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A pair of shoes can tell a story. Think a set of new white sneakers that, with each wear, gain a little color. On this particular day, I found myself fixated on the shoes in front of me. In this case, my shoes revealed more about my character than I would like to admit. Surrounded by sturdy hiking boots, my feet bore a pair of off brand Toms. Light fabric pierced with small holes and no traction. Maybe I should have been more concerned. Issmail, our guide certainly was. “Fatima!” my Berber given name, he called. “You have nothing else to wear? A pair of running shoes perhaps?” I shook my head no. What began as an easy ascent was deceiving. We soon left the hazy glow from the loose dust lifting off the path. The terrain transitioned to a rugged landscape. I could feel even the smallest rock as the sharp edges often pointed up. We found a moment’s rest as the trail plateaued, surrounded by a throne of snowy peaks. True to their name I recall thinking, “The Atlas Mountains were sure to be holding up heaven itself.” Issmail guided us off trail. We were making our way to a small Berber village tucked away in the valley. Each step brought us closer to the deep green terraces that skirted around the curves of the hillsides. Man-made, but non-intrusive. We were completely captivated. I did my best to carefully tread between the thorn-covered vines and dung left by wandering goats and donkeys, but at some point I was forced to care a little less. Eventually, the tall grassy fields brought a welcome change. I was giddy, spinning in the falling white blossoms of almond trees. The village was constructed of mud brick buildings that blended into the stone foundation except for the occasional door that was painted with a vibrant blue, red, or yellow. It looked both worn and sturdy at the same time. Issmail explained there was no power throughout the village. During winter livestock was kept inside on the first floor to help heat the second. The villagers watched as our western-looking group passed through. I wondered if they were annoyed at us, gawking at their simple way of life. I caught the eyes of a child peeking through a bush. I smiled and could hear their laughter in response. We spent the night at the edge of the village and fell asleep to the calls of prayer from the nearby mosque. The following day our group continued the hike to Imlil Valley. Unlike the remote village, there was electricity. Issmail attributed this to the economic boost brought by tourism. When it came time to return to Marrakech, Issmail organized a car transport. The driver was eager to practice his English. He was friendly and asked us about our journey. My companions and I shared stories, and suddenly the conversation took an abrupt shift. “Were you not scared?” He continued, “Did you not hear about the girls?” He was referring to the tragic events that resulted in the slaughter of two innocent girls three months prior. They too were hiking in the Atlas Mountains. It was in these moments, riding in the car, that I realized we were on the same trail that their lives were unforgivably taken. The driver claimed to know a guide that encountered the guilty men, who have since been convicted. He described the encounter second-hand and the moments that led to this tragedy in great detail. I felt an innocence being stripped from me. There was a weight to each word he spoke. “You must be crazy or stupid to go into those mountains,” he muttered. I once more dropped my gaze to my shoes. Maybe there was some truth in what he said. I was able to see the beauty of the world through naïve, childlike glee. If I had known would I have gone? I wonder.