This trek is specifically thought for those that look to trek Morocco when the desert and its surroundings are too hot. It’s also an alternative to the High Atlas mountains next to Marrakech ( Imlil, Ourika Valley, Asni) where both local and foreign tourists teem in summer. If you prefer to meet other tourists on your treks, this one is not for you.
Trekking in Morocco is not merely about sublime landscapes and unique encounters. There’s plenty of that, too. Over 3 days of hiking, it is also doubting what you were certain of. That Morocco is a dry country. Potatoes can’t grow at 3000 meters high. That bleak life conditions turn people grumpy. Or aloof. And, also, that you can’t count on a rooster to wake you up for sunrise.
Shepperd dens. 2700 meters high. Barley harvest. First evening.
The tot has been nagging her mom since they returned to the crescent shaped bed of barley. It kept at it, on and on, clambering at her mom’s shoulder blade like it were a tree trunk. Relentless. All the while the mom ignores her, sickling away at stalks, along with her sister, hardly older, squatting, impervious to the moving lump shifting from her shoulder to her nape and back again. Is she in a hurry as the sun slants away, deserts this valley ? Around her, dousing the plateau, here at 2700 meters high, shepherd dens, hollow, bereaved of their patrons and beasts.
Scattered out, only a few folks pluck away. She has gone quiet now as her mom hauls her back to the den, her sister trailing, resolved, sickle in one hand and brother’s shoe in other. A gaunt patriarch strides past, noble, or perhaps stern, agape at the sight of me, there, spectating from the threshold of the stone and clay hovel. What am I to him ? Salutations are exchanged. Only the crests are now sunlit, voices fade, the wind sighs.
Berber linguistics. Fresh onion. Prayer on the roof.
‘Aguerd nool’ he quips.
‘Agrd noor’ I mimic.
‘Lla. Aguerd noooooll.’ Eventually, I get it right. My teacher, Brahim, is 2 decades my senior, in age and patience. He’s also more agile. We’ve been plodding up for the last couple of hours, zig zagging across the unstinting slope, at times ankle deep in scree. Panting. Catching breath. As the trail leads under the canopy of chestnuts, he snips out an onion from a bed, all mauve and fleshy. He calls any bower or glade a ‘jardin’. It’s time for a breather. After all, we started almost 1000 meters lower…
To just recline here, against a stone ledge. Grazed by the breeze. Grapes of nuts levitate in its swat. Onion and potato stems pierce through the soil, waiting for September to mature. Take in all this splendor, the hues of green and sallow and blonde, the plateau ahead, lined by the 4000 meters high peaks, Mgoun peak commanding at 4100 meters high, fell promontories, us two just at the mouth of it, about to enter some untold kingdom.
Far away, behind those peaks, palm groves reel from years of drought, yet here up in the High Atlas the mountain gushes out springs and runnels and torrents, regardless of season. We palm water to drink every now and then. As I snug into my sleeping bag that night, among pots and cobbles , bits of dry clay puttering down from between the roof beams puncture my thoughts as Brahim prostrates on the roof above. Eastwards.
Saddle at 3100. Sweeping views. Mint tea. Rock climbing, downwards.
By the time I sneak out of the den, the sun bathes the valley and field work has resumed. Slept poorly ? Nothing a mint tea can’t fix. A hefty breakfast later, we set out westwards, past timid boys and their goat herds. The air is thick with heat as we reach the saddle at 3100 meters high and, backpacks aground, we veer out left, away from the trail, up to the crest where we’re met with a sweeping panorama. The Sagho range borders the horizon, almost parallel to it. In between, the dam of Ouarzazate and the palm grove of Skoura lay ensconced in a gauze of fine dust.
From here onwards, the the trail sweeps along the brook, water gurgling off boulders and tufts. Ahead, by the trail, mules and men sweat, furrowing the earth, beasts pulling, man hunched over the plough. A few minutes later, candidly, the men chortle around a mint tea while beasts respite. Even after all these years, it never fails to amaze me how swift, how naturally locals switch from grueling labor to bonhomie and banter. Back on the trail. One foot in front of the other. Peak after peak succeed on the horizon. The reverie is split by Brahim and his broken French: ‘Tu veux essayer… escalade’? And there we go, down the cliffs, the torrent blaring whitefoamed down below, wind gusts and dry mouth.
Trout fishing. In Morocco. Tagines by the stream. The waterfall.
As we stride along the furious torrent, we catch sight of nimble youngsters scooting away over the rocks, fishing for trout, their rods by their side, erect, like oversized spears. The watershed tapers, snakes its way upstream into 3000 feet gorges, caving in , ominous. Voice scraps and peals of laughter bounce off the rocks and float on the air – tagines smoke and simper by the river bed when we turn the next bend, village ladies cooking impromptu lunch for their band of friends.
Now a trickling is heard, distinct, a higher pitch than the torrent asunder. Abreast, a spring made its way, tongues of water slithering down the bluffs, splashing at our feet. The waterfall, when divined, lunges from its ledge above, calamitous, burgeoning – the trail stops here.
Picnic. Summersaults. Rock climbing, upwards.
Feet in the stream, we set up for a light lunch and coffee. I succeed at declining yet another mint tea as I know 5 more will follow before dusk. Boisterous youths skitter up and downstream, always shy to stare, at times sounding out the pool under the fall. No one is brave enough to bathe. The next few hours are spent trailing away by the water, ponds alluring us with their depth and promise of cool, as the summer sun pummels us on. In one of them, village children have scooped up a dam. They splash and they swim, some summersault from stone lintels. I’m tempted too, but swimwear is all the way at the bottom of my backpack and we still have a way to go today.
We leave the water course behind and grip the rocks, clambering up to the rim, from where the douar reveals itself in this late afternoon. I shall meet the stream again later that evening as I stand it it knee deep, palming water over my torso, resuming my only chance at a proper grooming before bedtime. We set up camp in a local abode, half stable/ half homestead, our room right atop the animals’ quarters. Houses around are either earthrammed or rockpiled. It’s almost dusk, yet there’s still plucking and seeding to be done, plots and beds straddling the streams, the commanding peaks a distant background now.
What is that rustles the poplars, their leaves scaling green and silver ? It muffles out the women chatting, wrapping up the day, a boy riding his mule, feigning to be mad at it. At a street corner, neighbours have huddled together to shuck chestnuts, their corks piling up nearby, as tea glasses orbit. I recall partaking tea with our host and Brahim, sprawling on blankets atop the house, taking in the day’s demise and all the peaks we hadn’t conquered.
Chicken Tagine. Rooster wake- up.
I’ve counted the animals. There are: 3 cows. 7 sheep. 2 goats. 3 fowls. 1 Rooster. They make an awful lot of noise. How’s one supposed to sleep ? The girls of the house giggle and sneak away at my sight, but a few are overcome by curiosity and linger about. After the frugality of mountain meals, a chicken tagine makes up for a choice dinner. Late in the night, the hosts chitchat and whisper. The animals have all gone quiet. Peace hovers over the house and the village. The room is simple – white plaster broken by a blue paint tape all across the 4 walls, with scant flourishing. On the floor, it’s a whole other story – rug upon carpet that most likely make up all the colors in the universe.
It takes minutes to lumber into sleep. Before dawn, I reach out for the blanket as the current runs cool through the open windows – I imagine I even smile in the bliss of rest. And then, the call. No, not the call to prayer. The rooster. Once. Ten times. 30 times. I count 46 before it takes a break. Around the house, no one is awake or at least they pretend not to be. Which is, well, scientifically impossible. But I won’t pretend. So, coffee seems to be the only consolation. As I sip mouthfuls, I gaze at the day light rising over the stable, where beasts are still soundless, the river and its gardens and the High Atlas towering above. What ?! It’s not for a good night’s sleep one hikes Morocco’s mountains for. Gulp.
A 2-3 day trek north of Skoura and around Mgoun peak can be included in our Feathers, Ivory and Gold / Land of the Setting Sun itineraries.
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