How to Find Eternal Flames?

In the heart of an ancient nation, a sacred fire burns, unextinguished for over 2,000 years. Its mysteries inspire faith and lie at the root of beliefs held by Christians, Muslims, and Jews today. To find it, I embark on a 2,500-mile journey behind the veil of Islamic fundamentalism to where time and history began. I am David Adams, a photojournalist, and my work takes me to remote corners of the world, including Iran—a land shrouded in mystery after being off-limits to Westerners for so long.

My journey starts in Tehran, Iran's capital, where I witness extreme jaywalking, a daily game of chicken between pedestrians and relentless traffic. Despite police and stoplights, few pay attention, requiring extreme confidence to navigate. Surviving this, I explore sites like the former U.S. Embassy, its walls still bearing graffiti proclaiming Iran's hatred for America, dubbed the "great Satan," and displaying the face of Ayatollah Khomeini, father of the Islamic Revolution. While strict Islamic law persists, it is observed less strictly now, with the old Iran reemerging from behind the fundamentalist veil.

Centuries before Jesus, Zarathustra, known as Zoroaster, was born here. Fascinated by fire, he saw in its flickering mystery a single supreme being, heaven for the good, hell for the wicked, a divine savior, and a last judgment—beliefs later embraced by Jews and Christians and central to civilization today. This journey is as spiritual as physical, leading me to Iran's remotest corners in search of Zoroaster's eternal flame.

Heading northwest into the Elburz Mountains along the Caspian Sea's southern shores, I hope to catch a bus deeper into the mountains. With me is Afshin, a young English teacher from Tehran and former bodyguard to an Iranian president, whom I hire as my translator. At the bus station, an old blind ticket seller knows where everything is except the bus, and with few people waiting, suspicions arise. After hours of waiting, a kind truck driver takes pity on us, offering a ride in the back of his truck—hardly luxurious but mobile.

The Elburz Mountains, with peaks over 10,000 feet (3,000 meters), have been a refuge for those seeking independence and a sanctuary for hiding from authority. My journey takes me into the lair of the assassins and the fortress of a dangerous man. Meeting friends Razi, an expert mountaineer, and Aziz, one of only four Iranians to conquer Mount Everest, we gear up for Alamut, meaning "Eagle's Nest," a rocky skyscraper thrusting 3,000 feet (1,000 meters) into the air. Its slopes, a challenge for climbers, were a natural fortress in the Middle Ages.

Hassan al-Sabbah, the "Old Man of the Mountain," launched a reign of terror from Alamut in the 12th century. To battle Turkish rulers and Crusaders, he invented political murder, with his followers killing princes, generals, grand viziers, and even a Crusader king. Tradition says he controlled followers by drugging them with hashish, giving rise to the word "assassins." Another tale claims he could command fanatical assassins to leap to their deaths to impress visitors. With Razi and Aziz, I abseil down Alamut, facing crumbling stones and thoughts of stoned assassins meeting their doom. That evening, we build a fire in a cave where Hassan al-Sabbah once directed his campaigns, singing songs to keep ghosts at bay.

Further into northwestern Iran, winter temperatures plunge below zero as snow sweeps across mountains. I head alone to Takht-e Soleyman, "Solomon's Throne," where legend says King Solomon struck the ground with his staff, bringing forth steaming water for the Queen of Sheba's bath. Ruins of a Zoroastrian temple lie here, believed to be Zoroaster's birthplace. In a pit, sacred eternal flames once burned, tended by priests called magi—the source of the word "magic." Here, myths of four religions merge: 2,000 years ago, three magi set off from here, guided by a star to Bethlehem, finding Jesus, a Christian son of God and Islamic prophet.

Traveling further back in time, I enter the biblical land of Nod, where Cain slew Abel, nearing the beginning of time itself—the Garden of Eden. Expecting paradise, I find a barren wilderness until driving around a corner to Kandovan, a village carved from living rock formed by volcanic lava eons ago. Its conical shapes, homes dug into rock, create a fairy-tale setting. Locals say no snakes live here, but the Garden of Eden legend seems thin. Meeting Mr. Hashim, I'm invited to dinner with shepherds Musa and Rahim. Conversation turns to sheep, with Australia having millions, and I sing Australian songs. The shepherds, also musicians, play the saz and sorna, and we share a feast, though I never learn their songs' meanings.

At sunrise, flocks are driven to pasture as daily life resumes. Not finding Eden, I get closer to the real Iran but must go further to explore its spiritual soul. Driving south through lands trodden by Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Marco Polo, Afshin teaches me Persian phrases, though language isn't my forte. We arrive in Esfahan, a holy city Iranians call "half the world." Its magnificence, with a central square among the world's largest, and bazaars where artisans beat copper bowls, leaves me in awe. The Imam Mosque, completed in 1638 after 26 years, showcases perfect fusion of architecture and belief, with acoustics allowing imams to preach without microphones.

At a zurkhaneh, "house of power," men prove manhood and draw closer to God through ancient rituals mixing aerobics, circus acts, and meditation—an Islamic martial art transforming peasants into soldiers. Their trainer chants verses from the Shahnameh, leading to whirling dervish dances where Sufis believe souls journey to God. This builds to Iranian-style wrestling. Handed wrestling gear, I face Motion, a champion since age five. Despite my inexperience, the match ends in a draw, sparing embarrassment. Later, Motion invites me to a tea house inside a bridge, where retired champions share tales. Drinking tea Iranian style and trying a hookah, which makes me feel ill, I'm reminded of my quest.

Climbing to ruins of an ancient Zoroastrian temple, I feel Zoroaster's presence again. Tomorrow, I seek the source of an unextinguished fire. Southeast of Esfahan lies Persepolis, ancient capital of the Persian Empire, with its Greek name; in Old Persian, it was Parsa. Built 2,400 years ago, it had running water, drainage, and a great library until Alexander the Great destroyed it in the 3rd century BC. Walking through columns 60-70 feet high, I imagine its past glory. Persepolis was also a Zoroastrian center. Nearby, living Zoroastrians worship at Darius the Great's tomb, a sign of thaw in fundamentalist Iran. They explain fire worship: "We believe in brightness. Always stand towards light—sun or fire—as brightness brings happiness."

To find the ancient flame itself, I travel east via camel along the old Silk Route, through deserts unchanged since Marco Polo's time. Arriving at Chak Chak, a Zoroastrian shrine embedded in a mountain, I purify myself and enter the sanctuary. There, I see the sacred flame, burning for nearly 2,500 years, never extinguished, kindled from fire in an ancient line from Zoroaster's first flame. Worshippers' faces show devotion beyond words. Gazing at this eternal fire, I recall Zoroaster's vision: a single supreme being, struggle between good and evil, a savior, last judgment, beginning and end—all seen in a flame that burns until the ends of the earth.