap of it, or reach our destination and a water source every night was essential. We hadn’t seen a drop all day, not making it to the donkey camp at Daan As Sani would have left us very thirsty out in the hills. Simple, but water equalled life, we were connected to it like never before.

The evening was sublime. View straight out into the setting sun preceded Orions Belt turning itself on, as the sky darkened. Our heads were tucked under the cliff, a rock wall at our feet. Sand underneath was flat, still warm from the day. Breezes wafted up from the valley, gently swirling around. The stove bubbled up and soup was made.

There were a few lights far below in the villages, but so far removed they only glowed like tiny earthly stars. There were no civilization noises, only a donkey brayed loudly behind us, we were perhaps in his bed of choice, then stomped away. Lying flat, unmoving, was blissful. There was no cell service. We were sharing the shallow cave with ghosts of cave men, thankful for a water source, a clear sky and a cool breeze. Eat, sleep, walk, find water, four days to go.

Having survived day one on this section, having made camp by dark, having moved into the remoteness of the western, Western Hajar mountains, the next day would take us much deeper into the hidden reaches of the canyons, we were really only getting started.

I’d spent a month walking in the Grand Canyon many years ago, and this had similarities – it just felt far more remote and removed. We might be following what were age old donkey tracks, but in this section they were long unused and the terrain ensured they had long ago faded to oblivion in most places.

John Edwards, in his book, Wilderness Trekking Oman, has down a masterful job of telling the story of these remote areas and mapping over 600 kms. of trails, all available for free on his  site. It opens up this area for the very first time and provides a host of trails and adventure yet to be realized. But following a track set on a weak GPS signal, using an equally weak signal on our own GPS, on terraces 5 meters horizontally and 100 meters vertically apart leaves a lot for interpretation. It was easy to be seemingly right on a GPS track and completely lost all at the same time we were to find. John’s book did warn us – entering into the mountains here is a guaranteed adventure.

We limbered our legs up along the terraces on our 2nd morning out, in and around deep canyons, heading for the very back of the immense cliffs both above and below us.

We reached an afternoon spring buried deep in a wadi by descending an improbable mossy wall, just sneaking between towering cliffs, thankful for the ever grippy soles of our new boots – we needed every bit of traction and the drop below was one not even worth contemplating.

At the base of the spring, the GPS was more lost than we were, with no obvious way out and cliffs in all directions. In the end, we fanned out, Jo going up and back, while I went out and across, until a thin precarious stack of donkey steps appeared, leading to a narrow terrace where we could escape the canyon and get back on track.

Somewhere along the way we had lost a few hours – and an initial hope we might be able to find an unmarked stick ladder going straight down the cliff that cut out 6 km. of walking was a hope not based on reality. So we needed to go 3 km. out the canyon, drop down one terrace and then go 3 km. back into it to reach the secret garden.