(MENAFN- Morocco World News) A Dying Colonialism which I read until the fading sunlight forced us inside the warmer walls of the refuge.
One of the rooms was heated to a glorious 20C by a wood fire the rest of the rooms left to similar conditions as the outside (without the wind) so we had dinner there. We were served a traditional Moroccan tagine with chicken by the refuge keepers an exceptional meal to recover our strength for the second leg. Also eating with us were four Brits who had been climbing during the last two days some local guides and two Canadians who had summited earlier that afternoon. To pass the time we read under LED lamps scattered about the room exchanged a few stories and even played chess on a makeshift board provided by our hosts. After a couple of hours I reluctantly retired to the bitter cold dorms upstairs much in need of sleep. I wore my pants socks shirt thin jacket and scarf to bed underneath two thick wool blankets. Jacob also packed on some layers with the addition of his hat for which I envied him. We were in for a cold night. On the plus side getting up early the next morning was no trouble at all. By 6:30 we were dressed and eating breakfast which consisted of breads jams and packet coffee. Since the sun was not yet up we had to wait until 7:30 before it was light enough to see the path. I wore two layers of pants and socks my boots the same long-sleeve tee and jacket I had slept in a wind-resistant outer shell scarf and gloves. Jacob dressed similarly and we rented some cramp-ons from our hosts for the snow and ice. Our bags emptied except for water snacks and our spikes we began the climb to the summit. The stark cold coupled with the complete silence made for an eerie and unearthly setting- it felt as though we had been dipped into another world. The crunch of our boots and deepening of our breaths became the only sound to break the morning silence. We had to stop often every twenty minutes or so for water and altitude adjustment. When climbing at greater heights it is always smart to periodically rest and take in air to avoid altitude sickness. The water in my bottle was starting to freeze so I moved it inside my bag hoping it would stay drinkable. About a third of the way up the mountain became mostly ice and snow and we paused to attach our cramp-ons. They dug well in to the slippery face keeping us balanced when recurring gusts of wind surely would have knocked us backwards potentially to our death. I cannot imagine having made that climb without them. It was here on the ice that the wind really picked up and the temperature dropped well below zero. The rising sun lay hidden behind the tall mountain peaks and my hands which to this point had remained reasonably warm started to freeze. I breathed warm air into my gloves to salvage the mobility of my fingers but the numbing cold always returned. Along the way I was surprised to find two climbers passing us on their descent. Had they ascended with headlamps earlier in the dark to see the sunrise? Had they camped at the summit overnight? I was impressed either way and nodded my head as they shuffled by. One of the two exchanged a quick glance with me his eyes acknowledging the hard task ahead and spurring me onwards. Once we completed the slippery slope we reached a ridgeline that would carry us to the top. The ice and snow lessened here and we were able to continue without spikes. A few hundred feet below the summit we found ourselves at a lesser peak touched by the sun. Upon reaching that small oasis of light we were instantly reprieved from the vicious cold. Even up here the mountain granted us some amnesty from her more hostile nature. We did not linger there long as the end was now in sight. Freezing drained of energy out of breath we trudged the remaining few hundred meters to the summit. At 4167 meters 13671 feet we stood atop North Africa. I sat down to recover and a small bird pecked at the ground next to my feet. Life manages to find a way in the most punishing of places. I smiled. Usually most writers will try to describe what they have seen in great detail but I find words to be a feeble substitute for the view I witnessed on the summit of Toubkal. There are no words I can write no pictures I can take no stories I can tell to replace the feeling of being utterly exhausted and looking out upon the earth with no obstacle to prevent my eyes from seeing as far as they wished. That feeling is much better left a reward to be earned than an object to be captured in words or pictures. But we live in the 21st century so I took pictures anyway. We remained at the summit until the desire to get warm exceeded our appreciation for the mountaintop view. The descent to the refuge was rough on the joints but certainly easier than the climb up. A group of Moroccans was resting less than one hundred feet up the icy slope as we passed them. They had no poles no cramp-ons little/no water few layers and were wearing Adidas running shoes. A guide in Imlil told us that every winter people like this group tried to climb Toubkal and sometimes never returned. Alive that is. I tried to warn them in Darija then in Fusha then in French and finally in English but they insisted on finishing their mission. I admired their foolish persistence and hoped their journey would end down in Imlil and not here on the slopes. After stopping at the refuge to collect the rest of our belongings we made the final push down to Imlil. The gradual descent was easy and enjoyable compared to the journey up and within three hours we were back in the main village. As we walked into the spot where we first disembarked the day before a grand taxi was preparing to depart for Marrakech. It had two empty spots just enough for Jacob and me and soon we were asleep in the back as the taxi twisted along the familiar road. I woke up occasionally from the driver's swerving looking back at the mountain we had conquered as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. It was bizarre to think that those snow-capped peaks were now trenched with our footprints. I was happy to be thousands of meters below warmed by the setting sun. That night we toasted our success on one of the many restaurant rooftops in Marrakech's old medina. We exchanged a few words and laughs over dinner but mostly we sat in the mutual silence of our weariness made more potent by the sedative effects of having eaten a large meal. I lasted only a few minutes once we returned to the Rainbow Marrakech hostel before falling into a deep well-earned sleep. I do not remember what I dreamt of but I was warm while I dreamt it. The morning was a pleasant mixture of good food good tea and good company from our hosts before we said farewell. We were able to find two seats next to each other this time round on the train back and the compartment was significantly less crowded. I always find myself more at peace when there are empty spaces nearby and so I was able to finish my book in a calm pensive and quiet manner. A woman who I found out from later discussion was a University student in Rabat saw the copy of A Dying Colonialism lying closed on the table. I watched her pick it up and skim through a few pages in interest and I gathered she spoke English well from her pleased expressions at its content. She asked for my opinions about the novel which I told her. I asked if she wanted the book to which she nodded and began reaching for her purse. I told her it was free after all I had finished it and taken from its pages what I could. In turn I felt compelled to share freely the knowledge within. I believe this is what its author too would have wanted. We arrived in Rabat at 16:00 on Sunday afternoon carrying our backpacks duffle bags and the shared gratitude to Toubkal for permitting our little adventure. Morocco World News. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published rewritten or redistributed without permission
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