Some adventures don’t begin with a map. They begin with a whisper.
For me, it started over dinner with an Omani friend who told me a story about a village called As Sab, hidden deep inside Wadi Ghul, often called Oman’s Grand Canyon. According to the legend, a small family lived there in complete isolation — until, about a century ago, they simply disappeared.
It sounded like a myth. But it stayed with me, creeping back into my thoughts at random moments. Six months later, I finally gave in to curiosity and set out for Jebel Shams, determined to find out whether this lost village truly existed.
The paved highway eventually gave way to gravel and then to a dirt track barely worthy of the name “road.” By sunset, I reached a modest guesthouse perched near the top of Jebel Shams.
Over dinner, I shared the story with the owners — half expecting them to laugh. Instead, they nodded. They knew it.
They described a hidden trail starting between two small houses at the very end of the road. A forgotten pathway that once linked As Sab to the outside world. Suddenly, the legend didn’t feel so mythical anymore.
The next morning, fueled by strong Omani coffee and a surge of adrenaline, I set off. The road ended exactly where the guesthouse owners said it would, and between two simple houses lay a narrow opening — the start of the trail.
The path dropped steeply into Wadi Ghul, sometimes narrowing to a ledge barely wide enough for my feet. Fallen rocks blocked parts of the trail, forcing me to climb over or detour around them. As the sun climbed higher, the heat spread across the canyon walls.
Hours passed. Bend after bend, cliff after cliff. No village. No signs of life. Just silence and the growing doubt that maybe the story was just a story.
Then, suddenly — a wooden bench. A small fire pit. Proof that people had been here. But there was still no village in sight.
I almost gave up.
But beyond a rockfall, a thin continuation of the path caught my eye. I scrambled over the rocks and pressed on, hoping we were still on the right trail. About thirty minutes later, after another turn in the canyon, the landscape shifted.
And then it appeared.
As Sab revealed itself like a mirage — a cluster of abandoned stone houses clinging to the canyon wall, completely untouched by time. No tourists. No signs of modern life. Just stillness.
The village was small but incredibly well-preserved. Homes built from stone and wood, arranged with purpose, strong enough to withstand decades of wind and heat. Just beyond the last house, I found the dry bed of what must have once been a waterfall. Standing there, it wasn’t hard to imagine how the villagers lived — hauling water and supplies by donkey, farming small terraces, surviving in this dramatic and isolated corner of Oman.
I explored quietly, making sure not to disturb anything. In places like this, every stone feels like part of a fragile history.
After about an hour of exploring, I rested on the rocks overlooking the canyon before beginning the climb back up. The return journey was just as steep and exposed. But this time, the trail felt different.
I was not just a hiker. I was walking through history — through a place that time had almost forgotten.