Missles and Jackals

Just over two years ago, a year before the war with Hezbullah, I went on a camping trip. Yuval and I and another couple went. We drove up to the green northern border, stopped at a roadside restaurant and filled up on hummus, salads, meat, and lemonade and then hiked through streams to a crumbling Crusader castle. After the hike, we started driving to find our camping spot. The border with Lebanon had been quiet since Israel's withdrawal a few years previous, so we were surprised to find our way blocked by an army truck. The soldier signaled us to stop. We did so, and rolled down our windows.
"Hezbullah has been firing over the fence," he said.
"Can we drive through," we asked, "or should we turn around."
"You can go," he said. "Just no bathroom breaks on the side of the road."
Everyone laughed as I thought, "we are all going to die."
We drove along the road that passed right next to the fence that demarcates the border. After a few minutes we turned off a little towards the camping spot. Another army truck blocked the road.
"Can we go down here?" we asked.
The soldier shrugged as his commander walked over.
"Is it safe to stay the night here?" we asked the commander.
The commander shrugged too, "Is anywhere safe?" he asked.
We drove a minute further into the campground. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked the males. "Can you show me where we are on the map?" They pulled out the map and showed me the half a pinkie nail distance between us and the border with Lebanon. I called a council with the other woman, we decided the men were insane and we got back into the car and kept driving.
When we were about an entire pinkie nail away from the border, and it was starting to get dark we found an empty camp site in the middle of nowhere. We set up camp, lit a fire, drank wine, roasted marshmallows, and listened to the jackals howl in the night time around us, until we said goodnight to the hyraxes and crawled sleepily into our tents.
The next morning when we woke and started wandering around in the daylight we found we were camping on the outskirts of a preserved town from about the first century. We climbed up and down ruined walls, sat on wine press wheels, and lost ourselves in the maze of streets. There were no signs, no ropes keeping us out of any area. By Israel's standards, it was apparently not a very important first century village, so no one had really bothered to do much besides dig it up. After we had wandered our way down the last stone street, we got back in the car and drove back to the humid heat of a late Tel Aviv spring.

Why am I thinking of this story while in Utah, in the beginning of fall? Because I am not feeling very brave today. I needed to remind myself that I survived Hezbullah and wild jackals. I can survive whatever's next.