The trail markers that weren’t on the map
Last week, I hiked Yam l’Yam, the trail that spans Israel from the Sea of Galilee to the Mediterranean.
From the first kilometer, it was clear this would not be a simple hike. The Galilee bloomed green after the recent rain, yet there was something heavy in the atmosphere. You could sense that the people walking here were carrying more than the backpacks on their shoulders. Many of the hikers coming toward my group were soldiers or reservists using rare time off to reset. Their pace revealed a mixture of exhaustion and relief. We exchanged a few words, how far, how steep, how rocky, but beneath it all was a shared understanding. Everyone out there was looking for something. Everyone was looking for a bit of ground and a bit of grounding.
A few hours in, I noticed a sticker on a signpost. A small memorial. A name, a face, a unit. I read it and moved on. I assumed it was a solitary tribute.
Then I saw another.
And another.
And another.
By late afternoon, it was clear that friends of the fallen were marking the trail. A testament to brothers who fell, to lives cut short defending the land we were walking on.
I stopped at each one. It stopped feeling optional, and became its own small ritual: pause, read the name, take a breath, whisper thanks, and continue.
The terrain was difficult. Brambles left scratches. Shifting stones demanded attention. Clambering over boulders required both hands. There’s nothing graceful about it. Yet something about the uneven rhythm, scraping, climbing, steadying, and pushing forward, was grounding. It echoed the way this country moves through challenges. We stumble at times. We persist. We find footing even when the ground is uncertain.
As the kilometers stretched, so did the conversations among the group. The early hours were filled with small talk. Jewish geography. Careers. Family. By the second day, the stories deepened into tales of surviving cancer, blended families, personal challenges. There’s something about walking for hours that collapses the distance between people. Strangers become fellow travelers. Fellow travelers become something more.
On the final day, as I approached the sea and heard the waves breaking against the rocks, I realized why this trek mattered. I crossed the width of the land, literally from sea to shining sea, but it was more than a geographic achievement. It became a walk of renewal. My footprints merged with those of previous centuries. It reminded me that the simple act of walking can help bring this country back together.
My journey was a rite of passage, an inner crossing. The dust of the trail and a renewed sense of belonging to Israel left their mark on me.
I ended with gratitude.
Gratitude for the beauty of the trail.
Gratitude for the unexpected bond that emerges among people who walk together.
And above all, gratitude for the soldiers, those we met along the way and those whose names we encountered on stickers, whose courage allows us to walk these paths.
