Pilgrimage to an Ethiopian Mountain Top.

Debre Damo is one of the most extraordinary and remote monasteries in Ethiopia, a place whose isolation seems almost as important to its spiritual life as the prayers and rituals performed within its walls. Sheer cliffs enclose it on every side, forming a natural fortress that has protected the monastery and its inhabitants for centuries. It had long held a special fascination for me. Having explored many of Ethiopia’s ancient monasteries, I was particularly drawn to this remote community perched on an isolated plateau. Debre Damo, an oval-shaped plateau some 7,000 feet above sea level, was surrounded by cliffs that made it virtually inaccessible. No road, winding path, or flight of steps leads a visitor to the summit. After the country road ended, an hour’s arduous walk brought me to the foot of an escarpment, where five hundred stone steps climbed towards the sheer rock face.

To enter the monastery the only entrance is by using a length of thick leather rope hanging down the face of the precipice.One must place one's feet against the rock, grip the rope and be hauled upwards, some ninety feet, by someone waiting above. It is a daunting introduction to a world that has deliberately remained apart. And no females of any kind, animal or human, were allowed into the monastery.

I watched anxiously, as monks hung onto the rope and using their hands and feet scrambled effortlessly up the sheer rock face. When my turn came, an added leather rope was secured around my waist while I clung desperately to another made of local fibers. Then, I was unceremoniously hauled ninety feet up in the air. Only when I reached the tiny doorway and saw the smiling white-robed novice monk did I begin to relax. It was an unsettling realization that neither rope was tethered to anything, but encircled the man’s waist, and I doubted whether my young rescuer could have held me had I slipped.

Another novice led me up steps cut into the rock to meet Abba Yonas, the monastery’s abbot, an ascetic-looking, forty-year-old black-bearded man dressed in sand-colored robes and wearing the distinctive round, matching colored hat. I’d sent him a letter explaining that I had once lived as a hermit and spent time in a Trappist monastery in Northern Ireland. I hoped to experience a full twenty-four hours of their monastic life. His British English was flawless. “Where did you learn it?” I asked. “Here.”

Arriving on the plateau, I first noticed an austere settlement that seemed untouched by time. The buildings are simple, constructed from stone and timber, their weathered walls and narrow doorways reflecting a tradition of monastic life stretching back many centuries. There are no obvious signs of modern comfort or convenience. The monastery is largely self-contained, and its isolation is reinforced by the severe landscape surrounding it. Beyond the plateau, the land falls away into the distant Ethiopian highlands, leaving the monks with a horizon of mountains and sky.

Around 120 monks live within the monastery, each following a life governed by prayer, fasting and contemplation. Some occupy small, plain cells; others have chosen an even more solitary existence, living in caves cut into the sheer sides of the mountain. I visited several where Yonas explained who I was; they smiled, said nothing but blessed me. One cave was filled with bones, and what looked like a recently wrapped mummy. He said this served as the last resting place for many monks.

Their days are shaped by an ancient religious discipline. Food is deliberately sparse, with only one meal a day, injera bread and boiled beans, and the calendar includes 252 days of fasting. Their water came from rain-filled rock ponds covered with green algae, which Yonas assured me had been blessed and therefore safe to drink. Having previously lived in primitive African conditions, and protective of my health, I kept my reservations to myself and relied on the bottled water I had brought.

Their simplicity reflects the life they have chosen, a withdrawal from the distractions and comforts below rather than an incidental hardship. At the centre of this community stands the ancient church, a rectangular building in the distinctive Aksumite style, its construction and proportions bearing witness to Ethiopia's early Christian heritage. Inside, carved wooden ceilings displayed animal and plant figures. I climbed its stone bell tower for a breath-taking view of the extraordinary landscape.

Yonas showed me a remarkable collection of ancient manuscripts in its library, written in Ge'ez, the liturgical language of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. These books are more than historical relics; they are part of a living tradition, guarded and studied by generations of monks.

Then, he took me to my tiny stone-and-mud dwelling, furnished with a primitive handmade bed, a goatskin laid on top of a latticed rope and wooden framework, and a small table with a clay cup, and plate. He said I would eat later and that he would call me for morning prayer. Later that evening, I sat on a rock, in the fading light, feeling I was in the clouds, and meditated. The place felt profoundly quiet, amplified by its height and distance from the world below. It was tangible.

Sleep was impossible, and even with my extra sweatshirt, the cold was piercing.

I was awake at 2:40 a.m., when Yonas tapped on my door. Inside the church, thirty-five monks stood leaning on long wooden prayer sticks, their bearded faces illuminated by long tapered candles. Incense filled the air as chanting began, accompanied by rattles, shakers, and a large drum. I stood beside Yonas during the rituals as the altar was prepared for Mass. The service continued for hours, resembling nothing I had ever previously experienced: the monks swaying, moving rhythmically in an organized religious dance.

As a former ordained priest and monk, I was allowed into the Meqdes, the holy of holies, the inner sanctum that holds a sacred replica of the Ark of the Covenant. Four hours later, my knees ached, my throat was dry, and my eyes were raw from the smoke, burning charcoal and incense in the enclosed space. Yet I was deeply moved. I later sat alone at the eastern edge of the plateau, watching the sun rise, feeling the extraordinary power of lives stripped of almost everything and devoted solely to prayer, fasting, and solitude.

Before leaving, I asked Yonas whether I might speak with Abuna Gebresilase, a monk my friend Marco had previously met. He understood English perfectly and gave me a beatific smile but only communicated by writing notes. A year earlier, he explained, the Angel Gabriel had appeared to him in a dream and instructed him to use his voice only for prayer. He would remain silent until the angel returned and gave him permission to speak again.

I left Debre Damo feeling privileged to have been welcomed into this extraordinary community. Spending even a day there means encountering a world where usual measures of time, comfort, and purpose hold little meaning. The place leaves visitors questioning belief, devotion, and dedicating a life beyond oneself.

When Marco came to meet me, he asked whether the experience had met my expectations. I knew that was the wrong question to ask, but I could barely speak. After twenty-four hours in total silence, just the sound of his voice and the noise of the motor seemed deafening.

“God is alive and well,” I finally told him. “And He wants you to know it.”