Toubkal (part 3)

At five in the morning my watch let out its annoying beeping medley to tell me it was time to wake up. Through half consciousness I had heard my roommate leave a half hour earlier. I let my alarm finish its routine and had my usual morning battle between mind and body to make the first move towards getting up. It was still dark outside but looking out the window I just barely tell that somewhere lower down in the valley the rising sun's soft morning glow was making its way past the horizon. The electricity being shut off for the night I found my headlamp and grabbed my plastic Marjane bag of food for breakfast. This morning's breakfast was especially good because this was the morning where would transform my boring bottle of Ain Soltane bottled water into a liter of orange Tang. I personally don't think water is boring, I love water, and I the fact I have to spend money to drink it here. At about a dollar per liter and a half, it adds up over six weeks. Anyway, the combination of orange flavoring, sugar, and vitamin c was enough to wake me up and complement my peanut butter and wheel of bread in none other than traditional American fashion. Finishing my breakfast I gathered my things and prepared myself for a full day of hiking. Walking outside, the weather was cool and I was cold for the first time since arriving in Morocco. The crisp, mountain wind was a nice change from the still heat of Fes. Looking down into the valley, the mountains in the distance crept out of the blue fog the early morning light. It was still somewhat dark out and there weren't many climbers going up the mountain yet. So I decided to sit on a stone wall outside the refuge watching the valley slowly fill with light like water overflows into a basin. By six groups of hikers were forming and the light was now suitable for beginning the roughly 3,000 ft. ascent to the peak. Swinging my legs back over the edge of the wall, I started my climb upwards towards Jebel Toubkal.
The trail was rocky and at this point there was very little if any vegetation on the mountain at all. After about a half hour on the trail I met a couple of men from the U.K. who were making the climb. Phil was an accountant from England who was currently working and living in Dublin. He wore wire rimmed glasses and a very British looking fisherman's sort of hat on his balding head. John was an Irishman who was from Dublin as well, and was about ten years Phil's junior. Phil had done some mountain walking before in Ireland he said, but this was John's first time to tackle any kind of trekking. They were a friendly pair and after chatting a bit I decided to take it easy and join them on the ascent since I hadn't had much good English conversation the past couple days. Looking back behind me all I could now see was a wall of orange where the sun blasted the rock wall rising behind is on the opposite side of the valley. From the refuge the trail to the top of the mountain twisted around the side of the massif and up a series of a couple valleys. From the bottom of the trail up you can't actually see the peak, but once you reach the final upper basin of the mountain it comes into view. About an hour or so left till the top we were in a giant rock bowl. On all sides we were surrounded by rock faces with the winding road to the peak to our front. Moving further up we crested the top of the ridge that would lead us the approximately twenty minute spurt to the top. Peering over the edge lent to a dramatic view of a steep and jagged mountain face. The opposite side was fierce looking and would be impossible to climb up. Close to our goal, we stowed our cameras and encouraged by our proximity to the top, began the home stretch to the peak. Coming up on the highest point of the mountain, a metal pyramid and resting climbers were silhouetted against the now high morning sun. The view was absolutely spectacular and reminded me of how once you get a taste of these sights, you're hooked. I think the sense of accomplishment and vantage point miles into the sky that few people see in person are what fuel my love of exploring high mountain terrain. The surrounding mountains were bathed in a bright, glorious light that created a white mist in the air below, softening their imposing features. This is what made the hours of traveling worth it. We spent about an hour eating lunch and taking in the views. Then, as always, comes the time to head back down the mountain you worked so hard to conquer. Going down was a little more difficult for me. For the most part it was faster and less work. But my shoes were old, running shoes made for medium to long distance running. The bottom of the soles were slick and possessed little traction at all. It made a few sections of the trail a bit difficult and made me a slight bit nervous, but I made it back down to the refuge all in once piece around noon. Now it was time for a nap inside on the refuge couches before my walk back to Imlil.
Around three I woke up, encouraged by the knowledge that going downhill to Imlil would only take me a little more than half the time to go up the trail. I set out at three in the afternoon so that I could miss most of the mid-day heat and make it to town at a decent time. About halfway between Imlil and the Toubkal refuge is a small settlement of a few houses and shops kept by a handful of Berber families. Passing through a couple of kids I had seen the day before said hello and asked if I remembered them. I said yes, and asked them how they were. They would great me in English and then ask me, "are you happy." I don't know if this was a bad translation of asking how someone was doing, but it was something I had never encountered before. There was something about the way it was said, coming from the mouth of a twelve year-old boy, that made my mind stop and think about the question for a second before replying "yes". The question opened up a weird moment where my mind went past the usual greeting trivialities and I could honestly tell the kid that I was sincerely happy, whether he realized it or not. I said goodbye after convincing them I didn't need anything from their shop and continued once more downwards into the bottom of the Imlil valley. One thing that amazed as I hiked down out of the highlands was the ease with which the Berber people skipped down the trails. On one occasion I was passed by an old man wearing sandals, a djelleba, and a backpack. It was actually quite humorous, but I realized that this man had decades of experience and was practically a human mountain goat. As I left the mountain trail that spit me out into the flatter roads of the valley I had a brief encounter with a couple Moroccan men walking towards town. One had on an R.Kelly shirt, which made me laugh because I am sure he had no idea who the American hip-hop artist was, but wore it with pride. As they passed they offered me a small fruit and even washed the outside off with some of their bottled water. I said thank you and took a bite of the red and yellow fruit that I had never before seen. It wasn't particularly good. I couldn't put my finger on what it resembled because, to be honest, it didn't taste like much at all. The closest description I could come up with was a cross between an apple, plum, and a bitter peach. Gives you a great idea I know. Another half hour found me walking into the edge of the village past a small shop I had passed just the day before. The shop keeper, a boy about eighteen, recognized me from our conversation yesterday and insisted I sit down and share a cup of tea. Tired from a long day of trekking I gratefully obliged and talked about the mountain and I asked if they knew any good, cheap hotels. I took me a minute to explain that just because I was a westerner didn't mean I had lots of money and needed a nice hotel. After my pushing, they helped me out and suggested a place down the road. I said my goodbyes and thanked them for the tea and their help as I walked down the road to my lodging for the night.

~Andrew