At Easter we got snowed in. We looked out of the door and saw how thick white flakes were covering the spring green. We have been working already for eight weeks now. Slowly we were finding our way back into the old life, even though sometimes we wondered how it could happen that we were back into it. A particularly big snowflake drifted past our nose. Damn, it was spring! In one week the spring holidays would begin and here it looked like in the middle of winter. And suddenly a switch tilted in us. We did not have to say anything. We changed a glance and a few minutes later it was done: a flight to Morocco was booked. To hell with this shitty weather in Switzerland.

Packing was done in a minute. It felt like an ordinary start after a longer break. Only that this time it was not a start from any hotel room, but from our own four walls. The red dust from Israel's desert was still sticking on the bike. We only changed the brake pads, for everything else there was no time. And then we were on the way. A second switch tilted: In the mode in which it does not matter what day of the week is, in which we do not know in the morning, where we will sleep in the evening, in which we spend every minute of the day together and talk about altitude, the supply situation and the next water point. The travel mode. We already missed it.

It was not our first time in Morocco. We like the country with its scenic diversity and oriental flair. We like the sound of the Arabic language and the French, which is colored with the typical accent of the Magreb. We like it that only three and a half flight hours from home a completely different world opens up. And now we were hoping for warm spring sunshine and already summery temperatures. But when we checked the weather forecast for the next three days after our arrival in Marrakech, there was an unpleasant surprise awaiting us: rain with temperatures around the freezing point - and SNOW! But we did not bet like that, on this Easter Sunday.

While we would simply sit out the bad weather on a long-term trip, this is not possible on a short two-week vacation. Therefore we were in need of a plan B. On the southern side of the Atlas Mountains dry weather it is forecasted and so soon enough we were sitting in a bus to the oasis city of Ouarzazate. Let's ride the planned route in the opposite direction. On a small dirt track we climbed up to 2200m. The legs felt heavy. Where had our fitness gone? A fifteen-week break without much sport and even less cycling took its toll. Fortunately, the mind was still as stubborn as ever, and so we reached the top of the pass with burning muscles, but a happy smile on the face. We were back. Back in the high mountains - with the bike under the butt and the taste of red dust and a well-seasoned „Tajine“ in the mouth. Wohoo!

The following days, our with satellite imagery discovered route led us through the heart of the High Atlas. Pass joined pass, often on narrow, much too steep dirt roads or on barely visible mule tracks we crossed deeply cut mountain valleys and wide plateaus. It was like a leap in time, from the hectic modern Arabian city of Marrakech, to the quiet, medieval-looking home of the Berbers in the High Atlas. We met goat herders, who shook their heads when seeing us and warned not to move on, and still wished us good luck in the end. We passed small settlements made of clay-rammed houses, which sticked like honeycombs on the steep valley flanks and usually grouped around an orange mosque. The terraced fields stretched far up the mountainsides, creating bright contrasts with the arid brown environment. 

On the summits there was snow, the summer camps were still uninhabited and some singletrack turned out to be a pretty muddy mess. We rarely made more than thirty kilometers a day, but that did not matter. Often we carried the luggage in our backpacks, even unscrewed the pedals to push our bike forward on the narrow and exposed paths. It was a tour where we sometimes furtively wondered if it would not have been better to left the bike at home. But then followed a splendid downhill and the heretical thoughts disappeared immediately. For a real bikepacking adventure, reason is too heavy and you can leave it at home right from the start. "I really like the hike-a-bike" we mimiced laughing a bikepacker, we met once in the deep sand of the high Andes.

In the valley of Ourika we reached asphalt for a few kilometers. The Rohloff hub on one of the bikes had slowly reduced to four gears in the past days. These were bad conditions for the next steep pass and we decided to fix the problem quickly. When we unscrewed the gearing box, fine steel wires curled up. Penetrated dirt had chafed through the two gearing cables and they now blocked the box. Of course we had a spare cable with us, but who expects that on a short trip two of them would fail? Good, we should have guessed it. After all, our RAW has been riding without a maintenance service for almost three years. 

For a long half hour, the continuation of our tour hung on a thread. But when travel life has learned us something, that's improvisation. For every problem there is a solution, you just have to be creative enough to see it and admittedly - you need a bit of luck. Carefully, we winded wire by wire from the better-preserved gearing cable until only the untorn core remained. The cable was now half as thick as it should be, but we could insert it and it seemed strong enough to shift gears, at least for the remaining two days.

A little later we were pedaling again high above the valley floor. The crown jewel of our route was waiting for us: the 3150m high Tizi n Ouhattar. A few years ago it was only a trekking route, but these days there is now a serpentine-rich small pass road, which we could not resist - even if we were walking only two days ago through ankle-deep snow at 2400m. Somehow it would work, especially since the mountainsides here looked much drier. In Timichi, the last village before the pass, an old Berber lady was baring the way and tryed to persuade us with resolute arm movements and a flood of Berber words to head back. Now we were feeling a little unsettled, because Moroccan women are otherwise characterized by reluctance. However, we were now so far that we did not want to get stopped by the old lady. Back we are fast, we commented with a look to the steep eight hundred meters climb. So off we went. 

At the top of the pass was a big snowdrift, but we could walk around it. But on the other side there was more snow, typical for north-faces. If we had our reason with us, we would have turned back now, but luckily we left it at home. And so we packed again, shouldered the backpacks and started pushing our bikes through the snow. 

We made quite good progress until we reached a huge snowdrift that ran along the steep slope. This now looked fierce, even for our eyes. Improvisation was in demand. We did not have a snow shovel with us and so we used our seat post with the massive Brooks saddle on it as an ice ax. This worked better than expected and after a few anxious minutes, we found ourselves on the other side, where we soon reached the snow-free track. Now we had earned a few dates and peanuts. And the cloud-free view of the highest mountain in North Africa, the 4167m high Jebel Toubkal anyway - "I really like the hike-a-bike!"

Meanwhile, the pushing passages were behind us. The descent from the High Atlas to Marrakech had nothing to do with a hike-a-bike anymore. On a flowing trail, then on silky asphalt, we sped out into the plaine. A 2,500 vertical drop, which was almost as addictive as the sweet mint tea from the silver jug. A cheers on a great micro adventure. À la prochaine, Maroc!