Walking the Long Way to Mount Toubkal
- Mwape Bellonie
- Feb 13
- 7 min read
Updated: Jul 28
Walking the Long Way to Mount Toubkal wasn't simply about reaching Morocco's highest summit. Rather than taking the shortest route, our group spent six days walking through Berber villages, valleys and mountain passes before finally climbing Mount Toubkal. Walking the Long Way to Mount Toubkal became a journey of patience, endurance and discovery, one that changed the way I experienced Morocco.
Walking the Long Way to Mount Toubkal: Arrival in Marrakech
I arrived in Marrakech and met the rest of the hiking party there. The city felt like the perfect beginning: loud, generous and full of movement. We spent the afternoon wandering through the medina, breathing in the scent of spices, lingering at 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 gathered over one of the most delicious tagines. It felt less like introductions and more like a reunion. Having shared a trek through the Sahara Desert the previous year, we slipped effortlessly back into conversation, recalling moments from that journey while looking forward to the one ahead. The mountains were still a day away, but the spirit of the group had already found its rhythm.
Souk image Souk images 
Tagine
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.
mule carrying equipment lunch 
At entrance sign of Mount Toubkal national park
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
Moroccan flag standing proudly against the dramatic backdrop of the High Atlas Mountains, marking
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.
Berber village Valley view Our guide, Mohammed, 
Mosque and village Woman carrying grass Green terraces
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.
Yet the mountains carried another story alongside our own. Less than a year earlier, on 8 September 2023, a devastating 6.8-magnitude earthquake had struck the High Atlas. As we passed through village after village, the signs were still unmistakable. Homes lay partially collapsed, walls had crumbled into narrow lanes, and great wooden beams rested where roofs had once stood. Reconstruction was underway in places, but many families were still living with the aftermath of a disaster that had forever changed these mountain communities. It was a quiet reminder that these beautiful landscapes are also places where
people live, work and rebuild their lives
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.
Mule driver Supplies from above 
The cheche
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.
Traditional Moroccan Couscous Moroccan Trek Lunch Spread 
Fresh Moroccan Salad
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.
Arriving at Toubkal Base Camp Pack Mules at Base Camp 
Refuge du Toubkal
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.
Preparing for the Summit Push Climbing in the Dark 
The Final Ascent Before Dawn
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.
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.
If You Go
If you're considering trekking Mount Toubkal yourself, I would wholeheartedly recommend it. You don't need to be an elite mountaineer, but you do need to prepare. Build your fitness, invest in good hiking boots that you've already broken in, pack layers for rapidly changing mountain temperatures, and allow yourself time to acclimatise. Most importantly, embrace the experience beyond the summit. Spend time in the villages, learn from your guides, and take in the remarkable hospitality of the people. Reaching the highest point in North Africa is unforgettable, but it is the journey through the Atlas Mountains that will stay with you long after you return home.
Photo Credits
Unless otherwise stated, photographs featured in this article were taken by members of our trekking group, including myself, our fellow hikers and our guides. My sincere thanks to everyone who generously shared their images, helping to tell the story of our journey up Mount Toubkal from different perspectives.
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