Trekking To Toubkal
by Michael Smith
During August of last year I was a member of an international trekking party of ten, rambling and climbing in the High Atlas region of Morocco. No peak to be conquered, no hard rock to be scaled, no depths to be plumbed, merely two weeks spent in the mountains amongst the fascinating Berbers only rarely meeting other Europeans.
Our hired mini-bus dropped us at Setti Fadma after following a dirt track for several miles up a narrow gorge. After a lunch of tomatoes, olives and oranges with fresh bread we watched the mules being loaded. Then with shouts from the muleteers we were off, up the Ourika valley, climbing the well trodden terraced path up the valley side and striking off southwest towards Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. Two hours brought us to a hillside village of a score or so wood and clay buildings called Tamatert, a mint tea reception and we were shown to the flat earthen roof top that was to be ‘home’ for the night. Seemingly providing endless amusement for all the local children, who quickly assembled on the roof overlooking ours, we cooked and crawled into our sleeping bags exhausted after two days almost continuous travel. Then it started, the drums, tambourines, the stamping of feet and a chorus of nasal chanting. All the village adolescents were dancing in our honour by the light of several torches.
The next morning we waited for dawn, and for the sun to rise over the high valley sides for the warmth it gave. We cooked, packed and shouldered small sacks and set off, leaving our gear to be loaded and the muletrain to catch us up. Then followed the routine that was to be our way of life for the next week, along a mule track rising a couple of thousand feet over scree to a col, descending gradually to the valley bottom at the far side and then following the stream up the valley to the next village, by which time our mules were already there. Even taking a break of a couple of hours during the hottest part of the day we still arrived at the villages in the early afternoon, leaving time for exploration of the area’s gullies, crags and peaks.
In this way we made steady progress through the villages of Amen Zal, Azib Tinzar, Azib Tifni to Aremd in the Assif-n-Ighighayene valley, this being the valley with Toubkal at its head. Each night was cooler as we gained height, and the days didn’t seem so hot as the wind increased, though still the sun beat down from a deep blue, cloudless sky. The vegetation, already sparse, was soon down to only thistles and thorn except near the villages where irrigation allowed the cultivation of guinea corn, maize and even wheat. The villages became smaller the further we went from the road that was our starting point, the villagers poorer and the houses smaller and made of stone, almost indistinguishable from the scree slopes on which they were perched.
The final descent into the valley was down a 3,800 ft. incredibly steep scree slope, with a well engineered zig-zag mule track leading to a large white-washed boulder topped with three coloured prayer flags; a shrine to Sidi Chamharouch, a hermit who lived beneath the rock, and is buried there. Around the shrine were tiny shops catering for the pilgrims and a foul stench from a pile of chicken entrails, the past lunches of the shop owners. Arriving at Aremd we were served the inevitable sweet mint tea followed by a goat meat couscous dinner, then spent the night in the home of our chief muleteer. One room was plastered and was used to entertain us, but was normally their bedroom, the other room was the kitchen and below was a small pen holding his two cattle, mule and chickens for he was the richest man in the village. For some days he had been boasting about his toilet though in very vague terms; this had caused much amusement amongst the group but the last laugh was with him when it turned out to be partitioned from the kitchen by a ‘curtain’ that reached down to knee height and consisted of an eight inch diameter hole in the ground with a tiled surround, a candle in a niche in the wall, and a short stick whose function I will leave to your imagination.
After a day spent at the local market in Asni buying new stocks of fruit and bread we headed up the valley to the Neltner Hut. Run by the French Alpine Club, this hut forms a good base for Toubkal and the surrounding ridges, providing simple accommodation at a height of 10,600 ft. From this base we made daily excursions along the rocky ridges at either side of the valley.
Firstly to Toubkal itself, a slog up scree then skirting a steep corrie to reach 14,750 ft., a summit snack of pilchards and crispbread, followed by a long laze in the dessicating sun’s heat and the chilling breeze. The party by now had split into twos and threes and our route of descent took us down a steep sided gully, climbing down dried up waterfalls that in spring run fast with the melted snow that lies thick over this area each winter.
Next on our list was an eighty foot pinnacle called Tadat, or thumb, which provided some interesting climbing, with spectacular views as it rises from a sharp col at 12,650 ft. The ridge was then followed south over the rocky face of Biiguin-oussene, which involved some tricky climbs on the loose granite which is typical of the area. This leads to the more difficult Clocheton gendarmes where we left the ridge and returned to the hut. On the way we passed through a herd of about two hundred barbary goats being driven from one meagre pasture to another.
The most spectacular trip, though, was over the col, Tizi-n-Ouanoums, and down a valley to the south, a wild rocky valley with eagles soaring above, into the scorching heat of the lower valley floor that is wide, flat and covered in rocks and pebbles. A mile over this brought us to Lac d’ifni, the only lake in the area which is held by a scree dam through which the water slowly percolates. All set for a refreshing swim we noticed the water snakes and decided not to bother. Clearing the larger stones we prepared to bivouac on the lake shore for the night. We made the return journey the next day, stopping off to climb on a sun-drenched crag on the way.
Too soon it was time to head back for Europe, rising early to start the journey, we saw the pre-dawn glow drench the coastal plain in a pink light that burst into gold with the rising sun. Leaving behind us the peace and grandeur of the High Atlas, we headed for Marrakech, with all the bustle and colour of the Medina with its snake charmers, beggars, dancers, souks and mosques.
Returning by Royal Air Maroc we knew we had reached Britain as there was the typical total cloud cover, no more scorched earth or haggling over purchases. But one more surprise was in store, the next weekend I attended the meet in the Lake District and stayed at Low Hall Garth, where browsing through an old tattered magazine, I came across an article by Doug Scott, ‘The High Atlas’ and I could ‘visit’ again Tadat, Toubkal and the rest.
Yet my memories of this trip will not be only of the gullies, peaks, corries and pinnacles, but also of the people and their poverty, generosity, simple way of life, happiness and helpfulness. An unforgettable experience and an area that is suitable for ski-mountaineering earlier in the year, as one of our party put it “just like Skye but bigger and dry.”