Rif mountains, Morocco, Day 263

Sometimes an interesting piece of information in a Lonely Planet guidebook can turn into a seriously misguided idea. Several years ago when I was in Sumatra, the Lonely Planet guide to South-East Asia positively raved about exploring Samosir Island on Lake Toba by motorcycle. Completing a loop of the island in a day was easy peasy lemon squeezy they said. Which just goes to show that travelers do the stupidest things out on the road that they would not normally do at home. For a start I didn’t even know how to ride a motorcycle, but do you think that stopped me? Not at all, but the day did not go well. I mention this as neat segue into the latest daft idea gleaned from the pages of my Lonely Planet guidebook. Perhaps I’m being a little harsh, but my attempts to summit of Jebel el-Kelaa (a 1616m peak in the Rif mountains) in a day ended in similarly frustrating circumstances…

From Chefchaouen, the trail head is to the north of the medina, past the Azilane campsite. The trail is a 4WD track that is occasionally marked with yellow and white stripes. The stony trail zig-zags up through the tree line and at 8:30am I am the only person hiking. The only person I see on the trail is at a viewpoint overlooking Chefchaouen and he wants to sell me kif (hashish) – which I decline politely. The Rif mountains of Morocco are where most of the cannabis (marijuana) is grown and processed into hashish. Apparently, the locals have been enjoying kif in the Rif for centuries (long before the 4/20 cannabis cult). In fact, according to the Lonely Planet Guide the word ‘kif’ stems from the arabic word for ‘pleasure’. But the casual use by a goat herder has been overtaken by a multi-million dollar industry so it pays to be a little circumspect. In any event I was more interested in the awesome views over Chefchaouen below me and the sculpted peaks of the Rif up above.

I continue hiking this pristine and tranquil wilderness of scrubby gorse, dwarf holly trees, and jagged rocks until I reach the tiny hamlet of Ain Tissimlane, some 90 minutes from Chefchaouen. The hamlet is nothing more than a handful of buildings and judging by the number of times I am offered kif on the way through, cannabis is probably an important cash crop. So far so good. Above the hamlet the route becomes much steeper with tight switchbacks that gain elevation swiftly and painfully. It is a hot day in the Rif and I only brought 1 liter of water with me. I will need to be very careful, otherwise another Mauritania-like case of heat stroke is a distinct possibility. According to those good folks at the Lonely Planet an hour beyond Ain Tissimlane is a pass with a track leading off to the west. Follow this track to a saddle between two peaks from which the summit of Jebel el-Kelaa rises above you. Only there is no trail marked for Jebel el-Kelaa and the yellow and white trail markers continue to zig-zag ever upward, yet I can never escape the valley. I do see a ridge-line, saddle, and mountain off to the west that I suppose is my goal but there is no trail and no way to get there. The uneven rock-strewn trail is tough on the legs and the sun beats down all the more. At noon I see a peak not far from the 4WD track and decide to bag it.

The views are spectacular. I’m alone in the Rif with unending peaks in every direction. In a nearby valley white fluffy clouds are engulfing the land below and beginning to creep up and over the slopes of the mountains (I suppose it could also be 10,000 kif users all exhaling at the same time!). Either way the white fluffy things are ominous and after eating a quick lunch I skedaddle back down the way I came.

Near 1pm I see a faint trail off to the west that might lead to Jebel el-Kelaa and I go off to explore. The trail peters out on the ridgeline, leaving me ensnared in feisty thickets staring down steep unstable slopes. Below me there appears to be another trail and I scramble down to it. Amazingly it has yellow and white markings, which I follow to the base of Jebel el-Kelaa. By now, though, I’m too tired to climb it and decide to retrace my route and see exactly where the trail hits the 4WD track. Frustratingly, the yellow and white trail markers disappear again and I’m left following a rugged goat herder’s trail that requires a lot of dangerous rock scrambling before I regain the 4WD track. It takes 3 more hours of tiring, thirsty, and painful hiking to get back to the hotel Guernika and the welcoming arms of Christi. While I clean up with a long shower, Christi dashes down to the plaza to buy food and lots of water. Sleep well tonight. Boy do I sleep well.