High Atlas Hiking

---

Geo: 31.1251, -7.91902

The haunting sound of the call to prayer gave us a rude awakening at sunrise, which fortunately, due to daylight savings time, was an hour later than it could otherwise have been! However, although it would not have been my chosen alarm tone, it did set the tone for a day in the heart of morocco, a county with a culture so entirely different to our own. This tour, I realised quickly was going to be a tour of contrasts. We would traverse five different landscapes within this diverse country - mountain, city, beach, oasis and desert. Today's adventure had been outlined to us at the previous evening's meeting. So, it was with a hearty breakfast in our belies that we bade a farewell to Marrakech and took the twisting roads towards the high Atlas Mountains, a route that took us through red rocked canyons and past chocolate coloured rivers, winding through verdant valleys. It drew parallels with the national parks of America, making up in beauty what it lacked in large scale grandeur. However, the grandeur soon made an appearance as we reached the village of Imlil, a small jumping off point for hikers and climbers who wish to explore the mountains, and in particular, Mount Toubkal - North Africa's highest peak.

At Imlil, we left our main packs and took just essentials in our daypack a as we began the 2 mile climb to the tiny village of Aroumd, 1800m above sea level. On the way, we passed small settlements with half-built mosques - they are not funded by the government and so locals put collection boxes out for people to make donations to the completion of the places of worship. Mohammed told us that the current state had been the same for two years - the minaret and loudhailer was already in place and decorated with ornate bricks, while the rest of the mosque was a simple breeze block structure. We continued our climbs, passing mule trains en route, their night saddles laden with produce. Despite previous musings on how they might be treated, the miles all looked healthy and content, and we only saw the owners treat their animals with respect and tenderness - another misconception about morocco that I could add to my ever increasing list.

After around 45 minutes, climbing through the rugged landscape - stony paths with snow piled up on the edges, we reached our village destination. Climbing higher through the stony streets, we saw brightly woven Berber blankets flung over balconies to catch the midday sun. Men, women and children, still sporting traditional woven hooded cloaks and intricate scarves, went about their business. Cows mooed from behind ornate metal doors, while chickens bustled through the streets. Water from the melting snow ran in rivulets between our feet and at event turn was another breathtaking photo opportunity - day to day village life juxtaposed against the snow-covered Allas mountains in front of us, and the winding paths through the terracotta valley behind.

A final push brought us to our accommodation for the night - a family run gite high at the top of the village. Climbing the steps, we found ourselves confronted by our view for the afternoon and following morning - the terrace gazed directly out over mount Toukbal, her snowy face turned towards us, displaying her grandeur in all its finery. The sun best down on us, feeling incongruent against the snowy backdrop in front of us, it was an absolutely stunning setting for a delicious traditional home-coked lunch. Fresh salads, spiced lentils, skewers of chicken marinated in turmeric, fluffy rice and a spiced omelette served in a traditional tagine, its light, airy texture hissing and steaming as the lid was removed. It was delicious food, and out paid to any semblance of my understanding of what Moroccan food was like - having long been a fan of Moroccan chicken soup, this was in a different league - drier, spicier and a thousand times more fragrant.

The lunch provided sustenance for the next leg of our adventure, a further 450m climb along the route of the pilgrimage to the Berber shrine at ...... It was a gruelling, if rewarding adventure. Snow crunched underfoot in places, while waterfalls cascaded alongside us, drenching the path ahead. Rivers barred our way, forcing us to use stepping stones to traverse the rocky mountainside. It was not a well trodden path - we encountered seldom few people on our climb - the occasional mule and driver greeted us on their way up or down but we were the only tourists around, until we neared the top, when we met a party of Toukbal ascenders who were making their way down from the base camp. We were also greeted by a herd of mountain goats who posed nonchalantly for photographs before nimbly clambering down the steep hillsides to the lush grass further down the mountain.

Surrounded on 3 sides by glistening snowy mountains, waterfalls rushing down their faces, the fourth side a lush valley with a river snaking through the bottom of it, we slowly ascended further. The snow to the sides of us provided welcome relief frm the heat of the day, and several snowball fights kept our spirits up. As we reached the top,following an exhausting climb, we were greeted by a small settlement of kiosks and makeshift homes, created by people who tended to the shrine. At the top, adjacent to the shrine we witnessed a religious sacrifice. A small gathering of people were crowded around a sheep. They recited prayers, and the leader brought the knife down and slit the animal's throat, it's blood spreading out like a red carpet across the snow. It was a brutal reminder of the raw traditional lifestyle of the area.
On the way back to our village, our guide led us on an unconventional path. It wound down the mountainside and then crossed the wide dry riverbed at the base of the valley. Although the riverbed was dry, there were sections where fast glowing streams blocked our path, and our guide had to create makeshift stepping stones to allow us to cross. We did so, mostly with trepidation. However at the last minute, one of our group showed a huge level of bravado and jumped the stream. He placed one toe on the final rock, wobbled and then toled headlong into the slushing water. Cuts and bruises were sustained but I think his pride and camera took the brunt of the damage.

Climbing back up to our hostel, troops of children came bounding out if their houses, the cynic in me wondered if they were asking for baksheesh, but once again, my preconceptions were proved unfounded as they merely wanted a smile and a high five from the strange white folk who had wandered into their village. Back at the hostel, we had one final bask in the sunshine, taking in the outstanding views before we were called inside to enjoy pancakes and honey. Many of the traditional homes in the village are constructed from mud and straw - it provides a welcome coolness in the summer and retains the sun's heat in the winter. However, more and more frequently, houses are being built from poured concrete, making them unbearably hot in summer and positively Baltic in the winter. Sadly, despite the heat of the day, it had cooled sufficiently by the time we reached the hostel that we would have appreciated the warmth. By 7 o clock, we could see our breath in the primitive bedrooms. Fortunately, in time for dinner, there was a roaring fire and plentiful hot food. The feast of Moroccan flatbreads, hot tomato and spice soup and lamb tagine warmed us up sufficiently to brave the cold, damp bedroom. It was an experience - one of the more authentic I have enjoyed whilst travelling, despite the three blankets on the bed, it was a fitful nights sleep, before finally waking to the most glorious sunrise.

---