Jebel Bou Naceur 3340m, P1642m, Mid Atlas, Morocco - photo 'Chafikazul'

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David Jamieson returns to hospitable Morocco for its lesser-known Ultras

Deana and I were last in Morocco almost twenty years ago. It was a great opportunity to introduce our two young boys to Muslim culture, experience the sandy charms of the Sahara Desert and, at the same time, get some serious bagging done … summiting Mount Toubkal (4167m, P3755m) at a young age - seemingly setting them both up for a future life amongst the mountains. With my hoped-for trip to the Kilda stacs (Scotland) deferred for yet another year, it was time for a rapidly reorganised return. This time to try out a few Ultras beyond the well-beaten Toubkal track.

Once back amongst the madness of Marrakech, I could see that some things had changed dramatically, others not at all. There were now many more motorbikes than donkeys cruising the maze-like medieval streets, mobile phones were ubiquitous amongst young and old alike, and the famous souk was a much lighter and airier affair than the dark and delightfully dingy one I remember getting lost in years ago. Yet, haggling for touristic keepsakes and feasting on tasty tagines has remained ever-present … as has the tannoyed calls to prayer interrupting those somnolent near-dawn dreams. However, our shortish holiday window drew us quickly back to the temptingly nearby Atlas peaks, seen from every riad terrace and rooftop restaurant. I had already hired the help of Mohammed to guide us up Jebel Igdet (3619m, P1613m), which was to prove a decision well worth the investment.

With Said our driver and his assistant, we travelled southwards over ever narrowing roads until reaching the steep sided Ouirgane Valley. To my shame, I had blithely forgotten about the massive earthquake that hit this region only fourteen months before, killing almost three thousand people and seriously injuring over five thousand more. The road we had once cruised along in more carefree times was now strewn with fallen rocks and domestic debris, whilst the many ancient Berber villages that once proudly dotted the hillsides on either side were reduced to rubble, their inhabitants forced into tents and portacabins erected shanty-like for mile upon depressing mile. We stopped for lunch with Mohammed’s brother, sharing Berber hospitality at its best in the remains of his house. It was both sad and uplifting at the same time … his and his wife’s indomitable spirit admirably rising above the additional life challenges that unforgiving natural forces have now wrought upon them … ‘Mashallah’ indeed. Once back on the road we headed for the vertiginous mountain village of Arg.  It was a slow, steady crawl between rockfall and ravine, where yet more food, mint tea and huge smiles awaited our arrival.

An early start the next day was delayed by a forecast of lessening winds and increasing sunshine … which turned out to be highly inaccurate. From Arg we followed a mule path above impossibly steep terraces growing radishes, apples and walnuts … a Moroccan Waldorf salad? Then we followed goat trails up muddy scree and onto a snowy summit ridge. It was misty and windy, but with the promise of sunshine and relative calm, we decided to continue … big mistake! As we gained altitude, the wind speed actually accelerated and the cloud thickened. Even though sandblasted by snow and Saharan dust, we eventually made it to the top, too snow-blown to even take a triumphal photograph.

Getting back down was even more challenging. Due to whiteout conditions and the fact that our ascent footprints were already re-covered with snow, we could not readily determine the descent ridge, and so hung around waiting for occasional windows of visibility. Finally, increasingly cold, wet and hungry, we saw Arg way-way below to the northeast. We set out into the headwind and a long, slow, faltering trudge through the deepening snow brought us back to its safety.

After recuperation back in Marrakech, we headed out to our second summit, Irhil M’goun (4071m, P1904m) with guide Abdou. It was an eight-hour Wacky Races taxi ride over the infamously zig-zaggy Tizi-n-Tichka pass to the film studio city of Ouarzazate. We then drove through the near-desert conditions of the Dades Valley.  Eventually we reached the rain and mudslides near our destination - the high mountain village of Ameskar. Because of the unseasonably wet weather, we stayed the night at a local gite d’etape rather than camping out.

After an early breakfast of tea, boiled eggs and dates with our Berber hosts, we donned crampons and head-torches and set out to cover M’goun’s final 1300 metres. As we steadily climbed, Al-Qaum, the bejewelled Berber goddess of the night, graciously gave up her moon and stars to Shamsum’s mighty sun, which began to shine on Islamist and infidel alike. Our spikes bit hard into the crusted snow, like an alligator devouring a hapless antelope. 

Within a mere three hours we were on the perfectly ridged summit, with M’goun living up to its name … ‘place of the high winds’ … as we surveyed the waking peaks and valleys all around us.

Like us, this was muleteer Jamel’s first ascent. Equipped with nothing more than a traditional black djellaba (a full length hooded woollen coat), headscarf and knockoff Nike trainers, he never drank a drop of water throughout and crossed thickening snow like it was Saharan sand. I renamed him the ‘Black Camel’, later discovering that 'Jamal' is actually the Arabic word for ‘camel’. To be fair, he never once spat at us or farted excessively! Once back at the bivouac, we enjoyed our well-earned second breakfast, repacked the ever-patient mules and headed down on softening snow and exposed scree to the comforts of an idyllic auberge below.

Next day we took the train from Marrakesh to Fez, perhaps the most wonderfully authentic medieval city we have ever visited, and apparently the largest pedestrianised urban area in the world. After enjoying a day getting lost amongst its myriad narrow alleyways, covered food stalls and lively souks, we met up with guide Soufiane, hired a car, and drove south-east to the town of Ouled El Haj, stopping enroute at the mountain villages of Skoura and Imouzze-des-Marmoucha to say ‘hello’ to some of his pals and sample deliciously slow-cooked tagine, strong coffee and mint tea. Our objective this time was Jebel Bou Naceur (3340m, P1642m), which is the highest mountain in the Mid-Atlas range. I warmed up for the task ahead with a couple of games of pétanque and mint tea with a rather friendly bunch of old-timers at the Ouled El Haj pétanque club. Inevitably, the novice Englishman led his side to a 2-0 defeat.

The weather forecast again suggested an early start would be beneficial, so we set off after a pre-dawn hotel breakfast of eggs and fresh orange juice to a trailhead along Plateau Atchana, a few miles west of the dusty village of Tirnest. It took a while to find, and a 4x4 would have been handy, given the trail damage caused by recent rainfall. But find it we did, parking the car near a small reservoir that looked deceptively like a swimming pool. We commenced the hike at 8:30am. There was no discernible path for the 1200 metres or so climb out of a beautifully striated rocky bowl to the saddle of Tizi-noujroun, but Soufiane walked quickly and confidently through the loose rock and ever-thinning vegetation, photographing and filming our catch-up efforts throughout. As we steadily climbed, we moved from shadow to sunshine, avoiding the occasional patches of snow. Within three hours we were on the barren domed summit or, to be more precise, the two possible summits - the northern one has a cairn marker and is the mapped summit, the southern one having no obvious marker, but being the favoured summit of Peakbagger adherents. We considered it the latter most likely to be the high point.

As this was the fastest ascent that Soufiane had ever made, we decided to return by a different, more entertaining, route. Moving southwards over a couple of minor tops and down a rocky ridge until directly above our parked car in the valley below, we ended the day’s exertions with a 600-metre scree run that got us down to it rather rapidly. This gave us ample time to relax with tea, dates and tinned tuna. We drove back to Fez via the desert route, a surreal environment of darkening skies, huge empty space and the occasional stray dog or hopeful hitcher looking for a lift. Sustained by strong coffee, msemen (egg pancakes) and a cheeky gitanne in Boulemane, I managed to keep Soufiane awake over the four hours by shuffling between Berber ballads and British 80s floor-fillers on the car stereo. We eventually arrived safely to a hot shower and warm bed in our super-cool city riad. We were asleep in seconds.

The mountains of Morocco are as spectacular as ever they were, but are now far more accessible to both the committed and occasional bagger alike. Cheap flights, helpful guides and readily available accommodation make them the ideal British winter escape - if you fancy getting a tourist-free taste of North Africa’s vastly varied landscapes, cuisines and cultures. Combined with a few days in the gloriously antiquated Marrakech and Fez, they also make a fabulous holiday destination for all.