Head to Toubkal Base-Camp via the spectacular Ouanoums Pass.

Today was a day that tested every ounce of determination, grit, and sheer stubbornness we had left in our legs. The morning began calmly enough, skirting above the lake and gently winding our way into the upper valley of the Assif a Moursaine. Spirits were high as we admired the rugged beauty of the High Atlas, but we all knew what was coming — the long haul up to the dramatic Tizi-n-Ouanoums Pass at 3650m.

The first part of the ascent lulled us into a false sense of security. It was steady, manageable, even enjoyable as the crisp mountain air kept us cool and the valley scenery distracted us from the slow rise in altitude. But then the path began to steepen. The slope rose like a wall ahead of us, and our footsteps grew heavier with every switchback. The sun bore down, the air thinned, and suddenly the climb became a battle of wills.

Linda had perhaps the most terrifying experience of all. Faced with a near vertical climb of 1500m, she found herself astride a mule, clutching on as the animal picked its way up the loose rock and narrow zigzags. Watching from behind was nerve-wracking enough; I cannot imagine the courage it took to stay calm and trust the mule on that impossible slope. Her bravery was nothing short of inspiring.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, we crested the magnificent Tizi-n-Ouanoums. The reward was spectacular: framed between Morocco’s two highest peaks, Toubkal and Ouanoukrim, the pass opened up a panorama so vast it seemed to swallow the fatigue in an instant. Jagged ridges stretched in every direction, and the valley we had clawed our way up from looked impossibly small beneath us.

But the day wasn’t done yet. We still had to descend into the Ait Mizan Valley. Knees trembling, we picked our way down towards the Neltner Refuge — the legendary Toubkal Basecamp. By the time we reached the campsite, exhaustion was etched on every face, but there was also a quiet pride. We had made it over one of the toughest passes in the Atlas Mountains.

Some of us wandered around the refuge, others simply collapsed in the quiet satisfaction of survival. Dinner was well earned, and as we looked up at the peaks bathed in the last golden rays of the sun, the thought of tomorrows challenge — the highest summit in Morocco — felt daunting but within reach.

As evening fell, the mountains seemed to draw in around us, the sky darkening in a way that felt more threatening than peaceful. The weather was turning — we could sense it in the sudden chill, in the restless shifting of the clouds overhead. Before long, the first cracks of thunder echoed through the valleys, rolling closer with every minute.

We quickly retreated to our tents, hoping for some shelter. But the storm was relentless. The thunder was so deafening it felt as though we were camped right in the heart of it, each rumble shaking the ground beneath us. Lightning tore across the sky again and again, illuminating the peaks in eerie flashes.

It was clear this was going to be no ordinary night. The storm raged on, fierce and unyielding, leaving us to huddle in our sleeping bags with only the thin canvas between us and the fury outside. A long, rough night lay ahead — one that none of us would soon forget.