Climbing in the High Atlas

My Winter Climb of Mount Toubkal

February 2024 – High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

Some trips start with a plan. This wasn’t one of them.

I was in Marrakech with a few unclaimed days, and that restless energy started building. I’d heard whispers about the Atlas Mountains, and after time in Fez, camping in the desert, and the chaos of Marrakech, the call of the serene and peaceful mountain ranges to the South and East.

The Road to Imlil: Six Hours and Three Taxis

The inside of a grand taxi, waiting for the bus to fill up before leaving.

To get to Toubkal, I had to get to Imlil—a small mountain village nestled in the High Atlas. The way to get there is by grand taxi. I love taking public transit in every country I visit. It is a chance to connect with locals and understand how people live in that society. Nothing encapsulates this more than sharing a space for hours and hours. If you’ve never had the pleasure of taking one of these green grand taxis, imagine a decades-old Mercedes bus with people crammed into seats, standing, sitting on the floor, or sitting on the roof.

We left Marrakech around noon, carving through winding mountain roads, climbing steadily into thinner, colder air. The landscape shifted as we climbed—dusty cityscape turned to jagged hills, olive groves, and eventually snow-capped peaks in the distance. Along the way, our driver honked at everything: goats, potholes, other taxis, kids selling peanuts. We stopped in villages for tea and oranges, no explanation given. Twice, we stopped seemingly randomly and I had to change taxis, first into another green grand taxi, then into a mini van with no seats, and finally back into the familiar green grand taxi. The Moroccan passangers showed the typical fabulous Moroccan hospitality in helping me navigate this labyrinth. Finally, after six hours, we arrived in Imlil nestled in the mountains.

Haggling and Renting it All

I try to travel as light as possible, it is kind of a game for me: how little can I survive on? It helps me be nimble and quick when I want to change plans. I knew I wanted to spend some time in the mountains, and that meant I needed some gear.

After dropping my backpack off at the guesthouse, I walked down into the village to learn more about the mountains in the range. I stopped at an outfitter to talk to some locals. This is where I first learned about Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa at 13,671 feet. I knew I had to climb it.

No crampons, no proper boots, no warm layers, no sleeping bag. Just jeans, blundstones, and a puffer jacket. So I did what any unprepared wanderer does—I walked into the nearest gear shop and started negotiating. Within an hour, I’d rented my life: boots, crampons, ice axe, thermal jacket, gloves, snow pants, pack, even a sleeping bag that smelled faintly of every person who’d used it before me.

I found a local guide who agreed to take me up the next day. We shook hands, and that was that. I was to meet him at 9am the next morning.

The Climb Begins

We started late, around 11am after some last minute shenanigans in aquiring gear and food. As we left Imlil, the heat of the day wore on me . The trail started winding through desert valley, following the gulley carved out by the mountain stream that begins with the glacial melt water. The view was absolutley beautiful, with the temperature cooling as we ascended higher in altitude. Along the path, there are little restaurants where you can stop and get a tagine and orange juice, which was much needed in the hot sun.

The climbing was not necessarily difficult, but the guide kept a very fast pace up the mountain. In the course of five hours, we accended six thousand feet of elevation, which put a strain on my legs and lungs. But overall, the trek was a pleasant and beautiful tour of the mountains. As we got higher in elevation, snow started lining the trail we were walking along, eventually getting deeper. It was shocking to see snow after being so hot in the desert just a few weeks earlier.

The Refuge: Bunk Bed Chaos at 12,000 Feet

Pack mule at the Refuge du Toubkal, 12,000 ft of elevation.

By late afternoon, we reached the refuge, which was a stone mountain hut buried in snow at 12,000 feet. Inside the refuge I was met with warmth and the smell of lentils. Boots lined the hallways, gear was hung from every hook, and climbers were drinking tea and talking in hushed tones.

After talking to some other climbers, I headed off to be early. My sleeping arrangement was a single, 20-foot-long matress on a wooden platform bunk bed that 15 Moroccan men were already occupying. I found a spot in the center of the mass of men and unrolled the sleeping back I was given. It is an interesting experience to be both the big and little spoon between two strangers. The night was miserable.

The air inside the bunk room was thick and damp from human breath. It was way too warm, sweat covered every inch of my body b. No one slept well. Every time someone shifted, coughed, or got up to pee, the whole bunk creaked like a sinking ship.

By 4 a.m. I was already half-dressed and more than ready to get out of there.

Lost on the Slopes

My ice ax at a rest point on one of the lesser ridges.

Outside, it was pitch black. We strapped on our crampons, grabbed our ice axes, and started moving uphill under a sky littered with stars.

At the last minute, I was joined by two girls from England, who would come up with my guide and I. They had never used crampons before and never trekked up a mountain. I was a little nervous about them joining my guide and I.

Thirty minutes in to the more technical trekking above the mountain refuge, the two girls I was with started struggling. I was trying to encourge them, but they kept tripping over their crampons and were becoming exhausted. Our guide turned to me, and muttered “Yallah”, which means “go ahead”—and motioned for me to keep climbing. So I passed the girls and continued up the mountain.

Within ten minutes, I was completely alone. The trail vanished into the snow, and my headlamp started running out of battery. Soon, I was just moving upward by the light of the moon. Every slope looked the same white, steep, endless. I was completely lost on the side of the mountain. I wandered like that for two hours, halfway convinced I was going to walk right off the mountain, I only knew I had to go up.

The Sugar Cube Summit Crew

Just as panic started creeping in, I spotted the soft glow of headlamps up ahead. Salvation. I scrambled up to meet them, two German girls and their guide. I slipped into their group like a stray dog and kept climbing, grateful to have people around again.

We climbed in near silence, heads down, feet crunching in rhythm. Just before the summit, one of the German girls collapsed due altitude sickness. Her eyes were glassy, and she looked like she might not make it the last 200 feet.

Then I remembered: the sugar cubes.

The night before in Imlil, I’d had mint tea at a little café and pocketed a dozen sugar cubes in case I needed some energy on the mountain. I handed one to her. She popped it in her mouth, and within a couple minutes, she started coming back to life.

We reached the summit just as the sun broke over the peaks. The sky turned orange, the snow lit up like fire,and the sun peeked over the mountains as far as we could see. We stood there quietly, watching the day begin from the top of North Africa.

The Long Way Down

The descent was long, demanding, and undeniably beautiful. Over the course of a single day, we dropped more than 7,000 feet. My knees ached with each step, my boots were soaked through, and the thin mountain air left my head heavy and unfocused.

By the time I arrived back in Imlil, the sun was low on the horizon. I returned my rented gear, grateful for the role it had played, and changed into dry clothes. Then I walked to a small café I’d visited two days earlier, the same place where I’d quietly pocketed a few sugar cubes that ended up being far more useful than I could have imagined.

As I sipped a glass of mint tea and watched the last light fall behind the peaks, I sat in silence, physically spent, mentally clear, and deeply content. Climbing Toubkal in winter was never about checking a box. It was about stepping into something unknown, pushing through discomfort, and finding brief but profound moments of connection, with others, with the landscape, and ultimately, with myself.