Climbing Toubkal Is More Fun in a Blizzard: Morocco, Part 4

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 fourth in a series of posts about this trip. Read Part 1: To Marrakech and Beyond, Part 2: Where All the Mules Are Named “Mule,” and Part 3: Ras N’Ouanoukrim and Timesguida.

We climbed the Ras the day before because the weather was forecasted to be the best that day. Sure enough, as we were coming down, a light snow started to fall—a blizzard was coming. That night, our friend talked with one of the other guides, asking her whether they would take people up the mountain given the forecast. She said, “Only experienced people.” As such, when we awoke the next day to a cover of snow and moderately heavy winds, we were one of only about five or so groups heading up the mountain.

After breakfast, which fortunately my partner was actually able to eat, we geared up to leave, heading out into what, at that point, was swirling snow. We passed the other refuge and buildings, now covered in snow, and turned off to the left down into a tiny valley and back up following the route to Toubkal.

Unlike the gradual grade at the beginning of our trip up the Ras, the route to Toubkal starts climbing steeply right after passing that small valley—about 5 to 10 minutes from the refuge. Although the snow wasn’t as challenging as that of the Ras, it was still pretty deep in some parts due to the wind pushing it into low spots.

A few groups had gone before us, but as we reached a sort of bowl formed by the peaks around us, we deviated from their tracks cutting straight through the deep snow that had collected in the center. Instead, we followed our guide up around the edge of the bowl, where there was less fresh snow and much easier walking.

Unfortunately, this quickly ended when we circled back to the main route, going up a steep slope with heavy, heavy snow. After trudging through this a bit, the guide, who had been breaking trail, swapped with our super strong friend, who then broke trail more or less until we reached a saddle, turning left toward the summit.

We continued, passing a couple of the groups that had started earlier and enduring the relentless sideways snow that had been pelting us since we started and that only got worse as we climbed higher and higher. However, unlike the day before, the harsh conditions invigorated me. I relished the frigid, piercing wind on my mostly covered face and was excited to be out there.

About midway, we paused near a large boulder that wasn’t big enough to shelter all of us. We weren’t stopped for long, but it was enough for my hands to get cold so that when I grabbed my piolet and started walking, that one glove, moist from the snow, froze. I continued on for a little bit, trying in vain to get my hand to warm up, but with a frozen glove, it would be impossible. I called out to get someone to help me get my other pair of gloves from my pack, but I don’t think they really understood what I wanted. My partner understood that my gloves were frozen, but thought that I wanted to turn back, so he said he would go back with me since he was cold too. I was confused and a bit annoyed—why would I want turn back? I just needed my extra pair of gloves, so I extracted them myself with one good hand and one barely functioning one. As I put them on and my hand started to warm, I howled in pain from the “screaming barfies.” In case you aren’t familiar with this jargon, mostly associated with ice climbing, it describes the pain you feel when the blood rushes back into your cold hands. It’s not a nice feeling, hence the name—it makes you want to scream and throw up at the same time. What a life I choose to live. This situation, though, is entirely the fault of my own carelessness, as my extra gloves should have been inside my jacket and not in my pack.

My hands now comfortably ensconced in dry gloves, we continued up another steep slope of deep snow, reaching a ridge with only a thin layer. The wind was the strongest here, so we didn’t linger and instead pressed on following the broad ridge up to the left. The wind continued at this intensity all the way along these final slopes to the summit. I’m sure there were probably fantastic views all around us on another day. On this day, however, everything beyond about 20 feet in front of us was just white.

While going up another windswept slope, we passed a small, smiling group returning from the summit, their faces red from windburn. Then, we reached a rocky section along the ridge and followed along below it in the deep, accumulated snow, crossing with another larger group of mostly exhausted looking people. Suddenly, while climbing back up to the ridge beyond the rocky area, I noticed the giant triangular summit marker just a short way away.

Amazingly, at the summit, there was no wind. It was literally the exact opposite of every mountain summit I had ever been on. Satisfied, I threw off my pack and lay down under the summit marker because my upper back had been hurting intensely most of the final portion up, probably from hunching in the wind. I stared peacefully into the white above me, feeling the cold creeping up through my clothes, before having a snack and some tea. After spending a little time on the summit, we headed back down into the wind.

The trip down flew by. After descending the ridge to the saddle, the wind was mostly at our backs, and we could practically run down in the soft snow. This is probably my favorite part of winter mountaineering, going down in soft, but heavy snow. The final slope before the bowl, I whooped with joy, accidently alarming our guide, who quickly looked back, concerned that something had happened to me. Ooops.

The weather had cleared a bit lower down the mountain, allowing views of the peaks in front of use beyond the refuge. Before long, we were passing that exhausted large group from earlier as we sped straight down the final slope into that tiny valley before the refuge. Once there, we changed into our dry clothes and relaxed with the typical post-hike tea and discussed the plans for the next day, which did not look good. But no matter what, I was ready for it.

It wasn’t just trekking through that mild blizzard that had energized me. It was that it was my choice. For some time, I had been feeling like a reluctant participant in certain parts of my outdoor life. I was a disgruntled mountaineer, which certainly came out in my annoyance and desire to quit the day before on the Ras. But through the freezing hands and pelting wind, I had decided to keep going for me and only me. Sometimes it just takes the right kind of suffering to remember why the harder route can be so much more satisfying.