| You can’t beat Morocco for sheer exoticism, starting with stepping off a plane in late December to the rustle of palm trees and muezzin’s call floating through balmy air. It is a winter escape like no other. I was there on a scouting trip, to make sure the ride measured up to Equitours’ standards. Also, I suspected this Desert Crossing trek had the potential to be a great choice for parents looking for a riding vacation unusual enough to entice their teenager into joining; a ride that was absolutely unique, with a skilled guide and enough history and culture to make it a learning experience they wouldn’t even realize was happening. To be sure it was properly vetted for this purpose I brought along my 16-yr-old daughter and her friend. Both are capable riders and experienced campers, but still, with teenagers one never knows how it’s all going to pan out. As it turned out they loved it all: the villages and date palm groves, the nearly toothless cook, our attentive French-speaking guide and his cheerful assistant guide/ translator, the beautifully trained horses, the unusual food. Of course there were things they didn’t care for, like the aggressive street vendors in Marrakesh, and the standard fare Moroccan public restrooms. But that’s all part of the cultural experience, I figure, and learning to travel at a young age means getting a jump on what I consider a life skill: accept the unpleasant and revel in the marvelous.  You must spend at least a full day in Marrakesh. It’s the meeting point for this ride, but not actually part of the itinerary so you need to schedule extra time if you want to shop in the souqs and wander aimlessly (the only way, as far as I could tell) through the labyrinth of streets in the old walled city, called the medina. Marrakesh has been a crossroads of culture and trade for centuries, as is apparent in the crowded, vibrant, sometimes overwhelming bazaars called souqs. What do they sell in the souks? My daughter’s succinct answer, “Everything.” And that’s what it feels like: mountains of textiles in every conceivable color, jellabas, the traditional Moroccan ankle-length, pointy hooded garment (think Obi-Wan Kenobi), carved stone and olive wood, brass lanterns, silver teapots, rainbows of flat-soled leather shoes, rawhide lampshades, Tuareg jewelry, hand painted ceramics, incense, rugs. And that’s just the first 50 yards in. Bring an extra suitcase.
 The route, in general terms, follows the Dades River Valley for a day, then crosses over the Jebel Sarhro (mountains) into the Draa River Valley which we followed toward the dunes of the Sahara. Through the river valleys the villages are scattered at regular intervals. But over the mountains there is no water and no villages. The landscape is all about geology; colorful bands of sedimentary rock, craggy peaks, shiny black volcanic chunks, and through it all we followed trails so ancient I found it difficult to fathom the expanse of time across which camels laden with trade goods have picked their way between caravansaries and onward across the distant white outline of the High Atlas Mountains to the markets of Marrakesh.
 Our horses were all stallions, in the tradition of North Africa where mares are not ridden and colts are not gelded. They are Arab crossed with the sturdy local Barb, in various percentages, averaged 15 to 15.2 hh, well-muscled and fit. This concept of riding a group of stallions had us all anxious at the beginning, which definitely factored into the test ride around Abdou’s “manage” at the stable about 40 k from Ouarzazate. We were a little giggly nervous that first day. Between the unfamiliar horses and tack, the novelty of the scenery, the animated village children, and a magnificent Kasbah within an hour of having set out, we frequently forgot that the cardinal rule (and the only difference, really, between riding geldings and these well-behaved stallions) was to keep a good two lengths between horses. I suspect Abdou sees this level of distraction on a regular basis, and his insistent, but patient reminder “Distance!” kept us in reasonably good order.
The food was exceptional; fresh, fragrant, varied, healthy, delicious, plentiful. What else could one ask for? Breakfast was simple; tea, bread, jam and butter or cheese, juice, and when the cook figured out how we all loved fruit, sliced oranges appeared. Most days we were met at lunchtime by our cheerful crew in the supply truck. The dining tent with a little latrine tent conveniently erected nearby, and stakes hammered into the ground at “distance” to tether the horses. Saddles off, Abdou or Abdil appeared with a teapot of hot water in one hand, and a bar of soap in the other. Traditional Moroccan handwashing, we were told, is a splash of warm water, a little soap, a rinsing splash, then and we were ready for sweet mint tea poured deftly from a silver teapot into little glasses. Lunch magically appeared piled high on platters: salads with various combinations of cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, pasta, olives, potatoes, and white beans, each with a unique dressing of fresh herbs and olive oil. I identify a few: turmeric, cumin, coriander, dill, parsley. There was always sliced cheese, some sort of meat or fish, bread and usually a hot dish. Ground cumin was a favorite; we loved it so much we asked the cook for more. Thereafter our lunch and dinner tables always included a plate with little heaps of coarse salt, pepper and cumin. Fruit followed; our favorites were tangerines so fresh the attached leaves were still bright green. Dinner was a hot meal, prepared by the cheerful cook crouching over a cutting board and propane burner, in a tent surrounded by boxes and bags of fresh produce. And from that inauspicious kitchen issued forth dishes worthy of the best 5-star restaurants: savory soup, steaming tagines with meat, vegetables, couscous, rice. The girls and I knelt in the kitchen tent one evening watching him work. He chopped carrots into thin slices, as fast and uniform as a cuisinart, all the while looking at us and explaining how to make soup. I asked how he managed not to cut his fingers. “The knife is afraid of me,” he said, and we all burst out laughing.
One can’t expect to remember every village, event, or landscape, so I’ve made it a practice to commit to memory one scene which best encapsulates the experience. For this ride: late one day we rode through a village in golden angled sunlight, and turned a corner toward the mosque as the afternoon prayers were ending. It was a simple, terra-cotta colored building with heavy dark wooden doors opening onto a plaza. Perhaps a dozen men were scattered across the square, dressed in jellabas of sage green, chocolate brown and burgundy. Golden light, sudued colors, hoofbeats muffled in the dust, men speaking softly, a pensive atmosphere, it was as if we had stumbled into an ancient place for the few minutes we rode along the edge of that timeless scene before turning another corner and continuing onward through a village busy with bicycles, cars, waving children and brightly painted doors.
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