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

A persistent chorus of shrill bleats and guttural baas echo across the canyons and basalt towers of Jebel Saghro. I squint against the midday sun. In the distance, high on a rocky peak, I spot the red djellaba worn by Telhou Belâawane, the matriarch of the Berber family I am traveling with in Morocco. Her presence confirms that the goats are near. I squint again, searching the crags and stony folds of the mountains for our herd. But to my untrained eye, their onyx-coats are frustratingly indistinguishable from the volcanic terrain.

Jebel Saghro is the ancestral homeland of Telhou’s people, the Aït Atta, a historically powerful Berber (or Amazigh, which means free people) tribe in southeast Morocco. This rugged region unfurls from the High Atlas Mountains to the edge of the Sahara and twice each year it serves as the backdrop for one of the oldest migrations in Africa. For millennia, Aït Atta and other Berber families have moved their livestock upwards of 180 miles from the summer grazing grounds of the High Atlas to the winter pastures of Jebel Saghro. This seasonal pastoral journey, known as transhumance, defines a semi-nomadic way of life that is rapidly disappearing.

It’s late September and Telhou and her husband, Hmad, and daughter, Saâdia, are 10 days into their trek when I join them with a support team from travel operator Black Tomato. Hiking alongside a family and their herd is one of five immersive experiences that comprise The Keepers, Black Tomato’s newest collection of itineraries. Each trip is built around people whose knowledge continues to be practiced and passed down, from a 28th-generation Daoist master in Chengdu, China, to a mariscador on Chiloé Island in Chile who has spent a lifetime reading the ocean’s tides.

A pioneer of off-the-grid luxury, Black Tomato has an instinct for knowing what discerning travelers will crave next. With The Keepers, Black Tomato co-founder Tom Marchant predicts that in a world where nearly anything can be looked up or generated in seconds, human knowledge and connection are the ultimate luxuries. And more than ever, travelers want to be students, not just spectators.

Before my arrival, the Belâawane’s caravan comprised 200 goats, two dogs to help herd the goats, two chickens for eggs, and three donkeys to transport the chickens, tea kettles, jugs for water, blankets, and other food and camp supplies. Black Tomato added five mules and a dozen more people — two drivers, four logistics men to help pitch my canvas tent with its bed and flush toilet, a chef, and five mule handlers whose animals carried all of the food, luggage, and extra comforts for my stay. Some are cousins of the Belâawane family and many, like our head mule handler, Zaïd Oukhazaid, have reluctantly abandoned their nomadic ways for permanent village life for a variety of reasons, including climate change.

On the day I arrive, Zaïd and another mule handler meet me roadside in Tagdilt, a village at the edge of the Dadès Valley. Both wear coarse, sheep’s wool djellabas over trekking pants and plaid shirts and have turban-like scarves, known as shesh, piled high on their heads. Zaïd cracks a wide smile exposing the gap left by four missing front teeth. Diminutive in stature he has an outsized personality and deep pride in his Aït Atta heritage.

He outstretches a sinewy arm and after two strong shakes of my hand pulls me into a bear hug exclaiming, “welcome, welcome,” one of a handful of English phrases he has mastered while working with tourists. My Arabic, French, and Berber language skills are also rudimentary. Noureddine (Nouri) Bachar has joined as my translator to interpret and facilitate conversations, but over the next few days I’m surprised to find how much can be communicated with “thank you very much,” “very very good,” and laughter and smiles.

With rain looming, the family got an earlier start with the herd and will meet us at camp, explains Nouri. “The nomads dictate the days,” he says. “You are here to support their journey and we are here to support yours.” Once the mule is loaded with our bags Zaïd beckons us to follow him into the Martian-like landscape that lies ahead. I now understand why Saghro is known as the Land of Thirst in the Berber tongue. Before us sprawls an endless expanse of flat-topped mesas, dry riverbeds, and umber cliffs. He seems to sense my uncertainty. “Drop me in a city, I’d be lost,” Zaïd says. “Drop me anywhere in these mountains, and I know my way.”

The two-hour hike is a warm-up for days ahead of us where we'll be trekking for five or more hours. We reach Tircht pass, set at 6,100 feet, just as the team is finishing setting up camp. Each Aït Atta family has traditional rights to specific migration routes, including camps like this one where they have built stone pens known as azib to shelter their herd. Zaïd fetches water from a well and makes a fire to heat a kettle for tea. I stop him just as he’s about to drop an iceberg sized chunk of sugar into the pot. I ask Nouri to tell him I’d like to keep my teeth. Understanding my joke, he lets out a full belly laugh and passes me an unsweetened pour.

After the sun sets, the family and our team gather in a goat-hair tent for a proper introduction and to share a communal meal by candlelight. The vibe feels like a family reunion. The men gab and gossip while Telhou and her daughter, a shy 17 year old, sit quietly together. Traditionally, the man of the house leads the caravan and sets up camp each night while the wife and kids have the arduous task of moving the goats, on top of household duties like preparing meals. My arrival means the women get the next few days off from cooking duties. Our chef ladles out bowls of harira, a thick tomato-y soup spiked with beans, herbs, and spices. Nouri passes me a spoon, but I follow Zaïd’s lead and pick up my bowl with my hands and take a long slurp. “The nomad way,” Zaïd says, nodding approvingly.

The nomad way has become increasingly difficult. Rising temperatures and severe droughts have shrunk pastures. Since 2019, children between the ages of 6 and 16 are legally required to attend school, which means fewer hands to tend the herds. Four of Telhou’s six children are at school, one daughter is married, and soon Saâdia will find a husband. And once youth are introduced to modern conveniences (electricity with the flip of a switch, water with the turn of a handle), it's hard to return to the hardships that come with living off the land, he adds. Hmad tells Nouri that just six families in his sub-tribe, the Ait Slilou, made the trek to Jebel Saghro this year. There used to be upwards of 80. I think of how a similar story is playing out across the globe, from the sheep herders of the Swiss Alps to the ranching families of the American West; ways of life dependent on family and the land are slowly disappearing.

The hee-haw of donkeys acts as the camp alarm, rousing us before sunrise each morning. While I sip coffee and am served a breakfast of baghrir, crepe-like pancakes topped with amlou, a Moroccan riff on almond butter, the team packs up camp. We leave no trace, except for the stone shelter that held the goats overnight. By 7:30 a.m. Nouri and I set off with the family. Hmad guides the donkeys along a dusty trail lined with almond and date trees, while Tehlou and Saâdia have the rougher task of off-roading with the herd. I watch in awe as Saâdia scrambles up near vertical cliffs of scree in her shimmery gold striped dress and plastic loafers with the same ease of these hardy mountain goats. She is the same age as my partner’s twin boys and I can’t help but think they wouldn’t last a day doing this kind of work.

Today’s 7.5-mile trek takes us up and over Tizi n' Tircht, a mountain pass that sits at 8,200 feet and provides sweeping views back out to the High Atlas, and down to a remote campsite called Azib Almou n' Ouarg. Except for one other nomadic family with a caravan of three camels, we don’t see another soul along the route. Nouri and I follow the steep rubbly path with Hmad and arrive at camp just after 1 p.m. Famished, I devour a lunch of kefta and Moroccan salads, then remove my hiking boots from my aching feet and like the rest of our crew, indulge in a late day nap. The women, who move with the rhythm of the herd, stopping every hour or so to allow them to graze, don’t descend into camp until nearly 5 p.m.

By night two I feel like part of the family, especially when I learn that a goat has been “sacrificed” in my honor. The chef prepares a hoof-to-horn meal and as I sample skewers of every imaginable bit—heart, lungs, intestines—the dinner conversation turns to politics. It is a historic day, Nouri explains. The king has appointed the first female prime minister. I ask the group’s emotions. Zaïd jokes that it is the end for men. Saâdia says she doesn’t care about politics, only the goats. Telhou cracks a grin and says she’s happy. When I ask why, she tells me, via Nouri, “because I’m a woman, too.”

On our third morning, I ask Nouri if I can follow the women off trail. Our route is just under seven miles but steeper than previous days. By now, I have begun to notice the slight distinctions of the goats—twisted horns, a shaggy beard, white ears on a one-year-old kid I’ve named Mittens. Telhou uses primal shouts to keep the herd together, while Saâdia uses a slingshot contraption to skillfully throw stones at straying goats. She lets me try and we both break out in giggles when my rock launches backwards. Telhou tells Nouri she is impressed with my stamina and asks him if I like this work. I honestly do. What would otherwise be an epic hike has purpose—to help care for the herd—and also adds a human connection to this otherworldly landscape.

The scenery today, red rocks and flat mesas, could pass for Utah and our hike feels like a geologic safari with Nouri pointing out rock formations that resemble elephants and camels. Once again, by the time we meet up with Hmad and descend into camp I am physically exhausted. In our age of comfort, doing hard things is deeply satisfying, but as I rinse off the day’s dust in my bucket shower, I wonder if I could handle this lifestyle. In many ways it is blissfully simple-almost like an annual hiking trip with friends and family where everyone is forced to disconnect from their screens due to the limited cell signal. But modern day stresses are replaced with real life stresses for the tribe, like finding water, staying warm, and protecting the herd—the family’s currency—from jackals and wild dogs.

Even after a strenuous day, Telhou squats by the fire and tries to teach me to make aghroum, a traditional Moroccan flatbread. She effortlessly tosses the circular dough back and forth between her hands. My breadmaking skills turn out to be worse than my rock tossing ones. That night, we gather around a giant bowl heaped with cous cous studded with goat meat, carrots, and zucchini. There are no plates. We eat communally straight from the bowl, with Zaïd portioning out meat so everyone gets a fair share. Before I retire to my tent, Saâdia asks if she can decorate my hands with henna. I let the dark green plant paste she’s painted on my hands dry over the fire.

On our final day with the family, I ask to once again join the women. I’ve gained confidence climbing the rocks, which allows my eyes to hone in on our herd. A twitch of white high up on the pass catches my attention. Mischievous Mittens has gotten away from the herd. I toss rocks and try to mimic Telhou’s commanding howls. Mittens obeys and scampers back down with me in tow. Before we leave the family at their winter home, I ask Nouri to thank them for their hospitality. Telhou tells him I’ve earned my keep and she’d welcome me back every year. “She is a nomad at heart,” she tells Nouri. I wouldn’t mind making this an annual hiking trip with my new adopted nomad family. And maybe trips like this can help the nomad way of life survive.

Black Tomato can organize this journey through the High Atlas and Jebel Saghro with the Aït Atta as part of its new The Keepers collection of experiences. The trip, which accompanies an Aït Atta family on their seasonal migration, includes deluxe glamping-style accommodations, activities like traditional bread baking and jewelry-making, as well as a private local guide throughout. Prices begin at $12,950 per person, 5 nights, 6 days, including a night in Marrakech and internal flights and transfers. For more information, visit www.blacktomato.com