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Dry and dusty, the High Atlas are desolate in October. Before I travelled here, I imagined an arid cathedral of towering spires rising from the sands, an image they live up to. From a Marrakech roof terrace, they are a crucial ingredient to a quintessential view of Morocco. The mu’azzin calling out, sonorous and warm, in the still evening air; the pandemonium of the bazaar below rising as a hum. Flocks of birds, fleeting silhouettes in the setting sun, dance above the sprawl of low-lying rooftops and minarets. The mountains: a distant hemline to a wide pink sky. Ominous and intriguing, yet far away. It is these mountains that have brought me here, lured by their mystique. I have come to climb the tallest: Jebel Toubkal. Dodging overloaded trucks and encumbered donkeys, the bus drive to the start point weaves between steep hills of burnt amber, along valley floors filled with verdant palm-forested oases and past ancient mud-brick settlements. The main streets are flanked by archways, between which veiled women emerge briefly, leading young children along shadowy pavements. Men lounge in the cool shade of busy cafes and cats bask in the morning sunlight. These are the foothills of the Atlas. From this haven the distant ridgelines appear stark against the clear sky. The peaks bare. Parched. Remote and ancient. I feel a sense of being truly far-flung. The trek starts at Imlil; a mountain village nestled at the head of the Ait Mizane Valley. My guides, Hussein and Hassan, a nephew-uncle combo, are both ethnic Berbers: the indigenous peoples of the Atlas. Fluent in four languages, they grew up here and have been guides all their lives. Hussein hollas “Yalla Yalla” over his shoulder as we begin walking. The trail winds up a steep, narrow valley, leaving the shade of walnut trees behind, before emerging at a wide, flat wadi basin. The riverbed is bone dry and littered with stones of all sizes left behind by flash floods. A football pitch stands defiantly in the middle; a testament to the infrequency of the floods. Hussein tells us of the injuries he endured playing on the pitch. The pace is slow and lumbering, the path zigzagging, back and forth, up a steep face, the river thundering below. The going is tough, thirsty work. Mules saddled with luggage, ubiquitous on this trail, pass by; a reminder of how unfit we are. At a drystone hut clinging to the mountainside, a weather-worn Berber sells rows of glass coca cola bottles, glistening in cascading spring water. I cave and buy one, savouring each sip. As the day goes on, the shadows grow longer, and we arrive at the shelter long after the sun has ducked below the ridgeline. After copious amounts of cous-cous and sweet tea, known as Berber Whiskey, we hit the hay. But sleep remains allusive; the air is thin and my mind races. It is day 2, 4am, pitch black and silent. The sanctuary of basecamp is behind us and we ascend into the emptiness above. The sense of this giant rock is oppressive. Claustrophobic almost. Numbing. It feels like the darkness is an extension of the mountain, pressing on my skin, trying to engulf me. All I can hear is the laboured footfalls of my companions and their strained breathing, rhythmically filling the conical beams of their head torches with vapor. Below is a line of lights swinging hap-hazardously; a team ascending behind. After several hours, the darkness lessens and all at once I step up, out of the gloom on to a ridgeline. I see a glowing horizon ahead of me; the Eastern sky is alive. I can make out the shapely shadows of mountains, burnt rose in the early morning light, crashing and crumbling into the distant desert. The ridge is exposed to a strong, cold wind, blowing from the desert and the suffocating silence of the dark has been vanquished by the fresh dawn of the new day. With a fresh intensity, the final stretch goes quickly, and before long we reach the summit. To the east lies the grand expanse of The Great Sahara Desert. I stand atop the Atlas, the roof of North Africa!