The alarm went off like a brick to the head; it took a few tries to regain enough intellect to turn it off, but once I did, everyone was wide awake. It's never nice to be woken up at 3 in the morning, but having to instantly get up and go is jarring, even if it is according to plan.

We grabbed our bags and quietly made our way through the medina to meet up with our driver. At the early hour the alleys were free of scooters, their noise and their exhaust, and the quiet tranquility of the alleyways was quite welcome.

Ibrahim drove us up into the hills, through many winding, unpaved roads, into the village of Imlil. We met our guides, a young man named Omar, who would be leading us to the summit, and Mohammed, a few years his senior, who would stay at the refuge and cook us lunch while we summited, accompanied by a donkey who was carrying the food makings.

At a few minutes shy of 5 in the morning, we set out, hiking in the dark, up several switchbacks. Our rapid pace took us up to a relatively smooth road; far down below we could hear a thundering river. The road turned into a dry ravine, filled with large grapefruit sized stones, but we managed to keep our steady pace.

The ravine opened into a broad, rocky riverbed, and on the far side of the river we picked up a rock-strewn path that wound around some small farm houses. We crossed over the river again on a concrete bridge just as the sky was starting to lighten.

As the day broke, we were greeted with gorgeous views of the valley below and the peaks above. The sky was clear blue, and the vegetation had the lightest dusting of snow from the night before.

Up we went, following the rocky trail, which was thick with donkey turds. As we passed by the tiny settlement of Chammarouch, the guides took some bamboo canes from one of the huts, and fashioned hiking poles for Clare and I; these poles would later prove to be a godsend, saving our knees and helping keep stable on the rough terrain.

There were many interesting things to take pictures up, but I didn't want to slow the group down, so I decided to wait until the way back down to break out the camera. The mountain was gorgeous, with colorful knee-high shrubs filling the valley.

Our guides were pretty quiet, mostly talking to each other in Berber. At one point, one asked me if I'd like to ride the donkey, but other than asking if we were OK, they didn't talk to us much. Mohammed didn't really speak English, and Omar seemed to only have a rudimentary grasp of it.

The pace slowed considerably as we got higher, passing the 2500 meter mark. Eventually we got to the Neltner refuge, up at 3100 meters or so. Two buildings of fairly recent construction, nestled in , the refuge serves as the final rest for the ascent. Most hikers stop and spend the night before continuing on to the summit, but we just drank some tea, put on more layers, and continued on our way, leaving Mohammed behind in the kitchen.

As we had been approaching Neltner, we were dusted with a light fall of large, granular snow, which continued as we left. Not expecting cold weather, I didn't think to pack gloves or a warm hat. I borrowed a pair of too-small work gloves from Barry, but realized later that all they really did was cut off circulation to my fingers, making them dangerously cold. I took them off and instead kept one hand in my pocket with a hand warmer from Clare.
None of us had really planned for cold weather; Clare had gloves in her standard hiking kit, but Barry was in board shorts, and I only had an extra base layer to keep me warm.

The ascent from Neltner is tough: 2-3 miles of rocky, icy trail, going up more than 1000 meters (3300 feet) in elevation. Much of the way is over 2-3 foot high boulders, and the rest is through loose scree with patches of ice. The net effect is that you're climbing stairs for several miles; with the altitude and cold, I fought hard to keep a steady pace.

Barry, the hyper-fit pentegenarian, zoomed on ahead of use, and the guide was somewhere up ahead of us.

The day we were climbing they were running a marathon up the mountain for the first time ever; occasionally we would stop and cheer on one of the Spanish athletes as they ran by. Between them and the tourists, the trail was pretty crowded, and we didn't have to worry about getting lost.

Eventually we caught up with the guide, who was socializing with one of the race guides. Clare proceeded ahead at her customary pace, while the guide stayed back with me. Sort of.

At one point I lost sight of the guide entirely, just as the trail grew faint. I used one of the race flags as a target, but picking my way through the ice and scree was pretty treacherous. After that the guide stayed pretty close by.

Slowly, the altimeter ticked up, as the mercury dropped. Past 3600 meters, then 3700 and 3800. The next hundred meters of elevation were pretty rough: I'd take four or five steps, stop to rest and catch my breath, and repeat. Between the altitude, the distance we'd gone, and the lack of sleep, I was getting pretty beat up.

At 3900 meters, I started weighing options. I was making about 5 meters of elevation gain per minute. With 400 meters to go, I was looking at an hour and a half more to reach the summit, and the weather was only going to get worse. I asked myself "Am I the kind of person who wants to enjoy what I'm doing, or wants to talk about the cool things I've done?"

I decided that I didn't want to torture myself to get to the top. As I passed the 4000 meter mark, I saw a large saddle ahead that was sure to bring more wind. I picked a spot and told the guide that I was done; I'd sit there and wait for Clare and Barry to come down from the top. The guide urged me to start going down after I rested, and then went up after Clare and Barry.

I found a flat, dry rock, sat down and tried to warm up while eating a frozen hard energy bar. For the first time on the hike, I pulled the camera out and took some pictures.

I descended slowly using the cane and makeing sure that I had solid footing; still, the pace down was much quicker than the way up.

Being alone, I took the liberty to stop and take pictures, which was quite a process: set the stick down, unbuckle the backpack, take it off and set it down, undo the straps and take the camera out, take pictures, put the camera back, close the pack, put it back on and readjust the weight, pick up the cane, warm up the hands, and continue on my way. Getting the straps adjusted for proper weight distribution was vital, if it was off by even a little, my back quickly complained. Since it was still snowing and freezing cold, I couldn't just leave the camera out, and had to make sure to get everything sealed up each time.

The guide came back down as I was taking a picture break, with Clare and Barry not too far behind. I asked Omar if they had made it to the top, to which he responded, "they're coming." I don't think he knew what the word "summit" was, a bit shocking for an "English speaking" mountaineering guide. Further, he asked if I had some food he could eat! I tossed him a Clif bar as I picked up to continue down.

They had indeed made it to the top, where it was white-out conditions, with heavy snow and wind. Clare stayed with me while Barry continued on at light speed. The guide continued on, but usually wasn't too far ahead.

We made good progress down, stopping for a couple of pictures, and to take some ibuprofen. The big steps down over the boulders were killing our knees, and Clare and I commiserated over our genetic inheritance: weak knees and poor respiration.

Clare was pretty upset from an encounter with a rude Spanish woman up at the summit, so I gave her a hug and buoyed her spirits with encouraging words.

Back at Neltner, a nice spread was waiting for us. Unfortunately, the instructions for vegetarian food for Barry and Clare hadn't been relayed, and the egg tagine had a healthy layer of ground beef at the bottom. There were plenty of fresh veggies, though, and a plate of cut melon to boot. We ate quick and returned outside, where we were greeted by driving snow.

Not slowed by the snow, we hurried down the mountain, passing several groups of people headed for the refuge, including an American Peace Corp worker who spoke fluent Berber.

The snow continued to fall, getting 3-4 inches deep. Combined with the many rocks littering the path, the going was quite treacherous. My boots would have stayed perfectly dry, except for the half dozen times I rolled my ankles into the wet snow on a hidden rock.

At about 2500 meters the snow let up, with the trail turning into a river of water. Remember the donkey poo I mentioned before? Yep, we were hiking down shit creek. With bamboo paddles, no less.

We continued down past Chammarouch, and down into the valley. Clare got impatient to get back to the car and ran head, while Barry and I plodded along.

She got so far ahead that we lost sight of her, and were concerned that she had missed a turn. As we walked back along the road, we could see the river raging a couple hundred feet below the sheer edge; Omar showed us a couple of bolted routes that went down the rock face.

We made it back to Imlil, where Clare was waiting at the car with Ibrahim. Apparently she had caught up with Mohammed on the donkey, and practically rand behind him back to the village. At 6 in the evening, 13 hours after starting off, we got back into the car and made our way to Marrakech.

The rain had turned some of the roads into slick mud, so it was slow going driving down the mountain. When we got back to the flat lands, we called the hotel and asked for another spaghetti dinner. Getting into Marrakech, we looked for a store to get Barry some beer, but we just missed the 8pm closing time. Sorry Barry, no beer for you tonight.

Back at the riad, we set down our wet, muddy gear, and were served another excellent meal. We spent some more time talking to the owner, and then retired to our room. Man, that shower was like heaven.