Jenny Tough: A Solo Running Expedition Across the High Atlas

Up there? Why would you want to go up there? There’s nothing there.’  The friendly crowd of gossiping old men that form in the central square of the small village, smoking cigarettes and keeping an eye on things, think I’m crazy. To them, heading up into the mountains rather than running along the smooth gravel road leading to the next town defies all logic.

‘There are no shops, no phone signal. You will find nothing!’ one of the men interjects, his face riddled with concern.

‘But that’s exactly why I want to go up there’ I reply.

Morocco is a well known tourist destination. But that’s not the Morocco I wanted to explore. Cutting right through the heart of the country are the Atlas Mountains, dividing the Mediterranean coast from the endless sands of the Sahara to the south. These mountains are beautiful, isolated, and frequently inhospitable. Survival alone can be a challenge. Running across the entire range in a single expedition had never previously been attempted, and probably for good reason.

After eight days of feeling dehydrated and overheated, I’ve been craving a river like this so strongly that I’m genuinely worried it may be a mirage

The Berber people live in the Atlas as a result of a difficult, ancient history. Their ancestors were forced to flee into the mountains when the first Mohammedan Arabs arrived in the 7th Century AD, led by the warrior General Uqba ibn Nafi during the Arab conquest of the Mahgreb region.

It seems that the Berbers haven’t learned to love these mountains yet, seeing only inhospitable terrain where I see the potential for running and freedom. Soon, though, I’m filled with the joy of pure isolation. Being a woman travelling alone in North Africa can be an exhausting and, at times, frightening experience. I’m grateful for the silence and emptiness of the mountains.

With little chance of seeing anyone else, I can take my long-sleeved shirt off and run a little cooler for a while. In all honesty, I wouldn’t be seen running in my sports bra even in a Western country. The mountains don’t care if you’re male or female, religious or an atheist, dressed in the latest gear or not dressed at all. Yet it saddens me that the people living below this particular mountain have yet to experience the freedom I am relishing.

From the top of the pass, I can take in the view in all directions. With no decent maps of this wild terrain, I am often navigating the old-fashioned way by simply looking at the landscape ahead of me and picking the best line. The Atlas lend themselves easily to this practice. There are seemingly endless clear skies, and the dry, red, rocky hills allow their hidden goat tracks to be easily seen from a higher elevation. I’m almost not bothering to look at the GPS, and instead stay on a compass bearing heading west, simply following the trails that I spot from the top of each climb.

Ahead of me in the valley below is the most important thing I’m looking for: a speck of lush, bright green vegetation. Green means trees, and trees mean water. The eastern Atlas are largely desert mountains, and I am frequently running the gauntlet between water sources, never sure how long exactly I might have to ration for. Eight days in, my dehydration is compounding, and the sight of a decent water source like this one lifts my spirits immeasurably.

I sprint down the scree slope, taking the most direct route to the water source, desperate for the cooling effect and the chance to drink without rationing. The slope is steep, and I have to make switchbacks to control my speed. I’m practically giddy as I slide over cascading rocks, sometimes losing my footing and putting a hand down behind me, but never stopping. It reminds me of why I love running in the mountains, and by the time I reach the small river I have a huge grin on my face as well as a layer of dirt that covers my whole body.

I pick my way through the line of trees that had been my target, and soon they part to reveal the river. It is, without exaggeration, the most beautiful river I’ve ever seen anywhere in the world. Only a few metres across and barely knee-deep, it’s the largest amount of water I’ve encountered since I started my run. The river is crystal clear, and gurgles gently over pebbles of pale limestone. I practically toss off my backpack and shoes behind me as I sprint for it.

This story first appeared in issue #1 of BASE magazine. You can find the full issue here. To get every issue of BASE delivered directly to your door be sure to subscribe for FREE.