Moroccan High Atlas 6

May 17, 2025

Moroccan High Atlas 6

Above, Jason on the left ascending the high Atlas.

I don’t recall seeing landslides in real life before. Sure, I’d watched them on TV documentaries about the Himalayas, but witnessing one up-close was impressive and unsettling. All day we’d passed crash barriers torn and twisted as if they were paper and now we watched a landslide unfold.

A typical breakfast. Honey, eggs, bread, olives, oil and jam.

I was glad to wake up and get ready to depart Taliouine that morning. Though the town bestowed a parting gift, a bad stomach that lasted the next two days. Fitting, the place was as crap as its gift.

Damo Getting it done on the CF Moto, despite the terible throttle reponse.

We had roughly 170 miles to cover, most of it off-tarmac. We set off along dirt tracks, cutting across the Mid-Atlas to reach the High Atlas

Whenever I travel off-grid like this, I’m reminded—sometimes by memory, sometimes by Jason’s voice on the intercom—that I once guided him up a goat path in 2018/19. His bike slipped off the edge when the ground gave way. Apparently his kids still ask, “Did Dan lead you up a goat path?” Well, today we stuck to two-track and Dad was safe.

Local farm transportation

We linked villages by a spaghetti of trails, passing self-sufficient farmers and turning back whenever the path was fit only for local donkeys (take note, Charlotte and Hen). Eventually we found tarmac and small towns like the ones pictured.

The plan was to take the N7 from Tafingoult to Marrakesh. It crosses the High Atlas and has almost no straight sections. I’d assumed it was fully paved, but nearly half is still dirt—excellent!

Massive construction is under way. I assume the road will soon be a smooth, congested ribbon, but for now it was mostly ours, shared only with a few fearless or foolish drivers.

Our first roadblock taught us that patience is key. The rule for Morrocans seems to be, “If you can fit, you can go,” and brave scooters squeezed past the heavy machinery whilst it worked. I got a little too close to a massive dozer; Jason’s warning buzzed in my helmet just as it reversed at speed. Fear and adrenaline did nothing to soothe the battle already brewing in my stomach.

A goat-herder’s shack perched precariously on the edge of the road and later, a woman carrying three children on her scooter, one up front, two behind just liked you'd do in car.

A local paysanne

At the landslide we waited for over an hour while three Caterpillar diggers, five trucks, a bulldozer, and two four-wheel bucket loaders cleared the track. These workers are fearless; huge rocks hurtled down, crushing anything in their path.

It was a 360 km detour, so we waited with others who were far less patient. One scooter rider carried tools and bolt-cutters nearly a metre wide—our canary, always testing the route past the machines.

Another scooter carried a red bale, and an impatient taxi jumped queues, blocked paths, and pressured everyone with horn and bonnet alike. We were stopped at least four times by road-clearing crews; once we idled behind a working loader while a pile-driver shook the mountain beside us, sending stones skittering down. At other points we rode beneath excavators swinging tons of rock overhead. I could not capture it all in images due to danger, but serious injury, or worse, loomed close by

A rare stretch of road revealed the mountains’ millennia-old rock layers beside us. I appreciate it appears as dirt, but was solid rock twisted on its side by the forces that created the moutain range.

Shortly after a lakeside we left the dirt and joined tarmac that zig-zagged toward Marrakesh. Jason disappeared ahead, clearly enjoying the Himalayan 450. I tried to keep the Himalayan 411 at cruising speed, and Damo effortlessly loped along on the CF Moto 450 Twin. A great ride—one of the best.