I am writing this about 16 hours after Morocco was hit by a serious earthquake.  I want to start by saying that my heart goes out to all those who have been impacted.  Moroccans have shown me their natural generosity and kindness.  I know they will care well for each other through this difficult time.

In rock climbing, routes are rated based on the most difficult point in the ascent.  Sometimes, this move comes early so you understand quickly why the climb is rated as it is.  Sometimes, it comes late. Those are the most challenging climbs because you get arrogant and start to think you are just better than the rating.  And then, bam you hit it – the crux.

For this horse ride, Day 4 is the crux.  That’s kind of late.  Day 3 you are sore, but you start to feel, ‘I’ve got this.’  But, then the next day, Rena leads you quite literally into Dead Valley.

I’ll set the stage by offering a bit more detail on the riding logistics than I’ve shared so far.  Every day on this ride is grueling.  We cover about 35 kilometers each day over both rolling hills at a canter and rocky ascents and descents at walks, trots, and on foot.  But the rides most days are split in two.  We set out in the morning when it is still cool. We ride for about three hours then stop for lunch and a nap in the shade (sometimes only to be found under Mama Blue). At about 4:30, we set out again for another two hour ride to our evening camp for dinner and a truck ride to the guest house (often as far as 40 minutes away).  But Rena told us Day 4 would be different.  There was no stopping in Dead Valley.  We’d still be doing 35 kilometers, but we’d do it all in one go. ‘No problem, I’ve got this,’ Day 3 arrogance said in reply.

Our Day 4 started inauspiciously.  The horse Rena had intended to ride as leader turned up lame, but this wasn’t known until after all the horses had been saddled.  Now, a lame horse would be a calamity on one of Kurt and my adventures at home because we have only the two horses with us at any time.  But Rena plans for this.  Our group of seven had left her farm in Meknes with ten horses – seven under saddle, one running bareback alongside us in case a change needs to be made mid-ride, and two travelling with the crew in a trailer.  So, this lameness was not insurmountable.  She threw her saddle on a different horse; saw the fit was not ideal; but, not wanting to lose any more time, had us leave.  Within 20 minutes, she knew it wouldn’t work.  We stopped, unsaddled her horse and one being ridden by one of the other clients, and switched out the saddles.  Another 20 minutes and Rena knew even this solution was inadequate.  She called the crew and set up a rendezvous location before we entered Dead Valley.  Though she was executing all these maneuvers at lightening-speed, they were adding to our already long ride and the sun was climbing high in the sky.

Now back home, I’ve always wondered how the Mormons looked at the Great Salt Lake and thought, hey ‘Let’s stop here.  This looks like a lovely place to plant some crops and start a community – I mean, there’s just so much lovely salt and sulfur, and the water is such a pretty white froth.  Perfect!’  Well, Morocco’s Dead Valley makes the Great Salt Lake look like a glass of lemonade.  It’s not a particularly wide valley but the mountains enclosing it are not covered with aspens or firs.  No, these mountains are bare heaps of grey, white, and yellow stone that apparently turns into slime at the first rain.  You cross back and forth across a stream of mud that you must navigate at exactly the right spot or sink to the horse’s belly in a mineral ooze.  The wind is gone, the sun Sahara strong, and the flies biting with relish at these foolish beings who had wandered into their otherwise lifeless realm.

Day 3 arrogance meant none of us had packed extra water and each sip had to be rationed.  When we finally climbed out of the valley and found a puddle created by a broken water main outside the blessed walls of Fez, I don’t think I was the only rider contemplating dismounting and joining the horses in their noisy slurping. 

Ask any outdoor adventure enthusiast to tell you about their sport, and they will spin you a crazy ‘crux’ story.  In a crux moment, you inevitably wonder if you need a major head examination.  But once the toxic mineral dust and flies settle, these are the moments that give you such a sense of accomplishment.  And, to be honest, make you feel like a total BAD ASS!!