It started as Katie suggesting that they climb a mountain and I overheard. She invited me with vigor: "come, climb Toubkal with us!"
"I will!" So in mid-January I wrote it into my calendar for June.
By May it was time to start taking the invitation seriously, because plans had to be made. It just so happened that I was in conversation with a fascinating fellow around that time, and it made a lot of sense to invite him to hike the highest mountain in North Africa. So he came to Morocco, saw my school, saw me finishing out my job for the year, helped me to grade finals; he wore the same clothes for two days because his luggage was lost; met all my people at school; then navigated our way to Imlil on a Friday in June.
We drove from sea level to 5,700 feet elevation, then climbed six hours to the refuge which rested at 10,500 feet. The next day we ascended the mountain, climbing an additional 3,000 feet. Those 3,000 feet to the top were ridiculous. Loose scree made me want to hurry to get away from the rough sliding near ledges of rock. But hurrying without skill is a bad idea. Regardless of rough earth, the higher we climbed, the harder the hike became due to altitude. I became discouraged. It wasn't schadenfreude that made me glad when I saw my friend, the ever-athletic Danielle, was also having difficulty—it was grace that helped me not to feel incapable.
I required stopping every two minutes so I could rest and breathe. The problem with resting every two minutes is that you never gain momentum. Another problem is that a mere 100 meters from the summit means we were hiking rather closer to the mountain's edge than I would like. I had to confess that the panic wasn't all altitude, but the fact that I'm afraid of heights. Jake kept a steady stream of travel stories flowing after hearing that, proving himself to be a hero many times over. He also saved at least three people from severe dehydration, but that breaks the timeline.
Summitting was worth it. Of course it was worth it. Who holds their baby and says, "meh"? But who holds their baby and says, "time to plan another one!"? We still had to get down the mountain.
Ya'll. What you will read on most blogs is that it takes an hour and a half to descend to the refuge. It took us three hours. We had knee issues, toe issues, me-being-slow issues. But what hearts! To recall it nearly brings me to tears how sweet and patient each one was with the other. All ten of us ascended and descended, and it took all day.
What an incredible shower (in the dark, another story, perhaps) I enjoyed when we jogged up the steps of the refuge.
The next day, Stacey of the pained-knees found a mule to take her back to Imlil, and for Jake and me it was another six hours of hiking: four extremely pleasant, and two in which the world's biggest big-toe blister had begun to cry out for attention. She earned a name and has a story all her own, too. I suppose mountain stories are the archetype of the anticlimax. We made it. The end.
BONUS STORY!
Arriving at Imlil was still not home, as you know, and Stacey, Jake and I drove four more hours to Casa where we thought we would order in and feast (we did not) and all have a good night's sleep.
Alas for the latter! I awoke with a painful toothache and the next morning found Jake and me in a dentist's office awaiting an emergency root canal. And that about sums up our first set of dates.
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