Tafraout - Reunion with the Mountains

As the bus wound its way from the coast (the buses seem to do a lot of winding here) I began to feel as if I was on a pilgrimage of sorts.  My destination was the village of Tafraout in the Anti-Atlas Mountains.  Although a separate range from the High Atlas, the Anti-Atlas may be no less impressive (I say "may be" because I am still to lay eyes on the High Atlas).  The Anti-Atlas are rugged, barren, deserty mountains broken occasionally by picturesque villages and palm-filled gorges.  Tafraout, the center of the region, sits on the edge of the big Ameln Valley and is surrounded by steep mountains and red granite boulder strewn hills.

Immediately upon reaching Tafraout I was faced with a conundrum: how to best take advantage of this remarkable area?  Standing in the center of town, taking in the 360 degrees of gorgeous views, the possibilities seemed endless.  With a finite number of days, endless possibilities can create such a conundrum.  Do I scramble to the top of as many peaks as I can?  Do I rent a mountain bike and cover ground exploring valleys and gorges?  Do I try really hard to sprout wings and take it in from above?  Or do I just sit in the village and take it all in one mint tea after another?  Well, I like walking and I like cycling (and I don't think my humble magical powers are enough to sprout me some wings) so peaks and pedals it is.

After an evening atop a rocky outcrop, sizing up the various peaks, I decided on a worthy objective taking into account peak prominence, aesthetic qualities, exposure potential, and most importantly, my ill-tuned legs.  The only thing I knew about the peak was where it was; to me it had no name and no elevation.  And where was it exactly?  Just right there.  That's all the information I needed. 

The next morning I set out in the chilly predawn air and slowly made my way past palm groves, Berber camps, and through bouldery ravines.  Once on the summit ridge I scrambled using hands and feet, all the while savoring the stunning views and enjoying the little bit of exposure provided by the shear cliffs on both sides.  This was my first peak in well over a year and it was a liberating one; no guide needed, no permit, and no one trying to sell me the experience.  It is the most I have felt at home in a long time.  Once on top, it was bliss.  Nothing but mountains and desert lay before me; my two most favorite environments.  This peak was not the biggest in the area and may not have been the most technical, but it was the perfect peak for the moment.

The rest of my time in Tafraout was spent on the saddle of a creaky yet functional mountain bike.  With next to no traffic and nice roads, I was able to explore many miles of this desert paradise.  My weary legs never became a problem; I was too captivated as I passed through ancient villages and red rock country to even think about my tired legs and aching bum.  I quickly learned though that this desert, like so many others, is riddled with thorns.  What I did not learn quickly enough was that a thorn in the tire, should stay in the tire (assuming it still has air).  After fixing one flat, I went to work on the other still inflated tire de-thorning it.  But thorns, although puncturing the tube, simultaneously act as plugs.  As I started pulling thorns the hissing began.  Realizing that there were more thorns than I had patches, I hastily tried re-plugging the holes, to no avail.  So, I also got to cover miles of desert road on foot, pushing a bike.  In the end, I was satisfied with my assault on Tafraout; I climbed a mountain, cycled, walked, and even still had time to take it all in one mint tea after another.  

Tafraout.

My un-named and un-elevationed peak (at least to me) on the right.  It was a great climb with plenty of tricky route finding and fun scrambling to the summit.

This is called the hurry up dork because you have only ten seconds on the timer and no one to snap your photo while on top the mountain stumble.

 Early morning alpenglow on the peaks around Tafraout.

Smurf turds in the desert?  No.  Just boulders painted blue by a Belgian artist who must have failed to see the already existing beauty of the desert. Art?

The Ameln Valley brilliantly lit in the early morning sunlight.

The ancient and crumbling village of Omesnat perched on the edge of the Ameln Valley.  At least they keep the mosque in working order.