Exciting day trekking to the summit of Mount Toubkal (4167m) and down to the Gita for last night stay near Imlil.

Today should have been the highlight of the week. The moment we had all been building toward. But mountains have a way of humbling us, of reminding us that it isn’t just about desire or determination—it’s about respect. Respect for the conditions, the risks, and for our own instincts.

After a night of thunder hammering across the valley and rain battering our tents, we gathered in the mess hut under the glow of head torches. The air was heavy, charged with both excitement and apprehension. Saiid, calm but firm, warned us: the weather was closing in. If anyone wanted to attempt the summit, it would be fast—three hours up, two down. He spoke of slippery stones and treacherous footing. His words didn’t fall on deaf ears. They sank deep.

And so, with my heart tugging in two directions, I chose to listen to that quiet voice inside—the one that whispered not today.

I watched as Alex, Helen, Asif, and Kinga shouldered their packs, determination etched into their faces. Before they set off, they signed a disclaimer, acknowledging the risks but still stepping boldly into the storm. Their path wound between boulders, across high basins, and finally to that razor-sharp ridge that leads to the iron tripod marking the summit of Toubkal—the highest point in North Africa.

Up there, they stood where the Sahara stretches endlessly to the south, and the Anti-Atlas fades into the horizon to the northeast. They had their moment, their photos, their triumph. And I couldn’t have been prouder.

But my journey today was different. While they had climbed skyward, I descended inward reflecting on what could have been. Later we all walked through the Toubkal Valley in the shadow of the peaks, passing Sidi Chamharouch, where legend speaks of saints and spirits beneath a white boulder.

The mountain seemed to whisper its own truths in the rushing streams, the quiet stalls offering Berber tea, the winding path that carried us toward our gite in Ait Souka.

By evening, as we settled into our final night in the mountains, I realised something. The summit isn’t always a place marked by a metal tripod or a breathtaking view. Sometimes it’s in the choices we make to stay grounded, to savour the journey, to respect the warning signs.

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Today, my summit was humility. And it was enough.