Where All the Mules Are Named “Mule”: Morocco, Part 2

I recently returned from a trip to Morocco, primarily to visit the Atlas Mountains and climb the highest peak, Toubkal, among others. The planning and expectations for this trip were slightly loose, as we were not sure we could even enter the country until the end of January. Morocco had been closed, even to its own citizens abroad, at least since the latest surge of Omicron around the end of the year. In addition, the requirement to have a PCR within 48 hours of the flight made the preparations a bit loose. However, negative for COVID-19, we buckled ourselves in for a short 1:45 minute flight across the Strait of Gibraltar.

This is the second in a series of posts about this trip. Read the first part: To Marrakech and Beyond.

The morning we planned to go to the refuge at the base of Toubkal did not start out on the best note as my partner, who regularly suffers at altitude, was already not feeling particularly well. In fact, I’m not sure if he even really ate anything at breakfast. This was a real shame because it was yet another delicious affair that I was coming to find typical of Morocco, even in the mountains, consisting of bread, eggs, honey and jams, and heavily sweetened mint tea. They do seem to sweeten the tea more in the mountains as well.

As we finished up, the guide and the mule driver packed our backpacks onto the mule. Since mules are working animals, they are not named per se. They are basically called “mule,” but if you want to be more specific, you can add the name of their owner. In our case, the mule carrying our stuff would be called asseerdoun Ibrahim, which is the word for mule in Berber followed by the mule driver’s name. Thankfully, both the mule driver and our guide were gracious enough not to look at us like we were crazy people when we asked the mule’s name. They must be used to it.

Again, we curved through the winding streets to the base of the town where we had explored the night before and passed the Mosque, walking between some fields along the river valley before turning to cross the bridge. Here, we met up with the mule again, who must have taken the easier but longer path along the dirt road circling down from the town. We also needed to show our passports to the police and, I suppose, prove that we had a guide.

After all that was sorted, we continued along the river valley, where there was not really much of a river. The guide told us about how it used to be more of a river lined with farm fields until a large flood destroyed mostly everything.

Before long, we veered away from the river, starting to gently climb up the side of the valley. We continued for some time along the rocky path on that side of the river, first crossing into the national park, then passing a couple of rest spots complete with cold drinks and various wares for sale for the trekkers as well as the pilgrims making the journey to an important shrine in the mountains. My partner recounted what he had read about it, confirming with the guide. The story is that a holy man who lived in the area near the river at the foot of the mountains was crushed by a giant, white boulder. People make special trips there. Although it is forbidden for non-Muslims, you can see the white boulder from quite a distance. It’s located in a beautiful spot, just as the river steeply turns from the mountains into the valley through a series of waterfalls.

Just below this holy area, we stopped again to show our passports to the police stationed there before crossing the river in between the falls. At this point, the trail started to get much steeper and we soon paused at another rest area for a short break.

After relaxing for just a bit, snacking on walnuts and almonds and drinking our disgusting iodinized water, we continued hiking up the rocky terrain until the trail became more gradual and we were suddenly at a narrow, flattish area filled with activity. There were two buildings on either side of the trail, one perched along the steep mountain side, the other backed into the rocky cliff behind it. Here, mules and their drivers, trekkers, and guides milled about on the edge of this somewhat narrow trail.

This was the last stop before the refuge and, in the winter, as far as the mules could go. So, after another short break, we collected our packs, stashing what we had brought in light daypacks into our larger packs and hoisting them onto our backs to continue fully loaded.

Once we passed this tiny outpost, we could see the route to the refuge continuing through patchy snow into the white mountains that stretched above the valley. Although the packs felt quite heavy since we had not yet become accustomed to them, the walking was easy on the gradual trail and the views were unparalleled.

We also had beautiful weather that day and had been passing many people who had been up Toubkal that morning and were happily on their way back. Most people only stay one night at the refuge and climb just Toubkal early in the morning before returning to Imlil.

When we arrived at the refuge, I was sort of shocked at the size of the area. I expected it to be just a small building, but there were at least four buildings, all made of stone. One was the larger refuge we were staying in, Les Mouflons, and one was a smaller refuge that we heard had wifi. There was also an older refuge and a new building planned for the police.

On entering the refuge, I immediately wished I was back outside in the sun. It was freezing inside, which is what one should expect from a stone building in the snow. We checked in, paid the fee for the three nights we planned to stay, and were led to the dormitory where would sleep mostly alone. And it was even colder in there! I quickly changed into my giant puffy and arranged my sleeping area before heading downstairs to a lovely medium-sized room that had a nice fire going and was lined with cozy, cushioned benches and tables.

As we should have more or less expected, the refuge staff then brought us a pot of hot, sweet mint tea (Yes, I was still pleasantly surprised, and no, I had not yet tired of it) and a giant plate of popcorn. Not bad for the end to a completely not tiring, leisurely hike into the mountains. I could maybe get used to having a mule transport my backpack, even though it does feel a lot like cheating.

We hung out in the nice warm room until dinner time, when we were directed into another similar-sized, fire-heated room. Dinner consisted of multiple bowls of soup and an overly large plate of spaghetti with tomatoes and cheese. We ate while we arranged our plans to climb the Ras the next morning. Then, went back upstairs to the dormitory to bundle into our frigid sleeping bags and pile the blankets provided by the refuge on top of us.