Walking in the High Atlas by John Warburton-Lee

The early morning sun picked out the ragged line of the High Atlas Mountains in the distance. Thirty miles away, the lofty peaks appeared sugar coated under their mantle of winter snow. The High Atlas present a formidable barrier between the dusty plains of northern Morocco and the endless void of the Sahara to the south. This vast mountainous region is crossed by just two roads which wind their way up to high, windblown passes. Elsewhere, access is limited to rough dirt tracks and mule trails. The Berbers who inhabit the isolated valleys, the so called Lords of the Atlas, continue their pastoral existence largely unaffected by outside influences, only emerging from their mountain villages and kasbahs to take their produce to market. It is as unspoilt and enchanting area as you could find anywhere, full of magic and mystery, rich scenically and full of hidden secrets to tempt the inquisitive traveller.

We had flown to Casablanca and then taken a night train to Marrakech. The old train, rattling through the Moroccan night, would have made the perfect setting for the opening scene of a 1960s black and white thriller. I half expected to see Alec Guinness or Omar Sharif furtively enter our train compartment as the opening credits rolled. Although only separated from Europe by a slender channel of water just eight miles wide, Morocco is as culturally far removed as the most distant points of the African continent. The shock of sudden immersion into the exotic world of Muslim North Africa is heightened by the speed and ease with which you are spirited from cosmopolitan Europe to the alluring blend of Africa and the Orient that sits on Europe’s southern doorstep, without even a long-haul flight to prepare you for the contrast.

We had arrived in Marrakech in the cold of pre-dawn. The streets were deserted, save for a road sweeper huddled deep into his woollen djellaba, the traditional floor length robe with characteristic pointed hood, worn by the Berbers. We had found a bus to carry us on to the High Atlas. An hour and a half later we alighted at the mountain village of Asni. The town was coming to life, and we were besieged by vendors offering to sell us oranges, salted almonds, tooled leather bags and ornate, curved swords. Forcing my way through the throng, I managed to engage a truck driver to carry us the last seventeen kilometres along a dirt track to the road-head at Imlil.

As the truck splashed its way on into the mountains, through ice encrusted puddles, I was able to take in my surroundings. Sheer hillsides clambered up to imposing summits and jagged ridge-lines. The valley floor alternated between orchards of apple, almond and cherry trees, and stony fields enclosed by low dry-stone walls. In spring it would be a riot of blossom, but now, still in the grip of winter, the trees were dormant and leafless.

Imlil is a loose collection of small mud-built houses and stores, the latter offering only the barest essentials, set around meandering dusty alleys through which bare-footed children, donkeys and a variety of poultry roam at will. The village is the gateway to the central High Atlas, and in particular the Tizane Valley, at whose head sits the commanding figure of Jebel Toubkal, at 4,167 metres (13,670 feet), the highest mountain in North Africa.

Shouldering our packs, we followed a broad path which climbed steeply out of the village through sparse woods of juniper, thuya and cedar. The stones of the path had been polished by the passage of feet over hundreds, if not thousands, of years. As the hubbub of the village receded behind us, we emerged from the woods to find ourselves in the welcoming peace of a wide, flat bottomed valley. In the terraced fields, young boys tended flocks of goats and mountain sheep whilst women tilled the stony ground by hand. We passed men riding donkeys on their way to market, and girls as young as five or six bearing loads of sticks that were strapped to their heads with bright scarves. Huge brown eyes fringed by dark lashes beamed at us shyly from red-cheeked, wind-burnt faces and little hands were held out hopefully with a request for a "bon bon".

Every couple of kilometres we passed hill villages, closely packed mazes of flat-roofed mud buildings clinging like beehives to the steep valley walls. A dusting of snow lay on the upper slopes. Affected by the unhurried mood of the valley, we stopped beside a clear stream to camp. As the sun slid beneath the valley wall the temperature plummeted sending us diving into our duvet jackets. Our camping stoves were soon purring away producing warming drinks and food. Night closed in with an almost tangible intensity. We lay in our down sleeping bags watching constellations of bright silver stars creep across a sky of velvet blackness.

Next morning we continued up the valley. After a couple of hours we came to Seti Chamharouch. Around a dozen small stone buildings were scattered amongst a boulder-strewn bowl. A tiny mosque had been carved out of the largest of the boulders. We paused to let some Berber muleteers pass us, their donkeys’ panniers loaded with the skis and packs of another climbing party. The path now climbed stiffly, switching back and forth on the steeper sections, otherwise crossing the face of the right hand valley wall. We reached the snow-line and took out ice-axes to steady us on the more treacherous sections of the trail. Nearing dark, we reached the Neltner Hut, a traditional mountain refuge with stone flagged floors, wooden benches and tables lit by hurricane lamps and upstairs lines of mattresses laid out on two long wooden pallets.

For the next few days we based ourselves at the hut as we made forays up the valley, wading through deep fresh snow to explore some of the cols, ridges and side valleys. The recent fall of snow, laid in a thick carpet, deadened any sound, adding to the tranquillity and pristine feel of the mountains. At night we returned ruddy faced and tired, but elated by vigorous exercise in such inspiring surroundings.

On the day of our ascent of Jebel Toubkal we rose early, breakfasted, filled our flasks and set off up the steep scree slopes behind the hut. The air sparkled with crystals of ice and our breath hung in clouds as we climbed steadily upwards. An hour and a half of concerted effort brought us to the lip of a col which led onto a long ridge-line rising towards the summit. Fortunately, the loose scree and shale was bound tight by snow and ice which made the relentless ascent slightly less laborious. A large patch of sheet ice caused us to stop and put on crampons. The pitch of the slope was intimidating and below there was no safe run out if we slipped. After another couple of hours, we made our way gradually along a knife-edge ridge, careful to stay off the cornice which hung over a spectacular 1,000 metre drop to our right. Finally we reached a spur which took us over a couple of last icy patches to the metal pyramid that marked the highest point in North Africa.

As the others scrambled around taking the ritual summit photographs, I sat looking over the High Atlas range and southwards through the haze out over the Sahara. It was a strange feeling to be sitting in the snow, huddled into my down jacket, yet gazing at one of the hottest wastes on earth.

There is no need to scale the high summits to experience the allure of the High Atlas. For a few dirhams you can hire a donkey and muleteer to carry your gear and guide you along remote trails, over low passes linking hidden valleys. Although shy, the people are friendly and hospitable. If you take the time to win their confidence, the secrets of the Atlas will be unveiled over cups of mint tea or perhaps a plateful of tagine, a stew of vegetables, mutton and herbs cooked in conical earthenware pots on charcoal braziers. You can normally find a room amongst the labyrinth of ramshackle buildings in the villages, where you fall asleep to the sound of livestock housed below, or retreat to the peace of a quiet hillside and a night under the stars.

If there is one thing to take away, it is a box carved from the indigenous thuya wood. Locked within the aromatic wood is the spirit of the High Atlas: close your eyes when you lift the lid and you will be assailed by the memories of the sights, sounds and smells of a land few people have been fortunate enough to explore.