It was a local bus, it stopped everywhere. We approached the Sahara and the military presence increased in every town, inching our way toward Algeria. Finally, a taxi dropped us off in the middle of the desert, a ghost town. We were fifty kilometers from the border.
In a small garden courtyard, over a pot of tea, I negotiated hard, a camel for my girl, a night in the desert. A deal was struck and my guide and I walked alongside Darlene, regal on her camel. From high in the dunes, we could gaze over the black Sahara and into Algeria.
That night, after a fiery sunset, the moon rose over our camp, a valley in the dunes, a lone date palm, and a grumpy caravan of camels. Two cots pushed together, we slept in the open air, under a pile of wool blankets.All quiet on the eastern front.
For this particular climb you go under the phone cables on the way up, but you lower down over the cables for clean rope management. Meanwhile the busses and tourists line up behind you for some blatant showmanship.
Gratuitous as that is, most of the Todra Gorge's crags are further upstream and much more peaceful, some climbing right out of the river-side gardens as local women harvest their crops. The goats will beat you up any climb, but they prefer a much more precarious route over the scree fields that seem foolish to me.
Kester forgot to mention two important things. One, Taghazoute is drier than Zion. And two, the surf doesn't really kick in until November.
It was the most alarming news, probably because it was completely unexpected.
Well, I did what any good New England sports fan would do. I bought two east bound tickets, grabbed the sexiest orthopedic, knee fixin' medical expert I could find, and (seeing as it's still lobster season) headed immediately to the scene of the crime.
And what better place to do it than under the granite walls, fall foliage, and lobster traps of New Hampshire. Such is my dedication to that fine corner of the world.
We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.
We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon's beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.
Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I'm not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.
nally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.
