Mount Hor: The Mountain Above Petra That Most Never See—But I Did
Most visitors who come to Petra spend the day marveling at the Treasury, the towering sandstone cliffs, and the remarkable architecture carved into the rose-red rock. Few realize that high above the ancient city rises one of the most significant mountains in Israel’s wilderness journey.
In 1999 my husband and I had the opportunity to visit Petra with a tour group. We expected to spend the day exploring the famous ruins. Then someone mentioned that it was possible to ride camels up to the traditional site of Aaron’s tomb on Mount Hor.
Anyone who knows me knows I never pass up an adventure.
Another couple from South Dakota joined us, and together we hired a Jordanian guide. Camels were brought, saddles secured, lunches packed, and before long we were climbing the mountain.
At least, that was the plan.
I was assigned the camel with the worst gait imaginable. Instead of the smooth rolling motion camels are famous for, mine bounced with every step. I felt as though I were inside a washing machine. After only a few minutes I knew I could never survive several hours on that animal.
My husband smiled and offered to trade. It was completely unselfish because he knew we still had six hours ahead of us. I happily accepted.
Slowly we climbed above Petra. Far in the distance we could already see the whitewashed shrine that crowned the summit.
Along the dusty trail we passed a large Bedouin family living in a cave. The floor was packed earth covered with prayer rugs. Their children, their clothing, even their faces carried the dust of the mountain. The women made colorful beaded bracelets for passing travelers, and we gladly purchased a few. One young mother sat quietly in the corner nursing her baby while life continued all around her.
It was another world. Only a day later we would be staying in a first-class hotel in Amman. The contrast could not have been greater.
We had not planned for this excursion. We were dressed for walking through Petra, not riding camels over rough mountain trails. The thick wool saddle reminded us of that decision with every mile.
Fortunately, we had plenty of water and food.
Up…and up…we climbed. After a while the awkward motion of the camel became routine and we settled into its rhythm as the white shrine slowly drew nearer.
Nearly two hours later we reached a broad plateau just below the summit.
There we encountered a team of archaeologists from Finland and Sweden excavating a large complex spread across the mountainside. Our guide explained that the camels could go no farther. The final ascent was too steep and the summit too narrow. The archaeologists kindly allowed us to leave the camels with them while we climbed the last rocky stretch on foot.
At the time, we had no idea what they were uncovering. We simply assumed they were excavating another ancient ruin.
Only years later did I discover how remarkable that meeting had been. The excavation had begun only two years earlier under the direction of scholars from the University of Helsinki. We had arrived during one of the most exciting periods in the site’s modern history.
What they uncovered transformed our understanding of Mount Hor.
Jabal Harun—“Mountain of Aaron” stands about three miles southwest of Petra and rises more than 4,400 feet above sea level, making it the highest peak in the Petra region. Living at nearly 7,000 feet in New Mexico, the altitude never bothered us. The descent, perched high on those sure-footed camels, demanded far more courage than the climb.
At the summit stands the familiar whitewashed shrine dedicated to the prophet Harun—Aaron in Arabic. The present structure dates to a restoration completed in A.D. 1320 during the Mamluk period, although it rests upon the remains of a much earlier Byzantine sanctuary. Inside is a simple memorial chamber honoring Aaron.
No archaeological discovery has confirmed that Aaron himself was buried there. Yet for nearly two thousand years Jews, Christians, and Muslims have revered this mountain as the place where Israel’s first high priest died. That tradition reaches back at least to Josephus in the first century.
Some modern scholars question whether this mountain lies too far inside ancient Edomite territory to be the biblical Mount Hor.
Perhaps. But a tradition preserved for nearly two thousand years carries considerable weight with me. Standing on that summit, looking across the wilderness stretching toward the land of promise, I found it difficult to imagine a more fitting place.
The Finnish excavations revealed that this mountain had become one of the oldest pilgrimage destinations. Beginning in the fourth and fifth centuries, Christians climbed the mountain believing they were approaching the place where Aaron died.
Archaeologists uncovered a large basilica, chapels, monks’ quarters, storerooms, kitchens, courtyards, water systems, and buildings that probably served as hostels for weary pilgrims. The complex measured roughly sixty-two by forty-eight meters—far larger than anyone expected.
This was a thriving center of worship that welcomed generations of pilgrims making the difficult ascent. Among the discoveries were thousands of pottery fragments, Byzantine coins, Greek inscriptions, a baptismal font, and even traces of an earlier Nabataean sanctuary beneath the Christian structures.
The mountain had been regarded as sacred long before the monastery was built. One inscription referred to Aaron as “the Holy High Priest.” The monks built an entire pilgrimage center around the memory of his death.
That tells us how they understood Numbers 20 and 33. When we read the account of Aaron’s death, it is easy to focus only on the man. The biblical writers focus on something larger. Aaron ascends the mountain. His priestly garments are removed. They are placed upon Eleazar. Israel mourns for thirty days. Then their journey resumes. The mountain becomes the place where one servant lays down his calling, and another receives it.
Throughout the ancient Near East, kings often passed through ceremonies of humiliation before enthronement. Royal garments were stripped away before new garments were bestowed. Humbling preceded exaltation. Aaron’s priestly garments are stripped away on Mount Hor before they are placed upon Eleazar. The priesthood continues. Garments signify office, identity and calling.
Standing on that mountain twenty-six years ago, I could not have appreciated all of this. I simply remember the breathtaking view, the white shrine shining beneath the blue sky and the Jordanian sun, the archaeologists working below us, and the long camel ride from and to Petra.
Mount Hor is more than the place where Aaron died. It is the place where the covenant journey continued. Servants come and go. Priests die. Leaders are replaced. Yet the covenant story never stops moving toward the promised land.
