Trapped on a ledge 1500ft above the ground with a cold, dark night ahead, I realised there was a chance I might not make it out of this. I was in my 40s and a very keen rock-climber when I travelled to Morocco to take on the Anti-Atlas Mountains, the southern-most range in the country. I’d climbed crags and cliffs all over the UK, sometimes with boyfriends but more often with friends, and was happily single at the time. The physical exertion helped me cope with my job in publishing and I was looking forward to the next adventure with my friend Bruce.
The night before our climb we stumbled upon an amazing restaurant in a remote village. The the door was opened by the striking owner, Abdel, wearing traditional Moroccan dress. He was bustling about serving food and holding court, so there was little time to talk (and I spoke no Berber and he spoke very little English) but I could see he was charismatic and charming. Throughout the evening, he kept catching my eye as he worked - I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
The next day, Bruce and I set off to climb an intimidating mountain route called the Lion’s Head. It took hours of scrambling and then hundreds of feet of hard climbing to reach the crux. We realised we were running out of daylight to finish the route and get ourselves down to safety. As it started to go dark, we found ourselves trapped on a ledge and knew we’d have to spend the night there. There were no rescue services in Morocco: we were on our own.
It was February, freezing cold and our teeth chattered as rain began to fall; we’d been climbing in T-shirts and jeans after the heat of the day. Then, I remembered I had the number from the restaurant in my phone from when I made the reservation for dinner the previous evening. It was a long shot, but I rang and Abdel answered. I managed to communicate what had happened and was touched when he said he’d set out at first light to try to find us.
We were hardened climbers but passing the night on the ledge was terrifying. We were 1500 feet up and could sense the void below. We could hear jackals howling somewhere out there and it was so, so cold. Periodically, we'd get up to stamp our feet when they went numb. There were points when I really thought we might not make it to morning. But finally, the sky began to lighten and we started a terrifying abseil down the jagged rock in stages, throwing our ropes down into unseen voids, having to check each other’s knots for fear that cold and exhaustion had made our minds slow. It was terrifying - it's easy to make a fatal mistake at the best of times, never mind with no sleep.
Eventually, I was relieved to spot a track leading back down the mountain and, unbelievably, I saw Abdel with a search party of his friends walking towards us. I couldn’t believe he’d really come for me. He said he was relieved to have found us, and we trekked back down to safety together, with Abdel promising a celebration for our return at the restaurant.
It was a magical evening as half of the village turned out to dance, eat and play music, and it was a world away from the previous night spent shivering on an exposed rock face. Abdel hugged me and said how happy he was I was safe. He took my hand and placed a ring on my finger. It was a piece of desert silver, shaped like a tent. 'To make sure you always have shelter,' he told me. My knees actually went weak.
I flew back to the UK, and almost as soon as I got home, Abdel phoned me to make sure I was safe. We spoke every night for weeks; then I flew out again to stay with his family. Seven months later we were married, and this year we’ll celebrate 20 years living a wonderful life together between Morocco and Cornwall.
My experience didn’t stop me climbing and I’ve taken Abdel out on the Cornish cliffs many times – he’s a fearless natural! We continued adventuring together, even spending three weeks trekking in the Sahara with nomads in our early years of marriage. But now we’re in our 60s, we prefer to keep our feet on the ground.
Secrets of the Bees (Head of Zeus) by Jane Johnson is out now.
