Below is a transcript of an article written by Tristan Gooley and published by the Royal Institute of Navigation in Navigation News February 2005. To obtain a copy of the original article contact the RIN at www.rin.org.uk

The Toubkal Odyssey

This was going to be a holiday with a difference. As a travel agent I am fortunate to have an insider's view of the world of travel. The plan was to get a very different insider's view. Instead of selling a ticket from England to Morocco, I wanted to travel from London to the summit of Mount Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa, without buying a ticket. More by design than accident this would require sailing from the Hamble to the Channel Islands, flying a light aircraft through France and Spain to Tangier, driving from there to Imlil in the Atlas Mountains and then trekking to the summit of Mount Toubkal. Over cups of tea and mobile phone conversations my friends all informed me, one by one, that they would be unable to accompany me due to work, home or hair-washing commitments. All except for one brave soul, Marcus Mudd, who took about four seconds to make up his mind and then said, 'I'm definitely on.' And so began the Toubkal Odyssey.

My wife and baby son accompanied us down the M3 into and then out of pockets of mist to Hamble Point Marina, near Southampton. This is the home of the British Offshore Sailing School and Peter Ellis, the manager, had kindly agreed to help us with the logistically tricky problem of a one way charter to the Channel Islands. As we went over the Westerly Fulmar thoroughly, checking safety equipment and familiarising ourselves with the boat, the sun fought off the last of the mist and the sunglasses went on. I said goodbye to Sophie, who reminded me that Ben would be unimpressed in later life if I didn't get back safely and Ben, who seemed to approve of all the shiny things on the boat. The weather forecast was a game of two halves: we were currently near the edge of a high pressure system, but there were the remnants of a hurricane off Ireland. If the former held its ground we would be motoring most of the way to Jersey; if the impact of the latter arrived ahead of schedule we would move up the Beaufort scale rapidly. We slipped at 12.30 with the No.1 Jib hanked on and ready, but with the Storm Jib to hand in the cockpit locker.

As we emerged into the Solent from Southampton water, we were left in no doubt that it was Cowes Week. The Isle of Wight twinkled behind the gold flecks of dozens of Kevlar sails. We motored with the main up through the armada without (I believe) upsetting any racers and rounded the Needles at 17.15 in light variable winds. As the sun dipped and the temperature started to drop we felt a freshening of the breeze on our faces. Half an hour later we were making nearly six knots on a beam reach, which was at the top end of my expectations for a Fulmar. The wind held and we made better than planned progress across the channel. Marcus and I are both equipped with healthy appetites and so after nine hours of snacking I cooked up enough pasta for a crew of six and we ate it in the two large saucepans that it had been cooked in.

The mixed joys of crossing the busiest shipping lane in the world at night, without radar, short-handed in a 32ft boat kept us alert when most sensible people were sound asleep.
Arriving at the Alderney race two hours ahead of schedule the wind was still on the beam but now gusting force 5. After weighing all the options, I decided to put a reef in the mainsail and head on through the race against the last of the tide and using GPS to help shape a course as clear of all the overfall areas as possible. Naturally our speed over the ground reduced drastically, but I was happy as 3 knots in the right direction was better than 6 in the wrong one. In due course the tide turned and we were in prime position to get hurtled along with it. Marcus seemed a little disappointed that the legendary Alderney Race, which we had gone over in such detail, had been tamed so easily. We managed to grab 25 minutes' kip each before the sun came up and it wasn't long before Jersey was in sight. It soon disappeared behind a bank of mist, which thickened and advanced over us. Visibility deteriorated down to a few hundred metres and then the rain came: we were now beating into squall. As we rounded Corbiere Pt it was time for me to duck below and finalise the pilotage plan for St Helier (Marcus kindly volunteered to stay glued to the tiller and keep an eye on the rain for me.)
After threading our way through to St Helier Marina, we moored up, put the boat to bed, ate in a local Italian and then put ourselves to bed. Phase one was complete but we were both sound asleep before we realised it.

Twenty-four hours later we were killing time over a third cup of tea at Jersey Aero Club hoping for a change in the weather. The PA28 was all checked out, the flight plan paperwork was in order and we were keen to get stuck into the next phase. Marcus, with his linguist cap on, volunteered to call ahead to check if we could clear customs at La Rochelle. His French sounded faultless to me, but was not fully appreciated by the confused German lady at the other end. He reworked the international dialling code and had better luck the second time.
The updated forecasts pointed to a window of opportunity (not to be confused with a sucker's gap) and we leapt at it. The weather improved rapidly and St Malo enjoyed some sunshine as it passed under our port wing - according to the chart we were now over France. From 5500ft the towns and countryside looked unremarkable until the unmistakable Loire came into view and then shortly after it we saw the sea again. It had been less than a day since we were cold and wet, struggling to navigate through inhospitable advection fog and yet the sea was already a welcome sight again - it is so very alluring. The runway at La Rochelle was hard to pick out until we were on long finals. Human beings proved even harder to find once we landed. We enjoyed grappling with the very French system - all flight planning was handled by an unmanned computer while generous numbers of firemen sat a hundred yards away and watched us struggle with an occasional Gallic smile. We filed for San Sebastian hoping to make Spain that afternoon and pressed on.

There were storms to the east of us and the Air Traffic Controllers were dealing with numerous requests from scheduled services to be rerouted. We skirted the edge of the system and tracked from beacon to beacon down the coast towards the Pyrenees. Things were going well despite the proximity of the bad weather. Then we felt the edge of it. The winds at 9500ft were strong southerlies whipping round the low pressure system and they near halved our groundspeed. We descended to try and take the sting out of them and gained a little, but not enough. The light was fading and we were now caught by the rain as well. It took a while to adjust the cockpit lighting to keep the instruments and the last of the dusk light both visible. Time was against us: San Sebastian airport closed and we were left with no choice but to divert to Biarritz on the French side of the border. We landed at night and in heavy rain to the welcome of another unmanned computer.

We somehow managed to get a hotel room in a very popular resort in the south of France in August. It got better still, the following morning we were woken by the sun and looked out to discover that we had a glorious view of the main Biarritz beach - not bad since we had planned to be in another country at this point.
After walking along the beach, we found a café in the heart of the Biarritz scene and wolfed down a couple of croissants that had been served by a short-tempered young man; a more perfect French experience would be hard to imagine.

At the airport we fuelled the aircraft and were off again. As we approached the Spanish border the mountains rose up sharply to our left and we enjoyed some spectacular scenery where the hills came down to greet the Atlantic. Soon we were flying over Spain and as usual crossing an international border was something of an anti-climax in the air; the controllers greeted us like it was an everyday event for them, which of course it was. The rising terrain forced us ever higher and at 10500ft we had to manoeuvre round thick cumulus clouds. It was possible to feel the effects of the mountains in the air and gentle bumps soon became more serious up and down draughts. This threw the autopilot out completely as it over and under-compensated the pitch. One down-draught led to a dramatic pitch up, I disengaged the autopilot and its alarm sounded as the stall-warner horn, triggered early by turbulence, went off at the same time. It all sounded a lot more dramatic than it was, but kept us on our toes and I flew hands-on for most of the rest of the flight. The last hour of the flight was uneventful and the mountains below us yielded to endless green, yellow and brown plains.

We landed at Valladolid, which as far as we could tell from the air was in the middle of nowhere, and within minutes knew that this was not a place that we would be getting to know better. It was an eerie, desolate airport, a big runway and control tower with nothing much going on. We stood on the apron trying to assess where we were expected to pay the landing fees and I half expected to see some tumbleweed roll by. I radioed the tower for some fuel and a happy man with a weathered face, toothless grin and no English arrived in a truck to help us out. We finally found the operations room where the full force of Spanish bureaucracy hit us in a scene reminiscent of the Dead Parrot sketch.

"Use the computer," she ordered us through some thick glass.
"We can't," we replied.
"Use the computer," she insisted.
"It doesn't work," we replied.
"Use the computer. It is there." She was getting angry.
"It's not plugged into anything," we replied politely, holding up a fistful of leads that led nowhere. After filling in half a dozen forms in triplicate and drinking a strong coffee we were ready to escape.

We worked our way past some more mountain ranges and over some beautiful lakes heading ever south. The plains got steadily darker and more arid; this was Spaghetti Western territory now.
The runway at Jerez remained hidden until the last minute. After landing a car marshalled us to the GA area, where an air-conditioned minibus collected and ferried us to the arrivals office, where a friendly team helped us with the paperwork - all very slick.

That night we explored the town and got stuck in to some excellent tapas. The following day was a 'day off' so we ventured into the 11th Century Alcazar fortress with its serene gardens and magical 'camera obscura'. After lunch I was feeling a bit sleepy and mentioned that I might return to the hotel for a quick siesta - when in Rome and all that.
"Sleep is for when you are dead," Marcus retorted in disgust.
I woke up after two hours' sleep and woke Marcus up after another hour, with some difficulty. We sought out a jewel of a tapas restaurant for supper and got as much down us as possible; we weren't really sure what gastronomic delights lay ahead in North Africa.

The short flight past the Pillars of Hercules to Tangier went smoothly until the controller at Tangier got herself in a bit of a flap about nothing. We parked up next to some nice military hardware and made ourselves available for a Moroccan welcome. This took the form of some friendly frisking and conferring amongst men with nice uniforms and large girths. Our papers were in order and we were allowed through; I was ecstatic, phase two had gone without a major hitch and any worries I had had about customs difficulties, weather hindrances, the aircraft going technical etc. had proved unfounded. We celebrated with a cold beer in the airport lounge and then climbed into a taxi and headed into Tangier proper.
Our only night in Tangier was intense. Our room for the night was basic to say the least, but after venturing out into the Medina we were soon missing the shelter it offered. We had been warned about being hassled, hustled and accosted and we were not disappointed. King amongst these hassles was a man named Abdullah, who promised us the earth and then proceeded to chase us around most of it. The smells and noises that emanated from every nook of the rabbit warren of old Tangier were intoxicating. Arguments seemed to be the way everyone communicated with each other and some of them were distressing to witness. Beautiful women struggled to make their way down the narrow streets. Exhausted we took refuge, like cowards, in the Royal Tangier Yacht Club. It was a grand name for a small garden restaurant, but we were grateful for a brief respite from the real Tangier and Abdullah in particular. As we stood up to leave the manager thanked us for our custom with a bowl of rather disgusting tasting snails.
The following morning we met up with our pre-arranged contact and took possession of a Toyota Landcruiser. It was time to lock horns with the Moroccan road network. Much to our pleasant surprise the motorways were generally in better condition than those in the UK; the same could not be said for the smaller roads or the standard of driving. We had swapped roles and as the navigator my head was down in a map when Marcus called out:
"Get a picture of that!" We overtook a truck full of horses that was keen to occupy several lanes simultaneously. The coast road offered glimpses of the beach and sea before taking us past the sprawl of Rabat. At Casablanca we turned inland and headed for Marrakech. The roads got a little trickier and the local drivers were a constant source of anxiety. As we progressed towards the interior of Morocco the European influence was diluted and the surrounding towns and countryside became noticeably more African. At Marrakech we got our first look at the Atlas proper. The first sight of a mountain range that you will be climbing is always an important moment, a respect for them is vital. After negotiating the hairpin bends of the foothills at dusk we arrived at Imlil, where we had to leave the vehicle. A short uphill walk led to the Kasbah du Toubkal, our bed for the night, and they had laid on some mules to take our rucksacks for us, which went down very well indeed. Phase 3 was complete and we were in good shape despite Marcus sporting a thousand-yard-stare brought about by driving for 10 hours, dodging 'crazies' all the way, fuelled by little more than Pringles and caffeine. Not a bad result for crossing most of Morocco in a 4x4 on Friday the 13th.
We were ready to turn in by nine o' clock, but a series of events led to a poor night's sleep. The Muezzin's regular calls to prayer were evocative, but not conducive to slumber. These sounds were joined by some goats and other unidentified creatures that made their presence felt outside our windows. The hum of mosquitoes in and around our ears led to some mild cursing and it all built to a horrible crescendo as the tagine from the night before revisited me at both ends at half-past four.
After three hours dashing to and from the bathroom, Marcus kindly enquired whether we should postpone the trek for 24 hours. In an act of folly I dismissed his suggestion, muttering something like, 'let's go for it, it is just what they'd be least expecting' while downing a few too many Immodium.

It wasn't long before I came to reassess that decision. Crossing a parched river bed in the early morning sun the nausea made drinking hard, but drinking lots was essential. It was slow progress, the temperature rose steadily as the gradient got steeper and the air thinner. Marcus was as patient as a saint as I experimented with various tactics to try and get the nausea to subside. It was essential that I wasn't feeling too sick for the push to the summit, as it would be impossible to detect the onset of any altitude sickness. In the end, some glucose energy bars seemed to do the trick and it was possible to pick up the pace a little.
We reached the refuge at the end of a long valley trek and set up camp outside it. After a couple of hours' rest we grabbed a bite to eat in the refuge and compared notes with some other trekkers. Pre-summit get-togethers are always accompanied by a marvellous helping of gallows humour.
We were awake at 4am, well before the alarm, and peered outside the tent, optimistically scouring the valley side for the glow of torches. Marcus had checked out the start of the path in daylight, but he later confessed that he had a horrible feeling that as we began the final stage we were heading the wrong way. Fortunately we were on track; we had come a long way and it would have been a painful place to take a wrong turn.
The summit was barely three hours away, but the terrain changed dramatically and regularly. We crossed a stream, scrambled over boulders and followed a line of mini-cairns as the route got steadily steeper. It was soon time to tackle the obstacle that all mountains this size seem to throw out as a last defence: scree. Three steps forward, two steps back. The air was noticeably thinner now and the last few hundred metres seem to take forever. Then a plateau, this time not a false summit, but the real thing. The final minute was an easy stroll up a very gentle incline to the summit marker. We celebrated under the iron pyramid structure with a cold ration pack that had made it all the way from England with us. We'd done it!

By combining the different stages: sea, air and land, into one challenge we were guaranteed a really unusual experience and we were not disappointed. I felt I had learnt a great deal by the end of it, not least that it was enjoyable because although we planned and researched the trip thoroughly before, we allowed ourselves to smile through all the inevitable surprises that came our way during it. It was one of those trips that reminded me that travel is all about the journey, not just the destination.

For other navigation related articles by Tristan Gooley see:

Two Worlds

A comparison of the training required for the pilot's Instrument Rating and the sailor's Yachtmaster qualification.

Making Sense of it All

Reawakening the senses in the cockpit.

Arctic Postcard

A holiday far up north.

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