...riding camels into the Sahara and climbing the Atlas in Morocco

We moved steadily across the Sahara, our camels pointed toward the small desert town of Zagora. As I swayed rhythmically atop my perch, my eyes were repeatedly drawn to ancient ruins that lie silent, massive, and haunting along the steep face of a lone rocky peak. Who were the builders, why had they built here, and what had become of them? If stones could talk, what tales would this fallen heap of sun-blackened rocks tell? Perhaps the story of the Sahara itself I mused idly. It was 8:30 in the morning, and already the unprotected skin on my neck was burning. She stood just to the side of the small trail leading into her village and waved without understanding why. Then, taking her dirty pink apron in tiny fists, she wiped her runny nose, smiled happily, and waved again. Her bright two-year-old eyes, filled with innocent wonder, caught the last rays of the setting sun. Her unkept brown hair danced in the faint mountain breeze. She was beautiful. Pausing, I smiled back at her—but a melancholy pain tugged at my heart, for I knew the moment could not last. Turning, she tottered off towards her mother, and I continued on my way. I do not know her name, and never will. - - - 

Less than three hours into the Marrakech to Fez bus ride, my sightseeing foray had turned into a surreal hell. Around me I heard the sounds of vomit spattering down on the dirty bus floor as motion-weary passengers retched silently in the suffocating heat. Turning from the dusty window, I closed my eyes and attempted a feverish slumber. We still had seven hours before we reached Fez al Bali. - - - 

The angry winds shrieked down from the Tizi n' Ougane all night, making sleep in the tiny stone refuge at Neltner all but impossible. I stuffed my ears with toilet paper in a vain attempt to muffle the shrill gusts careening off the rocks and boulders surrounding our advanced base camp. But sleep was fleeting. As my lungs labored to take in enough of the oxygen-starved air, I tossed and turned, wondering if Drew would be forced to postpone our summit attempt on Northern Africa's highest peak. At some point during the night I drifted in and out of a series of bizarre altitude-induced dreams. I awoke at 4:30am. The time had come. We would make the attempt. 

 Like a procession of living dead, we crossed a glacier fed stream and crept toward the headwall of Toubkal's southern col. The wind droned in our ears, masking any conversation and drowning out the sound of our boots on the loose rock. Each climber was left to his own thoughts, a solitary link in a darkling chain amid the wind, the rock, and the early morning's greyish halflight. We had been on the headwall for nearly two hours. Icy gusts of wind tore at my clothes and literally sucked the saliva from my mouth. The more violent bursts sprayed us with a jagged sheet of loose gravel and scree, driving us quickly to our knees or sending us sprawling. Each time I arose, I passed a hand gingerly over the exposed skin of my face, checking for blood. I found none. - - -