In Morocco's High Atlas Mountains, Joining One of the Oldest Migrations in Africa

A continuous symphony of bleats and baas reverberates through the canyons and basalt formations of Jebel Saghro. Shielding my eyes from the midday glare, I catch sight of the distant red djellaba of Telhou Belâawane, the matriarch of the Berber family accompanying me in Morocco. Her presence affirms that the goats are nearby.

Jebel Saghro is the ancestral land of Telhou's people, the Aït Atta, a historically influential Berber (or Amazigh, meaning free people) tribe located in southeast Morocco. This rugged region stretches from the High Atlas Mountains to the periphery of the Sahara Desert, and twice yearly serves as the setting for one of Africa's most ancient migrations. For generations, Aït Atta and other Berber families have migrated their livestock up to 180 miles from the summer grazing fields of the High Atlas to the winter pastures of Jebel Saghro. This seasonal pastoral movement, termed transhumance, epitomizes a semi-nomadic lifestyle that is quickly fading from existence.

In late September, I meet Telhou, her husband Hmad, and daughter Saâdia, who are ten days into their journey, with a support team from travel operator Black Tomato. Hiking alongside a family and their herd forms one of five immersive experiences featured in The Keepers, Black Tomato's latest collection of itineraries. Each trip centers around individuals whose knowledge is still actively practiced and transmitted, ranging from a 28th-generation Daoist master in Chengdu, China, to a mariscador on Chiloé Island in Chile, who has spent a lifetime understanding the ocean's tides.

Prior to my arrival, the Belâawane caravan consisted of 200 goats, two dogs for herding, two chickens for eggs, and three donkeys used to carry essentials such as tea kettles, water jugs, blankets, and food supplies. Black Tomato augmented this with five mules and a dozen additional personnel — two drivers, four logistics staff to assist in pitching my canvas tent equipped with a bed and flush toilet, a chef, and five mule handlers, all of whom managed food, luggage, and extra comforts during my stay. Some of these individuals are relatives of the Belâawane family, while many, including our head mule handler, Zaïd Oukhazaid, have reluctantly left behind their nomadic lifestyles for permanent village existence due to various factors, including climate change.

On the day of my arrival, Zaïd and another mule handler greet me by the roadside in Tagdilt, a village at the edge of the Dadès Valley. Both don coarse wool djellabas and turbans, known as shesh, atop their heads. Zaïd, with a broad smile and an infectious personality, greets me with warmth, pulling me into a bear hug and enthusiastically declaring, “welcome, welcome,” one of several English phrases he has meticulously learned while working with tourists.

My own language skills in Arabic, French, and Berber are basic at best. Noureddine (Nouri) Bachar has joined us as a translator to facilitate communication, yet I quickly discover that much can be expressed through simple phrases like "thank you very much," "very very good," along with laughter and smiles.

Anticipating rain, the family has commenced their journey earlier than planned, and they will rendezvous with us at camp, Nouri explains. "The nomads dictate the days," he states. "You are here to support their journey and we are here to support yours." Once the mules are packed, Zaïd gestures for us to follow him into the dramatic landscape that unfolds ahead. I now comprehend why Saghro is referred to as the Land of Thirst in the Berber language. Before us lies an extensive panorama of flat-topped mesas, parched riverbeds, and ochre cliffs. Sensing my hesitance, Zaïd quips, "Drop me in a city, I'd be lost. Drop me anywhere in these mountains, and I know my way."

We ascend to the Tircht pass, situated at 6,100 feet, just as the team completes the camp setup. Each Aït Atta family possesses designated migration routes, which include camps like this one where they have constructed stone pens, known as azib, to shelter their herds. Zaïd draws water from a well and ignites a fire to boil water for tea.

As night falls, the family and our team gather in a goat-hair tent for introductions and a shared communal meal by candlelight, creating an ambiance reminiscent of a family reunion. The men engage in lively conversation while Telhou and her daughter, a reserved 17-year-old, sit quietly. Traditionally, the family patriarch leads the caravan and sets up camp each evening, while the women and children undertake the demanding work of maneuvering the goats, in addition to household duties such as meal preparation. My presence alleviates the women from their cooking responsibilities for the next few days, as our chef serves bowls of harira, a rich tomato-based soup infused with beans, herbs, and spices.

The nomadic lifestyle faces increasing challenges. Rising temperatures and severe droughts have diminished available pastures. Since 2019, children aged 6 to 16 are legally required to attend school, resulting in fewer hands available to manage the herds. Telhou's family has four of six children attending school, another daughter is married, and soon Saâdia will be seeking a husband. Once young people experience modern comforts, returning to the difficulties associated with a land-based existence becomes an arduous task. Hmad shares that only six families from his sub-tribe, the Ait Slilou, undertook the migration to Jebel Saghro this year, a steep decline from the previous count of over 80. Globally, lifestyles dependent on familial structures and the land are gradually vanishing, from the sheep herders of the Swiss Alps to ranching families in the American West.

The braying of donkeys serves as the camp's wake-up call each morning. While I enjoy coffee accompanied by a breakfast of baghrir, crepe-like pancakes topped with amlou, a Moroccan variant of almond butter, the team dismantles the camp. We leave no trace behind, other than the stone shelter where the goats rested overnight. By 7:30 a.m., Nouri and I commence our journey with the family. Hmad guides the donkeys along a dusty path bordered by almond and date trees, while Telhou and Saâdia hike alongside the herd, navigating rough terrain. I am struck with awe as Saâdia adeptly scales steep scree slopes in her gleaming gold-striped dress and plastic loafers, showing agility akin to that of the sturdy mountain goats.

Today's trek spans 7.5 miles and leads us over Tizi n' Tircht, a mountain pass at 8,200 feet that offers breathtaking views back towards the High Atlas, and downward to a secluded campsite known as Azib Almou n' Ouarg. Apart from another nomadic family with a caravan of three camels, we encounter no other travelers along the way. Nouri and I follow the rugged path with Hmad and reach camp just past 1 p.m. Famished, I relish a lunch that features kefta and Moroccan salads, then ease my aching feet out of my hiking boots and join the rest of the crew in a post-lunch siesta. Meanwhile, the women continue their journey in synchronicity with the herd, pausing every hour or so to allow the goats to graze, and do not arrive in camp until nearly 5 p.m.

By the second night, I feel increasingly integrated into the family, especially upon learning that a goat has been "sacrificed" in my honor. The chef crafts a meal from hoof to horn, and as I sample skewers of various parts—heart, lungs, intestines—the dinner conversation shifts towards politics. It is a momentous day; the king has appointed the first female prime minister. When I inquire why this news excites Telhou, she responds simply, "because I'm a woman, too."

On the third morning, I express the desire to accompany the women off the beaten path. Our route measures just under seven miles but is steeper than previous hikes. I begin to notice subtle distinctions among the goats—twisted horns, shaggy beards, and white ears on a one-year-old kid I affectionately name Mittens. Telhou employs primal shouts to keep the herd cohesive, while Saâdia skillfully uses a slingshot mechanism to deter stray goats. What would otherwise be a challenging hike is imbued with purpose—care for the herd—and fosters a deeper human connection to the majestic landscape.

The scenery today, characterized by red rocks and flat mesas, evokes the impression of Utah, as our hike takes on the semblance of a geological safari. Once again, upon meeting up with Hmad and descending into camp, I find myself physically drained. In our contemporary era of comfort, undertaking difficult endeavors yields profound satisfaction, yet as I wash away the dust of the day in my bucket shower, I ponder whether I could sustain this lifestyle. It holds a certain blissful simplicity, akin to an annual hiking retreat with friends and family where the group is compelled to disconnect from digital distractions due to limited cellular service. Nonetheless, the modern-day pressures are exchanged for the tangible challenges faced by the tribe—finding water, ensuring warmth, and guarding their herd—their means of survival—from wild dogs and jackals.

Despite the day's tribulations, Telhou sits by the fire attempting to instruct me in the art of making aghroum, a traditional Moroccan flatbread. She effortlessly tosses the circular dough with finesse. That evening, we gather around a communal bowl brimming with couscous embellished with goat meat, carrots, and zucchini. There are no individual plates; we eat directly from the bowl, with Zaïd distributing the meat judiciously to ensure fairness. Before I retreat to my tent for the night, Saâdia inquires if she may adorn my hands with henna. I allow the dark green paste she meticulously applies to dry over the fire.

On our final day with the family, I request to join the women once more. My confidence in navigating the terrain has increased, allowing me to observe the herd more acutely. A glimmer of white atop the pass catches my attention—Mittens has ventured away from the group. I toss rocks and attempt to replicate Telhou's commanding calls. Mittens responds, scampering back down the slope alongside me. Before parting ways with the family at their winter dwelling, Telhou assures me that I have earned my place and would always be welcomed back. "She is a nomad at heart," she states. I find myself contemplating the prospect of making this an annual hiking tradition with my newly adopted nomadic family, believing that experiences like this can contribute to the survival of the nomadic way of life.