Once May arrives in Israel, temperatures begin their steady climb upward. Hikers, like myself, must adapt, abandoning the desert and coastal paths for cooler mountain trails. Yet finding shade in Israel can be challenging at times; our land isn’t known for sprawling forests, and even spring hikes include inevitable stretches under the blazing sun.
On these warm days, my husband and I find ourselves strategizing from one patch of shade to the next, seeking momentary refuge as we soak in spring’s beauty. Our most reliable allies? The widespread carob trees, whose generous canopies and straight trunks create perfect natural shelters for mid-hike picnics.
Though carob is a latecomer to the Land of Israel – not among the Seven Species mentioned in the Bible – it has become so ubiquitous in our landscape that Diaspora Jews often include carob pods in their Tu Bishvat and Lag Ba’omer celebrations alongside the biblical Seven Species. The carob has quietly woven itself into our national identity.
As we search for respite from the midday heat during our hikes, we pass up gnarly oaks with their crowded branches, skip the inadequate shade of fig and almond trees, and gravitate toward the carob’s wide, welcoming canopy. Their sturdy branches invite climbing, and the sweet pods (which ripen in autumn) offer treats for curious fingers – my children delight in breaking them open to suck the sweet juice hidden inside.
Resting in this shade, my mind wanders to the legendary Shimon bar Yochai, Rabbi Akiva’s disciple who lived during the turbulent end of the Second Temple period. When bar Yochai fled Roman persecution, legend tells us that God provided a fresh water spring and a miraculously fruitful carob tree at his cave hideaway. This sustenance supported bar Yochai and his son through 12 years of isolation as they devoted themselves to Torah study.
Upon emerging, the pair was shocked to see a farmer plowing; so disconnected had they become from the mundane, but necessary, activities of Jewish existence in the Holy Land that God sent them back to their hideaway. They stayed in the cave for another year of study before they could rejoin society. The carob tree, silent witness to their transformation, became forever linked with their spiritual devotion.
Another Mishnaic tale features Honi HaMe’agel encountering an elderly man planting a carob seedling. “Why plant a tree that won’t bear fruit in your lifetime?” asked Honi, knowing carobs require many years to produce. The man replied simply that he planted for his grandchildren, just as his grandparents had planted for him. In this exchange lies a profound lesson about patience, tradition, and responsibility.
These ancient stories float through my mind as we rest beneath our chosen carob tree. To us, these trees are reliable friends, offering cool sanctuary and a playful diversion. In the winter, we even hunt for asparagus shoots around their bases. These plants seem to favor the carob’s company – one of nature’s many mysterious partnerships.
I think back upon a particularly magnificent carob tree where we took shelter on a hike near Jerusalem. There, I watched the kids collect fallen pods and remembered how foreign these trees once seemed to me. Growing up in New Orleans, my idea of tree shade came from majestic southern oaks draped with Spanish moss, not these Mediterranean sentinels with their leathery pods.
During the season of Lag Ba'omer
With the Lag Ba’omer season upon us, today’s picnic under a carob tree seems particularly relevant. One of the things that the holiday commemorates is Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s death – the same sage who survived on carob while hiding in a cave. I trace my fingers along the carob tree’s rough bark and try to imagine 13 years sustained by these pods alone. What patience that would require.
Here in Israel, our children worked patiently for the past month or so to collect enough wood to create the most spectacular Lag Ba’omer fires – evening bonfires illuminating hillsides across Israel, smoke rising like prayers into the night sky. Some families made the journey to Meron, crowding around what might have been bar Yochai’s cave. I’ve come to appreciate these local customs that were once as foreign to me as carob trees themselves.
In its quiet way, the humble carob teaches us that meaningful traditions need not be elaborate – or even particularly substantial. Sometimes, they’re as simple to connect to as finding shade on a warm, spring day. As we navigate this season’s increasing warmth, the carob remains our faithful companion on Israel’s ancient paths, connecting us to both land and legacy in one welcoming embrace.
