HOLD UP THE SKY
THROUGH MUFFLED HUMS OF MOTORBIKES IN THE DISTANCE, WE HEADED FOR SERENITY. AT LAST, AFTER 22 HOURS OF TRAVELING ACROSS THREE CONTINENTS, WE HAD FOUND THE MOUNTAINS.
WHEN THE WESTERN SHORE OF MOROCCO first came into view, I saw sunbaked sand stretching long and far. I expected dirt—dirt in the streets, dirt on clothes, dirt in the soles of my ski boots. I did not expect the narrow paved roads that twisted up the hillside out of the city, children who sprinted and waved behind our car with excitement as we passed their village, or donkeys that hauled straw piles twice their height.
As we drove along a high mountain road, I found myself as an eagle would, eyes scanning the villages, huts, and gardens. I looked at the vibrant red and blue garments worn by locals as they walked along the trees that held a rainbow of freshly washed clothes drying in the afternoon sun. Until recently, I had only heard tales of snow-capped mountains in Africa. But there I was, in the backseat of a Renault Duster, ski gear and duffels crammed into every corner.
Up on the hilltop, clay homes surrounded a white church nestled between bright green terraces and blossoming spring trees. Moments later, we reached the point where the cherry blossoms disappeared and the pines took on snow. Through muffled hums of motorbikes in the distance, we headed for serenity. At last, after 22 hours of traveling across three continents, we had found the mountains.
glowed upward
