Sun streamed down onto the roof terrace, as I sat with Molly, basking in the warmth that was sporadically stripped away by a gust of the cold breeze. Adjusting the cushion on the overly upright metal chair, I tried to summon the motivation to get our kit sorted and head out climbing, make the most of the weather. I failed and continued to sit there, feeling the heat on my skin shift as the sun slid inexorably down towards the horizon. The 3am start to catch our flight had drained me. I could only imagine how Molly felt, having had to do the driving out into the mountains while I napped in the passenger seat. I felt guilty, she must be even more tired than I am. 

We’d arrived at the gite in the early afternoon and had been welcomed in. Molly’s recollection of French from school had abandoned her and I was no better as I had opted to study Spanish instead. The only notion of the French language my tired brain could retrieve was a tale of a family friend who had gone to a boulangerie in Fontainebleau to get some bread and realised the only number he knew in French was ‘soixante-neuf’, he didn’t need that many baguettes, and the anecdote wasn’t that useful right now. I stood by as Molly reverted to sign language and smiles to do our introductions to our Moroccan hosts.  

The afternoon’s warm sun is what I generally expect from Morocco. Unfortunately, the weather forecast was not sanguine about the chance of good weather for the week of our trip. To our consternation most days had at least some rain forecast. Saturday looked dry until early afternoon, so we headed to “The Crevasse”, a small roadside crag, hoping to get a route in before the rain arrived. 

The routes start from the top of a huge flake that forms a bergschrund beneath the main cliff. I started up Saga Lout, feeling distinctly rusty at trad climbing having not placed any gear since our trip to Red Rock in October 2024, some 4 months ago. After an initial rising traverse, the wall bulges, feeling slightly overhanging. I pulled up into the crux sequence, flailed around ineptly and ultimately fluffed it, taking the ride onto my gear. It took multiple attempts to head back up, locate the critical holds and piece together how to use them. Eventually I made it past the crux and crack that followed, up to where the angle eases for a final slab. I pulled over the change of angle only to feel the first spots of rain on my face. I scurried as fast as I could to the top of the route, my sixth sense coming into its own as I found the anchor and abseil station immediately. The rain intensified as Molly climbed and by the time she reached the final slab it was soaked and unclimbable, forcing her to yard on the rope. Abseiling quickly to the base of the route we sheltered in the crevasse, out in the valley the wind whipped the rain, we’d made a good crag choice as we were shielded from the worst of the weather. Even so, the rain had truly set in now, everything was soaked, and we scuttled back to the car, the rest of the day was a write off. 

In the morning the rain had ebbed, but the clouds clung to the mountains and threatened. We decided our best bet of staying dry was to head south out of the main massif to the Ameln Valley near Tafraout. During our last trip to Morocco in November 2023, it had been scorchingly hot, we had climbed at the north facing Black Crag with the temperature in the mid-thirties. Back then, we had skipped climbing at the nearby Sentinel Rock, as the crag faces south and we feared melting faster than a lolly under a blowtorch  but now south-facing sounded ideal and even better  Sentinel Rock is a small rock tower, it shouldn’t hold any water from the previous night’s rain and if the rain did catch us the routes are only short and so easy to run away from. Driving down out of the mountains in the north felt familiar behaviour for a British trad climber, the habit of running from the rain to Tremadog translated to the Anti-Atlas. 

We parked up outside the village beneath the crag, Molly doing her best to decipher the rather enigmatic description of how to reach the crag. She guided me through the literal maze of small seemingly abandoned mud-built huts packed so close together the alleys between them were narrower than my wingspan. Jinking left then right we rose through the village and up the short escarpment behind, to arrive below Sentinel Rock. The highlight of the climbing was Money Shot, my trad skills still felt rusty, but at least my fingers felt strong. 

The pattern of running from the mountains to escape the weather continued through the trip, the comprehensive tick list of mountain routes we’d compiled beforehand remained unticked as we spent multiple days in the Ameln Valley or on the granite just outside Tafraout. However, there were several routes that stood out for me, the crack routes: Waterloo Crack, Trafalgar Crack and Onion Skin Crack. But the route that made the deepest impression on me was Pole Dancer. It climbs a freestanding pinnacle of deep orange rock that overlooks the valley, taking the foreground to a backdrop of imposing cliffs. The route climbs the tower in a mighty 40+m single pitch. 

We had to crawl underneath a thicket of exceedingly spikey bushes to reach the base, and Molly took the opportunity to have a good inspection of the route with binoculars and decipher the snaking line the route takes. It starts from a platform on the right and then climbs left around the arete. It follows cracks on the left of the arete, past a clump of euphorbia, the nasty cactus with the stinging sap, until you are high on the tower. Then the difficulties begin. From the guidebook and her binocular inspection, Molly thought the route went back around the arete to the right face. I wasn’t sure. It seemed so improbable from where I was. The moves to get up and right onto the arete were hard, technical and balancy. I kept questioning if this was really the right way, reaching up to the left instead. “It must be up left”, “There’s no way it goes round there”, “these moves feel desperate” I thought. Only when I reached up left and dislodged a loose piece of rock did I admit to myself that the correct way must be to the right. With considerable trepidation, I moved up and right onto the sharp arete which forms a thin fin of rock beneath a steep and featureless overhanging wall above. I squatted precariously beneath the bulging wall on the fin, trying to work out how to go further right. I was stumped. Right of the fin, the wall is undercut, there is nothing to put your feet on. There is some gear, but it was a small dragonfly, not totally awe-inspiring and you would be moving horizontally away from it, increasing the potential pendulum with every move right. I faffed. Squatting uncomfortably on the fin, trying to work out what I had to do. I had already ruled out going left, straight up wasn’t an option, it must be right but it’s going to be hard, there are no footholds to speak of, well none that I can find anyway, and the handholds don’t seem great. Once I move right, I’m not going to be able to reverse the moves and if I mess it up, I’m going to swing horizontally into the arete, a nasty fall if the gear stays in, even worse if not.

I must trust Molly, from this distance she can see the rough line of the route, but can’t point out any holds, it’s down to me, and with effort I swing right and past the point of no return. Dropping my feet lower to smear on whatever I can find; they’re not doing much for me. I crab out to the right, questing with my hands in search of something, anything, to pull on. Move by nerve jangling move, I leave the sanctuary of the gear behind. Molly silently belays, heart in mouth.  Until, with great relief I find a sloping ramp with holds to pull me up onto it. I think it’s over, but where next? Farther right is covered in moss and lichen, but straight up above the ramp is overhanging, it’s got to be 20 degrees past vertical, surely it doesn’t go up there, does it? Molly does her best to direct me, but she’s finding it hard to see, not only because I’m a long way above her now, but also a sharp rain shower has blown in and it’s sheeting down, raindrops sting her eyes as she tries to look up and direct me. The saving grace is that the tower is shielding me, I’m not getting wet. Good job as the climbing is hard enough without wet holds to worry about. I recuperate on the ramp, the shower passes, and I suck in a huge breath and try and calm myself, before launching into the headwall. Molly can’t tell the angle of the wall from down below and is blithely telling me to “just head straight up there”. The wall is steep, and the handholds are side pulls, to use them I need feet out wide to push off, footholds that, obviously, I can’t see. With monumental mental and physical effort, I leave the ramp and set out into the second section of wild terrain. My arms, core and inner spirit level, all vie to be the first to complain to my brain about the angle canting past the vertical, all are given short shrift as I’m fully focused on trying to find those elusive footholds. As I work higher, I am relieved to find a crack that takes a good cam, at least I won’t be bouncing off that ramp if I blow it now. The relief blooms as the angle kicks back to vertical and then to slab, a few good jams and a jug later, with my lungs heaving and a huge smile splitting my face I pull up and onto the tower’s top.  

The feeling is intense, the sense of having passed some sort of test or survived a battle, but there is no opponent, instead it is more about self-discovery. Routes like this teach you a great deal about yourself, where your boundaries are and how close you can get to them. In this case, did I have it in me to face down those sections of wild improbability and uncertain outcome. Clearly, on this occasion I did and that brings deep satisfaction. As my mind slowly returns to the present, I realise that it’s intense for both of us. I can hear the moment she knew I’d done it; the quaver in her voice as tears flood Molly’s eyes in a rush of released emotion, the relief, the sheer delight, the belief she had in me, the unwavering trust, all realised. But it’s only when she climbs the route after me, removing the gear, finding the holds, following the vague line, that she fully appreciates the enormity of the challenge she’d set me. The memory of this route is unlikely to ever fade for either of us, and that makes us both stronger.  

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