Mountain high near Marrakesh
Morocco: In stifling summer heat, I left the city behind and followed a teenage guide into the Atlas mountains without asking too many questions.
Marrakesh in July is like a furnace built of ancient stone. The heat comes at you from all directions. From above. From below. From the walls that have been storing the sun for a thousand years. It’s not the season to be here. But I was in southern Spain with no fixed agenda or timeframe, so I looked across the Strait of Gibraltar and thought, ‘why not?’
About 30 euros and 90 minutes gets you from Europe to Africa. After free-camping my way down the Atlantic Coast, I finally holed up in Marrakesh. I sat in the courtyard of the riad-turned-guesthouse and watched the sweat drip from my glass onto the tiles. The water evaporated before it could make a proper stain. Two days now. Two days of the medina's narrow streets that promised shade but delivered only concentrated heat. Two days of Berber mint tea that could not cool the blood. Two days of watching desert people move with a patience I did not possess.
It was into the third morning after another sleepless night that I first considered seeking respite in the mountains. They towered at the western edge of the Sahara desert like a border between worlds.
I’d read about tours to Mt Toubkal; the highest peak in North Africa. But I’d had my fill of occasional group tours and day trips. So I asked the man who worked the reception desk if a short trek into the High Atlas Mountains could be done independently, and he nodded, scribbled a name, an address and a phone number on a piece of paper and said: “See Hassan.”
That was it. Two words uttered. The idea lodged itself like a splinter. A thing that would not work its way out. Those mountains would be cooler. Those mountains would have air that did not toast lungs. Those mountains would have water that ran instead of evaporated.
I had not come to Morocco for mountains. But mountains have a way of calling. And ground zero for High Atlas treks was Imlil.
The next day I took the bus to Imlil. It was an old bus. I asked the driver in appalling French if many people go climbing this time of year.
"Europeans," he said. "Not Moroccans."
Each turn in the road brought cooler air. Each kilometre was a small victory against the heat.
Imlil was one of those staging post type of towns. A way-station between worlds. Its shops, its vibe, its visitors all hinted of some other place. Guides arranged mules. Hawkers hassled for business. Shops sold walking poles and water. I had arranged nothing. Phone calls to Hassan had gone unanswered. All I had was a piece of paper from the man who worked the reception desk.
I showed it to a group of old man holding fort in front of a cafe with their hookahs. They seemed to recognise the address but could not agree on what direction I should take to get there. Street signs were rare. I took a wrong path. The map I had did not show this village. Stone houses stood camouflaged against the mountains. Children stopped their games to watch me pass. I was not supposed to be here.
I called the number again. The person who answered quickly switched from Arabic to French, then to broken English. It was one of Hassan’s sons. I conveyed my intentions and he seemed to understand.
“You want guide?”
”Oui.”
“You want stay?”
“Oui.”
“Where are you?”
I looked around and described the streetscape and billboards and the abandoned playground, and he knew.
“I come get you. My name is Hamid. Hassan is my father.”
Hamid eventually arrived and escorted me to his home. His mother and siblings made me feel welcome. It was agreed I spend the night, and Hamid would be my mountain guide for the next two days. Though not officially accredited, he assured me of his bona fides with photos and stories of past ascents. What choice did I really have?
Their home was three rooms of stone. A small solar panel array provided power. A satellite dish provided broadband and various broadcasts.
Hassan arrived later. After introductions and explanations, we drank tea in a separate room, just the two of us, and agreed a price for his son’s services. His wife brought dinner of mostly rice. We ate, just the two of us, with our left hand, from the same dish. A bed roll was arranged with heavy blankets and we said good night.
Cold came slowly through the glassless window. The curtain waved open and I glimpsed stars of amazing clarity. Sleep came and went. I heard Hassan talking with his wife in the next room.
Morning came with prayer calls and roosters. We ate bread with oil and honey. The honey tasted like nectar from another world.
Hamid was 17 but looked older. He wore jeans and a Real Madrid football shirt. I wore clothes made for mountains. He carried water and bread and minimal provisions in a small pack. And a tent with 2 sleeping bags in a larger pack. Though I had left plenty of gear at the riad in Marrakesh with the man at the reception desk, my ‘technical’ equipment suddenly seemed excessive and foolish.
Hassan walked with us to the edge of the village. He spoke to his son before saying to me with a shake of hands: “You be okay.”
Hamid took paths that were not on any map. We passed women working in fields. We walked through walnut trees that made patches of shade. The organised tour groups were somewhere else, following the official trail. We were just walking up a mountain.
Hamid set a good pace. He did not talk much. Sometimes he would point and name something in Berber or French. A rock. A spring. A shrine.
The air got clearer as we climbed. Below us, the world opened up. He moved like someone walking through his own house. I moved like someone afraid of breaking something.
We eventually came down to a well trodden path that lead to the Toubkal Refuge. For a small fee we could use the facilities and pitch our tent in the vicinity. The plan was to ascend early before the tour groups got going next morning. This plan went well.
It’s not a difficult climb: more a steady uphill walk. The final few sections were covered in loose flat shale-type rocks that slid and shifted under your feet. Hamid walked across it like it was nothing. I picked each step carefully.
After about 3 hours on the trail, we approached a metal structure marking the 4167 metre summit. The place was ours. No one in sight yet: Just us and the sky and the world below.
Hamid did not celebrate. He’d been here before. We sat on a flat rock and shared bread his mother had made, and ate without talking. But a few thoughts came to mind.
People often speak of conquering mountains, but anyone who’s spent significant time among them knows this framing misses the point entirely. It’s like negotiating temporary permission to visit. And once permission is assumed, we climb not to defeat anything but to participate in something ancient and indifferent.
The cold, thin air filling lungs, the precise placement of feet or crampon in search of safe footings, the burn of muscles pushed beyond comfort. These sensations and the rarified air reset our internal calibrations, reminding us what our bodies were built to do long before we surrounded them with modern conveniences.
Certainly the searing, debilitating heat of Marrakesh was a distant memory. From on top you could see lots. The other mountains. The desert beyond. Villages in valleys. The sheer utter silence I was not expecting, but exceedingly grateful for.
This heavenly idyll was soon shattered with the cackle and clatter of the first tour groups echoing up the rocky valley. We packed up, took one last breath of High Atlas air and began our careful descent.
Walking with normal steps was not possible. It was easier to leap and slide down with the slippery shale rocks. A type of race developed between us. We yelled and laughed as each one passed the other, dragging a mini landslide of rocks in our wake.
On flatter sections we slowed. And talked more. Hamid told me about school. He wanted to study engineering. Life as a mountain guide was not for him.
People we passed going up seemed perplexed we were heading down. Their faces showed effort. Their lungs worked overtime. A gentle nod and word of encouragement was all we said. The refuge appeared in no time, and with gravity on our side, so too did Hamid’s village in the distance.
But we did not go there, instead taking a detour back to Imlil for my return journey to Marrakech.
Hassan was waiting for us. He looked at his son to make sure all was well. Then he looked at me the same way. With much thanks and a discrete tip, I was on my way.
Marrakesh was still hot when I got back. The taxi left me near the medina because road works had closed vehicle access to the riad. The narrow streets held the heat close. Market stalls sprang to life in the fading light. Snake charmers were setting up their baskets of cobras. The air hung thick with the scent of cumin and mint and exhaust, each breath a reminder that I had returned to a world where nothing evaporates but everything lingers.
Later at dusk, I watched tourists in a cafe. They were studying maps and talking of Toubkal. Their faces were eager. They talked about equipment and altitude and the price of various tours. They did not talk about old men or their sons or villages that didn’t exist on maps.