I looked up and to my right, where a mountain loomed. Obelisks of dark volcanic rock towered on the far side of the valley. My home for the night was a dry riverbed, at about seven thousand feet above sea level. Satisfied to have completed these tasks, I admired my surroundings.
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On a flat and sheltered patch of gravel, I laid out my roll mat and put up the mosquito shelter. I preferred a clear view of whatever might approach my sleeping spot. That morning, Asher had aired the possibility-rather casually, I thought-of “the odd scorpion, and maybe some snakes.” It also seemed possible, if unlikely, that someone living in the area might choose to do a lone hiker harm. On the long drive into the mountains, I had been informed that I was in a part of the Atlas range known as the Anti-Atlas, which is near the Sahara desert. Moreover, I was uncertain about what kinds of animal or human threats I faced. I wanted to gaze at the stars once the sun went down.
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I’m not a knot person, and I had butchered every attempt to make the correct series of loops to fix the ropes. That morning, in a tarp-training seminar, Asher had emphasized the need for geometric precision, accurate assessment of wind direction, the proper use of knots for the guy ropes. The tarpaulin was waterproof but tricky to set up. Though the area where I found myself was close to the desert, it sometimes rains-and sometimes violently. The mosquito shelter was mesh: excellent for keeping out bugs but not the rain. Soon afterward, I deliberated whether or not to erect the tarpaulin. “See you in a couple of days,” Asher said, as he left me.
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Other than that, the assumption was that I’d navigate unassisted to the finish line. Asher would leave another three litres of fresh water at the site of my next camp, along with some firewood. If I got hurt, I was to press an SOS button on one of the trackers, which also featured a rudimentary text-message capability, for sub-SOS emergencies. I was going to trek for two days, at altitude, with the equivalent of my six-year-old daughter strapped to my back. Asher reckoned that my bag weighed fifty pounds. I also carried an old Samsung handset with its sim card removed, so that I could take photographs. trackers, spare batteries, notepads and pens, a big knife, a sleeping bag, flashlights, fire-lighting equipment, dried food, a few energy-rich snacks, three litres of water, a mosquito shelter, a roll mat, and a tarpaulin. My pack contained clothes, paper maps, a compass, two G.P.S. I had stuffed my backpack with everything that I thought I might need, within strict guidelines set by Asher: no matches, no tent, no phone. From the moment that Asher left me in the valley, I was allotted two days to walk to a rendezvous point eighteen miles away, over and around mountains. A client is dropped somewhere spectacular and scantly populated, and challenged to find his or her way out within a given time period.
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The travel firm that organized my trip, Black Tomato, calls this experience Get Lost-a playful misnomer, since the idea is to do the opposite. That morning, he had spent several hours educating me on the rudiments of living in the wilderness, alone.
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He teaches survival skills to people who have never fast-roped from a helicopter or killed their dinner. Asher, whom I had met only the previous evening, has a gray beard, a piercing gaze, and a bone-dry sense of humor. One recent afternoon in Morocco, a fifty-nine-year-old former Royal Marine Commando named Phil Asher walked me into a desolate valley in the Atlas Mountains, shook my hand, and abandoned me. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.