Journal of a tour in Marocco and the Great Atlas

by Joseph Dalton Hooker; John Ball

The rock was now porphyry of a prevailing red colour, which, with occasional intrusive masses of diorite and dark green basalt, makes up the whole mass of the central ridge of the Great Atlas in this part of the chain. As compared with the rich and varied flora, insect life appeared, at least at this season, to be remarkably scarce, and the only butterfly noted was Papilio podalyrius.

The porphyry rocks appeared to be very hard, and far less yielding to erosion than those of somewhat similar character in South Tyrol. Hence the gullies and ravines cut by the water channels, round which the track wound, were not nearly so deep as those that add so much to the picturesqueness of the scenery, and at the same time to the length of the way for a traveller traversing the valleys near Botzen. After winding along the slopes for several miles, our track descended a little to approach once more the channel of the torrent. The valley was still narrow; but the inclination of its bed was much less, and the ground on either bank left space for a track, and in places even for a strip of cultivation. The natives seem to be quick at availing themselves of every spot possible for agriculture. Rye and barley were here seen in ear, and the olive extends very nearly to 5,000 feet above the sea, or considerably higher than it does on the flanks of the Lebanon.

As our track ran along the bank of a slender watercourse, it was completely overarched by a row of elder trees in full flower, that forced us to lay our heads upon our horses’ necks, one of many instances of the meeting of the common plants of Northern Europe with very different endemic forms that characterise the upper region of the Great Atlas. Some conspicuous plants of the lower country, and notably Adenocarpus anagyrifolius and Linaria ventricosa, extended thus far up the valley; and these, together with a wild Isatis, scarcely different from the dyer’s woad, gave a prevailing golden hue to the neighbouring slopes. A reach of the valley now opened before us, backed by a stern range of dark red bare rocky peaks. On our own (the eastern) flank, the enclosing wall receded somewhat, and above a high and rather steep convex acclivity stood a village whose people had brought the whole slope into cultivation. The torrent ran through a cleft on the right of this knoll, and our course lay directly up it, amidst fields and meadows, gay with spring flowers, all enclosed within stiff hedges of thorny bushes, among which our common gooseberry was abundant. As if because the natives would spare no space that could be turned to profit, we soon found that on the steeper portion of the ascent the only way was up the bed of a brawling stream that had for irrigation’s sake been diverted from the upper course of the torrent. The track lay over big blocks of porphyry, with deep holes between, over which the water leaped and tumbled, between straggling branches of spiny bushes, that left many a mark on the faces and clothing of the passing horsemen. Up to this we had little experience of what the horses and mules of Marocco can do in the way of getting over rough ground, and it was not without surprise that we saw how successfully they managed to scramble up the slippery channel over blocks worn smooth by the constant passage of men and animals. In the midst of the scramble we all dismounted, for we here saw for the first time the blue daisy of the Atlas, growing in the shade under the bushes, or nestling in the hollows between the rocks.

Having reached the top of the knoll at about noon, we found a sort of shelf of nearly level ground, covered in great part by a large village of rude but solid stone houses. Here a halt was called, and we were informed that a mona was provided to supply the mid-day meal for the party. Burning with impatience, as we were, this was anything but a welcome announcement. The dark ridges rising thousands of feet above the head of the valley were still distant, and no snow was to be seen, save in rifts and hollows of the rocks, high up and difficult of access; but to refuse the proffered hospitality of the mountain chieftain would have been deemed an affront; and to insist on taking our escort on without food would have caused discontent, if not mutiny. We made a virtue of necessity, and, while awaiting the repast, carried on a semblance of broken conversation, in which the ready wit of Ambak, our ever active attendant, supplied, it is likely, the chief materials. The name of the village, even more difficult to seize than usual, was noted by Hooker as Adjersiman. It stands, by our observations, at 5,535 feet (1,687 m.) above the sea level.

An hour—a whole precious hour—was consumed before the meal was over, and we were again on our way. Above the village the bed of the valley rises very steeply, the central part being filled with a vast mound of huge boulders, which on further examination proved to be the undoubted remains of the terminal moraine of the glacier which once filled the head of the valley. The principal mass of course marked the limit of the glacier during a prolonged period; but there were traces of two parallel moraines of smaller size, of which the outer marked the limit of its maximum extension. The blocks of porphyry and other metamorphic rocks were mostly of great dimensions.

The track was carried in zigzags up the face of the rocky slope, keeping towards the top close to the edge of the moraine; and on reaching the summit of the barrier disclosed to us for the first time a full view of the head of our valley. A few yards below us was a small miserable-looking village called Arround, the highest in this district. This stands at the meeting of two short and rather broad glens, each enclosed by the rugged masses of the central range of the Great Atlas. The shorter of the two, which opened on our left in a SE. or ESE. direction, does not apparently reach the main watershed, and a pass from its head would in all probability lead to one of the tributary branches of the Ourika valley. The other glen that opened right in front of us, somewhat W. of due S., was enclosed by a still loftier and more stern barrier, the rocks, since the sky had become overclouded, having passed from a dull red to a dark brown complexion. The ground for some distance behind the village was flat and swampy, showing that a small moraine lake had been filled up with gravel and silt. On the level space most of the soil was under tillage, and wheat as well as rye and barley are grown, and even maize, as we learned, is raised in this inclement position. On the low dykes that enclose the little fields we noticed Iris germanica, evidently planted, but whether for the production of orris-root, or for the sake of ornament, we failed to ascertain. The only large tree was the walnut, which had been planted along the skirts of the cultivated ground.

Now that we were able to pry into the inner recesses of the chain, we perceived that snow lay in abundance at a much lower level than we had hitherto supposed, but nowhere in masses of any great extent. All the higher ridges around us were extremely steep, though not cut into actual precipices; but on these snow could nowhere accumulate, save in clefts. Towards their base, however, at the foot of each narrow ravine that furrowed their faces, at many spots not much more than a thousand feet above our level, were large patches that seemed likely to maintain their position for some time. Though not without experience of mountain lands, we could none of us call to mind any spot much resembling the scene before us. Nowhere in the Alps is there anything of at all a similar character. Excluding the village, and the small fields, and the walnut trees, which, after all, filled but a small space in the view, there was something to remind one of the wilder valleys of the Northern Carpathians, but on a much greater scale. In the Tatra, as here, the rocks rise in broken masses, very steep but not quite precipitous, and the snow is seen only in clefts of the higher ridges, not because the climate forbids it to accumulate, but because the surface affords so few spots on which it can rest. But the rocky masses of the Tatra tend to form isolated peaks, usually of rugged and very steep conical shape; while in this part of the Great Atlas the depressions that separate the summits are of little depth as compared to the great height of the range. Seen from below, as from the spot where we now stood, many points assume the aspect of sharp peaks; but it is easy to ascertain, by varying the point of view, that these are mere projecting bastions from the wall of the main chain, rising little, or not at all, above the level of the adjoining ridges.

The day was already far gone—nearly two o’clock in the afternoon—when, leaving our horses at the village, we started on foot, with our sheik as guide, descending slightly to the level of the stream, here easily crossed, and then mounting the slope on the west side of the main branch of the valley in the direction of one of the nearest of the patches of snow already seen by us. No guide was needed, for the lower slopes on either side were easily accessible in all directions; but the sheik evidently wished to fulfil in person the promise of ‘leading us to the snow.’ Difficulty there was none, except that of moving onward over ground where every step brought to view some fresh object of interest. It was clear that we had at last reached the threshold of the terra incognita that we had so long dreamed of—the subalpine region of the Great Atlas. There could be no doubt that in the short space between the lower village and Arround—that is, between the lower end of the ancient moraine and the ground formerly covered by glacier—the flora had undergone a complete change. Nearly all the peculiar species which we had hitherto looked on as characteristic of the Great Atlas had disappeared, and their place was occupied in part by others peculiar to this region, and not known elsewhere; but more largely by species either identical or nearly allied to well-known mountain plants of the Mediterranean region, along with some of the common plants of middle Europe, including several familiar British field plants.

It will be more convenient to reserve details for the remarks on the vegetation of this and the Amsmiz valley, which will be found in the Appendix; but it must be owned that the general impression now made, and increased on further acquaintance, was not free from disappointment. As compared with any of the higher mountain masses surrounding the Mediterranean, already known to us, this is singularly unproductive of ornamental species attractive to the eye. The Sierra Nevada of Granada, the Lebanon chain, and the mountain ranges of Asia Minor, all exhibit at this season a multitude of bright-hued plants to delight the traveller, even though they may not rival the splendour of the higher zone of the Alps and Pyrenees to one who sees this a month or two later. Another remarkable feature was the absence of trees, and especially of true conifers. The dwarf evergreen oak that clothes the middle zone of the Atlas was no longer seen, and there was no pine, or spruce, or cedar to take its place. The solitary juniper that we afterwards saw was scarcely noticed at this, our first, visit. It is sometimes said that naturalists take no delight in the beauty of the objects of their study; but this is surely untrue of the great majority. Probably the notion has arisen from the fact that, in addition to the sources of pleasure which he shares with the rest of the world, the naturalist finds food for the sense of beauty as well as scientific interest, unsuspected by his critics, in exploring the internal structure of organised beings. Be this as it may, it is certain that the generally sombre aspect of the vegetation, harmonising as it did with that of the scenery, had a somewhat depressing effect on all the members of our party, while at the same time it only increased our desire to reach the upper part of the rugged barrier of rock that rose some 5,000 feet around the head of the valley where we stood.

Meanwhile, the afternoon was wearing away; we did not clearly know how we were to return to our camp after dark, but remembered distinctly one awkward place—the fording of the torrent—where some daylight seemed indispensable. We hurried back, our portfolios and tin boxes fully charged with spoil, and found the horses and mules awaiting us on the flat ground below Arround. A man can usually travel over rough mountain tracks as fast as a mule; but if the man be a botanist, and the track lies among new and rare plants, it is quite certain that he will not do so; and when haste is a matter of real importance, it is necessary to submit to the restraint of riding. Hurried as we were, it was necessary to dismount and make a short halt on our return to Arround. The laws of Bereber hospitality required that the villagers should present a mona, and that we should at least make a show of partaking of it. There was a large dish of barley porridge, with a lake of oil in a crater-like hollow in the centre, and another of buttermilk, in which were some of last year’s walnuts, as well as other unexpected delicacies. This entertainment was briefly despatched by our followers, and we proceeded down the steep track beside the moraine, and again reached Adjersiman. Here, to our vexation, another halt was called, and another slight refection was presented. Our impatience was so far successful, that the delay was limited to a very few minutes. We should, perhaps, have displayed more interest in these specimens of native cookery, if we had been acquainted with the curious passages in which Leo Africanus[1] minutely describes the dietary of the Atlas mountaineers, and the mode of preparing the identical dishes that were here presented to us.