In search of stillness
Michelle Wranik-Hicks hikes a trail through Wadi Naqab, across a vast mountainous landscape to the abandoned Sheri village.
Photographs by Sultan Al Qasimi
In the hours before dawn, the mountains above Wadi Naqab are bathed in a gentle pink. We had risen early that morning, driving in darkness to reach the wadi before sunrise. As the first rays of sunlight unfold along the ridges, not a soul is in sight. The air is perfectly still. The sound of my car door slamming is as subtle as a jackhammer.
Stillness might be the defining characteristic of Ras Al Khaimah’s Ru’us Al Jibal, a vast mountain range that sprawls across the northeastern point of the Arabian Peninsula. Known for impenetrable limestone cliffs, this mountainous landscape—formed 70 million years ago—is especially impressive in Ras Al Khaimah, where some of the region’s tallest peaks beckon climbers with exhilarating views. But another kind of beauty lies below, in the network of deeply incised ravines and quiet, secluded wadis.
Dramatically framed by steep cliffs, Wadi Naqab is among the most spectacular. For off-road drivers and weekend campers, it has a rugged majesty, offering a mixture of solitude, adventure and immersion into nature as well as a glimpse of life in the UAE before the discovery of oil.
I’ve camped in the wadi during the winter, when cold, crisp mornings give way to cloudless, blue-sky days. With two young boys in tow, we spent mornings hunting for bones, watching goats scale the steep embankments, and collecting rocks in all shapes, sizes and colours. For geology lovers, Wadi Naqab is one of the few places in the world to see ophiolites—part of the earth’s oceanic crust that is uplifted and exposed above sea level, rocky evidence of a long-vanished ocean.
In the late afternoons, we hiked the wadi’s lower terraces. Once cultivated for agriculture, these flat plateaux are now overgrown with carpets of wild grass and the remains of stone buildings, once used to store food or to provide shelter during the hot summer months.
We would finish each day around the campfire, watching the sun paint the escarpments with a fiery palette of pink and rusty orange. Eventually, it slipped behind a distant ridge, casting the wadi in a deep shadow. Dwarfed by the landscape, I felt energised—in awe of nature and its largesse—and curious to learn what lay beyond our campsite.
Most of those who lived in Wadi Naqab have long since moved on, though the mountains stay in their hearts. Many return to visit their former villages.
Wadi Naqab holds numerous hiking trails, for all ambitions and abilities. Along with the terraces, there are donkey trails that meander between the lower slopes, past small farmhouses with stone walls and colourfully painted metal doors. In the upper mountains, more remote trails explore long-abandoned settlements. Tribes in the Ru’us Al Jibal once cultivated seasonal crops, such as wheat, dates and watermelon. They collected wood and wild honey from mountain hives, and traded bread, goat’s milk and cheese with fishermen along the coast.
Most of those who lived in Wadi Naqab have long since moved on, though the mountains stay in their hearts. Many return to visit their former villages, to walk or picnic in the mountains, or enjoy the rains, especially during winter.
When Emirati mountaineer Hazza Fazza speaks of his childhood in Wadi Naqab, it’s of another time, a simpler life. Before his family moved to the oasis village of Ain Khatt, he spent his youth climbing the wadi’s boulders and scaling the cliffs, which he fondly describes as his “playground”. If he injured himself back then—which he did, many a time—he would be treated with mountain medicine. “Plants were used for all kinds of illnesses and injuries—even broken bones,” he recalls. “The mountain people would mix up the herbs and wrap them around your arm. When it dried and released from the arm, they knew it was healed.”
Today, Fazza guides hikers through Ras Al Khaimah with his team of trained mountaineers. His YouTube footage showcases many of Wadi Naqab’s epic landscapes like the Red Wall, a formidable gorge with near-vertical cliffs and a large boulder field, and Wadi Khub, where seasonal pools form after rain. Sheri village is another popular hike. It’s a five or six-hour walk to the lone hamlet, though villagers no longer live there. From its setting high on a mountain plateau, the views are spectacular.
The trail is shaded by steep escarpments that rise from the valley floor and by boulders the size of cars. Some are smooth to touch—honed by the elements over millions of years; others are rough, with razor-sharp ridges.
Known for impenetrable limestone cliffs, this mountainous landscape—formed 70 million years ago—is where some of the region’s tallest peaks beckon climbers with exhilarating views.
It’s already 36 degrees when we set off on this latest hike on a June morning. The trail is shaded by steep escarpments that rise from the valley floor and by boulders the size of cars. Some are smooth to touch—honed by the elements over millions of years; others are rough, with razor-sharp ridges. As I glance up, the sharply hewed cliffs lean at such surrealist angles that I am gripped by a curious sense of vertigo.
Carefully placed cairns, the stone markers or “breadcrumbs” left by previous hikers, make it easy to follow the trail, though downloading an offline map from Wikiloc is recommended. There’s scarcely any mobile phone coverage in Wadi Naqab, and it seems that every month dehydrated and disorientated hikers need to be rescued. The terrain’s extremities are not to be taken lightly, though most of the risks can be mitigated by practicing common sense—and looking out for rain clouds. Despite the wadi’s bone-dry appearance, fierce, fast-moving floods can thunder through after periods of heavy rain, flattening trees and anything else in the way.
Seasonal rain means that Wadi Naqab is surprisingly green. There are plenty of trees, such as wiry acacia, sidr and the wadi fig, its vibrant leaves curled at the tips. According to Marina Tsaliki, a botanist with the Landscape Agency at Ras Al Khaimah Municipality’s Department of Public Works, around 350 kinds of plants—more than half of the UAE’s 608 species—live in Ras Al Khaimah’s mountains and wadis. Wadi Naqab is particularly diverse, Tsaliki says, adding that after rainstorms, the wadi experiences something akin to a superbloom, with vibrantly coloured annuals that sprout, as if miraculously, from otherwise dry, rocky ground. “It’s literally carpets of annuals,” she says. “Imagine green, flowering carpets. It’s really beautiful.”
There’s more lush foliage in the narrow gorge that leads up to Sheri village, spilling down from cracks in the cliffs like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The shade and greenery make the ascent feel less arduous, though the path seems to steepen with each step. Villagers have reinforced some precarious sections with concrete and even fencing but there are narrow ledges to navigate and loose rocks underfoot. When I stumble, rocks ricochet down the ravine, reverberating through the valley like cannonballs.
The sun is high by the time we reach Sheri. In the intense dry heat, we make our way between the small dwellings. Padlocks are on most of the doors. Pens that once housed goats are empty, the gates swung open. We step across a falaj, a channel built to guide rainwater between the terraces. A lizard appears, tilting his head.
We seek shade beneath a tree overlooking the mountain panorama, the faint outline of a telecommunications tower on a distant peak. I barely perceive the hum of a plane, invisible in the sky. I imagine what life must have been like in this mountain village before telecommunications towers, planes and other jarring sounds of the modern world. Just low murmured voices, the scent of fire in the evening, a tea sweetened with mountain honey, stars and an ancient, stony silence that will endure, long after we descend.
For off-road drivers and weekend campers, Wadi Naqab has a rugged majesty, offering a mixture of solitude, adventure and immersion into nature as well as a glimpse of life in the UAE before the discovery of oil.
