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From Abroad

Before I left for Jebel Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa, I wrote down some Arabic and French phrases that I thought may be useful. Sentences like ?do you have a mule that we can borrow?, ?how far is it to the summit of Toubkal?, and ‘I am not a mountain goat; you are a mountain goat!’ were indispensable for the journey. However, in pronunciation, the sentences came out quite strange. Nevertheless, it didn?t hurt since pretty much everyone in the High Atlas mountain range speaks Berber.

After waiting in Fez for the 1:45 AM train to Marrakech, we finally boarded and luckily were able to sleep for a few hours in a train car. We were woken five or six times by the train staff, who checked for tickets and warned us to watch our luggage as there had evidently been a few robberies lately. During the night, Fencer was mysteriously replaced with a random person who supposedly tickled Olbera?s feet throughout our ride. When we arrived in Marrakech, we split up with our train group to leave Ibran, Olbera, and myself to conquer Toubkal.

Negotiating is integral to any commercial activity in Morocco, thus finding a good price on a cab ride to the mountain village town of Imlil took place in Marrakech for 15 minutes or so. When people approach the cab administrator, he (I have never had a female cab driver or administrator) takes a cut of the price and then gives the rest to the driver. This time, however, there was a bit of animosity between the administrator and the driver. The driver threw 200 DHs back into the admin?s face, apparently displeased with his cut of the deal. Yet eventually, we were off, driving through the narrow, winding roads that traversed the High Atlas range to reach our final destination. I?d say that for the whole of the Jebel Toubkal excursion, the drive was the most dangerous part. Given the narrowness of the roads, when Land Cruisers and grand taxis would drive in the other direction, both vehicles would have to swerve to narrowly miss one another. I supposed it primed our adrenal glands for the rest of the trip.

We could see Toubkal far out in the distance and we knew that it would be a daunting challenge. Its horizon line rose well above that of Imlil and we started to understand the magnitude of the mountain. Throughout the village, young kids were riding horses and carrying goods around the town. It seemed as if the whole culture in Imlil centered around Jebel Toubkal. Almost everyone wore some sort of fleece jacket or ski pants. The temperature was drastically different than that of Marrakech and we threw on some jackets before walking up the streets to search for some information.

Our boots and water bottles were attached to carabineers and were swinging from our overfilled backpacks, marking us as climbers. A few people marketed their services towards us, some claiming that they would make us tajines at the top of the mountain and others claiming they could stay in elevation for weeks. Personally, I was in the market for a piggy back ride to Toubkal.

After receiving information on the slope and distance to the summit, we decided to hire a mule to carry our goods to the mountain refuge where we had planned on spending the night. Once again, negotiations ensued and we eventually settled on a guide, mule, and night in the refuge. The negotiator?s son would be our guide for the weekend. The older man said we would make it to the top, enshah allah! (God willing)

The Ascent

Our climb started at the base of Imlil, followed by a mule burdened with our water, clothes, and hiking gear. The guide, Haram, walked with us and talked about his life as a mountain guide. We stopped by his family?s home, where he picked up some food for the mule and some mountain gear for himself. His younger siblings were playing out in front, watched over by the oldest girl, who at the age of nine had a countenance of an elderly mother.

Initially, the watershed led the way to the mountain but we then ascended higher into the hills. For the approach to Toubkal, we passed through another village named Armen, which had a towering minaret that blended in with the scenery. The hike to the refuge was fairly easy, though the 9 km and significant elevation gain proved to be quite tiring. We were likewise chased by some storm clouds that brought a light rain and colder temperatures, which made our guide and the mule move much faster. Rapidly ascending, we finally took a break and were able to appreciate our surroundings. Neither pictures nor words can describe the magnitude of the mountains. Lambs cried and flocked towards us to steal some food. Our guide threw a banana peel at one of their heads and they jumped over one another to inhale it. Somehow, I have spent a great amount of time with the mountain goats of Morocco.

The mule carrying our goods would, at times, bolt forward in hopes of reaching the refuge before us. Our guide would yell ?shhhh? and the mule would come to an instant stop. This differs from the cat call, ?pss pss,? that is often heard in the cities. I suppose that if you wanted to say, ?hey girl, stop,? one must say ?pss pss, shhhh!?

The refuge sat at 3200 m (10,500 ft) and we could feel the elevation change. Our hearts were beating much faster and we received a bit of an elevation high. Upon entering the refuge, we were greeted by a young cook who asked us if we wanted harira soup and pasta for dinner. While we brought along some Clif Bars and smashed brick bread, a hot meal sounded terrific. The quality of the establishment was surprising, especially given the treacherous path that led to the refuge. All the materials, beds, food, and water had to be carried over many kilometers by mules and guides. It was difficult to imagine a solid desk being shipped by a mule.

A system of bunk beds was built on the second floor, with everyone essentially lying on the same level bed. We threw our gear down and went downstairs to get a cup of tea and chat with the fellow mountaineers. Almost everyone was from Europe, with many folks from Spain, Germany, England, Scotland, and beaucoup de France. The porters at the refuge cooked up some harira soup, which tasted like hot water and tomato paste. Of course, given the British presence, much sarcasm and jokes were exchanged over the botched soup and it was a terrific time. The pasta really was nothing but hot noodles, but it hit the spot. The three of us from the States were the youngest in the room. The others were all middle-aged folks on ?holiday? for a week or two. Many flew into Marrakech for the week for a bit of adventure and get away. They were pleased to hear that we were in Morocco for more than four months and that we have been able to explore much of the country. After talking for some time, we ran into Gavin from Ireland. Years out of school, he had been traveling for eleven months prior to his return to work. In Dublin, he works as a chef for a period of time, stowing away some money and then traveling for months. He decided that he would follow us up the mountain the next day and I offered up our mule to assist in carrying his goods for the trek back to Imlil after our summit bid. That poor creature.

Being at the refuge was a pleasurable experience. Many sat around the fire, reading and chatting. I had run into a German trekker earlier and gave him an ACE bandage for his sprained ankle. He spoke with us for a bit and then the four of us?Gavin, Olbera, Ibran, and myself, browsed through the log book to check for people from our countries. There was only one from the United States, a Pittsburgher, who visited months earlier.

The next morning, we woke at 4:30 AM to prepare for the hike. I stepped outside to check the temperature and realized how much colder it had become through the night. A light snow fell onto the refuge and I became incredibly excited to head out into what appeared to be winter. I wore a down jacket, toboggan, and backpacking pants with long underwear. My headlamp provided the only source of light for our group of climbers and we needed it for about an hour, right until enough light came through to illuminate the snow that lay on the ground.

Around 6 AM, we were finally able to catch a glimpse of the surrounding mountains. The snow increased in depth the further we climbed, and at this point we were about ankle deep. The pitch became much steeper and my heart was racing due to the elevation. I probably should have run around campus more the week before to condition for the climb as I felt it in my chest the entire ascent. With every step, I would slide down the mountain a little, making the climb more difficult as we rose in elevation. Crampons?metal spikes that attach to boots?were most certainly needed on the snow, but we had to deal with what we had. Ibran wore tennis shoes, which made for an interesting climb. I had some sort of trail runners and Olbera was the only one of us with actual boots. Our guide would sometimes help us up the mountain, giving us a hand on the more slippery and treacherous parts. However, this didn?t keep me from sliding feet at a time and having to self-arrest.

A level part of the mountain greeted us before we began the most intense part of the climb. The view from this flat was incredible, especially since the snow started to dissipate. However, as we began the final ascent, a wall of gray approached us from behind. Quite ominous in its appearance, it proved to be a challenge. The ice and snow sandblasted our backs and the gusts reached unbelievable speeds. We could no longer see anything around us and the snow began to accumulate. The temperature at 13k made for some numb fingers. My heart was pounding due to the elevation and my lack of conditioning. The last 600 feet of elevation gain were incredibly difficult for me, especially as the snow became knee deep and each step took much effort. The slope to the left would allow for someone to roll for a thousand feet so I was also overly cautious to be deliberate in movement. Finally, I spotted the triangle that marks the fairly level 13,676 foot summit of Jebel Toubkal. Haram, Ibran, and Olbera had gone ahead a bit as I dropped off to take a picture of the first footprints in the snow. Behind us, the headlamps of the teams of British, Germans, Spanish, and French climbers bobbed up and down as they waded through the deeper snows. Upon reaching the summit, I took out my cell phone to try to get reception to tell Brittany that we had made it to the top, but to no avail. Thus, we took a few pictures, ate one date, and waited for Gavin to arrive and enjoy his celebratory smoke. At that point, the sun barely peaked and the clouds and snow let up for a few minutes, giving a short window of time to snap one or two pictures. The wind then slammed into us and pretty much told us to get the hell off the summit. We followed its instruction as the snow began to fly once again.

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The Descent

Passing all the different groups of climbers, we realized that due to everyone?s stomping of the snow, the slope had become quite icy and grew even more so as the day wore on. We gave advice to the groups coming up the mountain and talked about how much more of a challenge the mountain had been due to the steep slopes and heavy snows. Our guide was even surprised at the amount of snow that had fallen, which he said was atypical for the time of the year. I enjoyed the aberration, however, as it made it much more fun on the way down! Since ice and snow covered the slope, all we had to do was slide down the mountain. We pushed feet of snow underneath us, sort of skiing down the mountain in our shoes. I found out that I am not a mountain goat. Our guides, however, definitely were, as they literally jumped off the mountain. I have never seen anyone fly down a slope so fast; they might as well have been on skis. We fell innumerable times, but the soft snow acted as a cushion. The depth of the valley seemed to grow the further we descended. I thought that the refuge would be in sight, but the sheer size of the mountains and the valley made for a three hour slide to the refuge. More snow fell at the halfway point, but the temperature warmed greatly. Feeling came back to our fingers and we were able to make a few snowballs. Even our guide took part in the fun, pounding Gavin in the back of the neck. With all of this maneuvering about the mountain, I thought that it would be a good time to snap a picture. However, my camera was no longer in my jacket. I started to hike back up the mountain and luckily one of the guides had retrieved it from where I had fallen earlier.

Of course, with such snowy slopes and the ability to jump to quickly descend, we reached the refuge in plenty of time. After starting at 4:45 AM, we arrived at the refuge in time for some mint tea at 11 AM. One of the British was explaining to our guide the intricacies of English humor. I think it was lost on him, however, as he kept a pretty straight face as the rest of us laughed. While many climbers joined us for tea after grabbing the summit, others packed up to head back to Imlil. I looked a bit like a clown with a red fleece and backpacking zip-offs overtop of long polypropylene.

Hitting the road back to Imlil, it began to lightly rain. It hailed throughout the hike back to the village, bouncing off our heads as we traversed the rocky slopes and chased after the mule. As we meandered through the valley, the larger snow-capped peaks became obscured and we were not to see them until we arrived back in Imlil. When we would stop, a few British would pass and make a British-esque comment. When they would stop, we would pass and do the same. After hiking the equivalent of a marathon, plus thousands of feet in verticality, we were relieved to be back in Imlil. After a lengthy negotiation over an added ?fee? for staying in the refuge, we grabbed a cab back to Marrakech to begin yet another adventure.

More to Come!