Walking the Long Way to Toubkal

A slow journey to Mount Toubkal

Marrakesh: Before the Walking Begins

I arrived in Marrakesh and met the rest of the hiking party there. The city felt like a beginning, loud, generous, and full of movement. We spent the afternoon wandering through the medina, breathing in the scent of spices piled high on market stalls and admiring the artisan goods displayed with such care and patience. It was a gentle easing in, a way of shedding whatever we had carried with us into the city.

That evening, we sat down together for dinner and shared some of the most delicious tagines I can remember. It was the kind of meal that slows conversation and draws people together. Already, a sense of group was forming, not through effort yet, but through anticipation.

dishes in a market stall in the Medina marrakesh

Oukaïmeden: Where the Road Ends

The following day, we drove up towards Oukaïmeden. As the road climbed, the air changed almost without warning, thinner, cooler, sharper somehow, as if the High Atlas were quietly asking us to pay attention. Oukaïmeden is often described as a ski station, but that is not how I remember it. For me, it was where the road ended and the walking began, a wide, open plateau where the road ends and walking begins, where modern life loosens its grip and the mountains take over.

Here we met the team who would accompany us through the mountains, our guides, cooks, and mule drivers. After lunch and a short rest, we began walking.

It was a dramatic introduction. The wind was fierce, with gusts reaching up to 65 kilometres per hour, powerful enough to stop conversation entirely. A few drops of rain followed, brief but insistent. Still, we pushed on and arrived at the entrance to the Toubkal National Park. We spent the night in a simple guesthouse along the Asni–Imlil mountain road, tucked into the Aït Mizane Valley. It was our first night in the mountains, and already the scale of the landscape had begun to quiet something inside me.

Six Days on Foot

The mountains begin quietly. Not with drama, but with dust on boots, the low murmur of mules being loaded, and the smell of bread and mint tea drifting up from the roadside.

This was never meant to be a straight line to the summit. From the beginning, the programme was clear: walk first, climb later. The ascent of Toubkal would only come after days of movement through villages, valleys, and passes, allowing the body to adjust slowly to heat, distance, and altitude.

And so we walked.

From Oukaïmeden, our trek unfolded over six full days of walking. There was no rush, no attempt to cover distance quickly. Each day settled into its own rhythm, the steady crunch of gravel underfoot, the bells of mules ahead of us, the discipline of pacing ourselves under a strong sun. The days were long and often hot. The sun was relentless, the paths dusty and rocky, the climbs deceptively gentle until they were not. Each morning began with stiff legs and quiet determination. Each afternoon ended with a kind of tiredness that sleep alone does not immediately cure.

The challenge was not only physical. The repetition of walking day after day tested patience. The heat wore you down quietly. Fatigue accumulated. You learned to listen to your body, to slow down without guilt, to accept that strength on this mountain looked very different from strength elsewhere.

Valleys, Villages, and Daily Life

We crossed high passes and descended into valleys stitched together by footpaths older than maps. We walked through Berber villages clinging to mountainsides, Tacheddirt, Matate, Tizi Oussem, places built of stone and patience. Walnut trees offered welcome shade at lunchtime. Children watched us pass, curious but unintrusive. Women carried on with daily tasks. Men paused to greet us.

Life here felt pared back to essentials: water, earth, animals, family. There was a deep dignity in that simplicity and a sense that time moved differently, measured more by seasons than by hours. These moments grounded me. They reminded me that this journey was not just about reaching a summit, but about passing through lives and landscapes that existed long before and long after us.

As the days passed and we gained altitude, the landscape grew sterner. Juniper forests gave way to rock and sky. Paths narrowed. The air thinned. Conversation became more economical, not from lack of connection, but from the effort of breathing and walking at the same time. And yet, there was laughter too, the quiet kind that grows when strangers become companions through shared fatigue.

Evenings in the Mountains

Evenings were spent in gîtes and simple refuges. We ate steaming bowls of lentils and couscous, drank endless glasses of tea, and welcomed the cooler air as a relief after long, hot days on the trail. Nights were calm rather than cold, often the most comfortable hours of the day. On some evenings, we slept out on the terraces of guesthouses, lying under a wide scatter of stars, the heat finally released from our bodies.

Arrival at Base Camp

Reaching base camp brought with it a complicated kind of relief.

There was excitement, the quiet satisfaction of knowing I had made it this far on foot through heat, long days, and accumulating fatigue. But alongside that pride sat something else, heavier and harder to name. Anxiety. Doubt. The kind that arrives when the goal is finally close enough to feel real.

As we settled in, I watched people coming down the mountain. Some were pale and exhausted, their bodies clearly finished, having reached a limit they could not push past. It was sobering. Up until that point, the trek had asked a lot of me, but it had not yet asked everything. Now the question was unavoidable. Would my body still carry me to the top?

Thoughts of altitude sickness lingered. So did the reality of the thin air, the steepness ahead, and the early start waiting for us in the dark. I tried to quiet my mind by focusing on small, practical rituals, eating, drinking, layering up, but doubt has a way of sitting patiently beside you.

Summit Day

We camped out that night. As soon as the sun dropped, the air cooled noticeably, offering relief rather than discomfort. Sleep came in fragments. At three in the morning, we woke quietly, headlamps glowing softly around camp. By four, we were climbing.

The ascent of Mount Toubkal began in darkness.

Headlamps carved narrow tunnels of light through the night as we moved upward, one careful step at a time. The ground was steep and rocky, demanding attention with every foot placement. There was no conversation, only breath, balance, and the steady rhythm of walking.

For more than three hours we climbed like this. Step. Breath. Step. Breath. Fatigue pressed in, but the mind narrowed its focus. There was no space left for anticipation, only persistence.

And then, unexpectedly, the release came.

Not dramatically at the summit itself, but somewhere close, when the tension I had been carrying for days finally broke. The stress, the fatigue, the doubt spilled out of me as tears. They came suddenly and freely, without embarrassment or resistance.

I had never felt so proud of my body. Proud of its endurance. Proud of its patience. Proud of the quiet strength that had carried me not only through physical effort, but through uncertainty and fear. In that moment, the summit mattered less than the knowing. I was still moving. I was still capable. I had made it here.

When we reached the summit at 4,160 metres, the feeling was not explosive. It was quiet and deep. We stood together by the metal marker, the mountains stretching endlessly in every direction. The journey made sense in that moment, not because it was over, but because it had been honest.

The descent demanded its own patience. Tired legs. Loose rock. Careful steps. A few slips, nothing of consequence. The summit had been reached after all. Only later, back in the valley, did the full weight of the experience begin to soften.

The Last Night

On our final night, one of our guides invited us into his family home. His family cooked for us and welcomed us not as clients, but as guests. There was music, laughter, and traditional Berber dancing. Children gathered. Women played the drums. The rhythm was infectious.

Some of our group were invited to dress in traditional clothing and join the dance. We did, awkwardly at first, then joyfully, carried by the warmth of the moment. It was the perfect ending. After days of effort and discipline, we were reminded of celebration, connection, and generosity. The mountain had asked much of us, but the people gave freely.

Returning

The next day, we left the mountains and travelled back to Marrakesh, where we stayed in a beautiful riad, cool, calm, and restorative. It felt like a gentle landing after intensity. A place to wash the dust away, to rest, and to reflect.

This journey taught me that endurance is not about pushing relentlessly. It is about listening, adapting, and accepting help, whether from a guide steadying the pace, a village offering shelter, or a rhythm inviting you to dance after you thought you had nothing left to give.

Mount Toubkal was the destination. But the walking, the people, the heat, the doubt, the laughter, that was the journey.