Walking the Ancient Paths: A Journey with Morocco’s Last Nomads

A persistent chorus of shrill bleats and guttural baas echoes across the jagged canyons and looming basalt towers of Jebel Saghro. I squint against the intense midday sun, scanning the horizon. High on a distant, craggy peak, I finally spot the vibrant red djellaba worn by Telhou Bel’awane, the matriarch of the Berber family with whom I am trekking through southeast Morocco. Her presence is a beacon, confirming that the herd is near. I squint again, searching the complex folds of the volcanic mountains for the goats themselves. Yet, to my untrained eyes, their dark, onyx coats remain frustratingly indistinguishable from the shadowed, rocky terrain. It is a humbling reminder of how much there is to learn from those who have called this unforgiving wilderness home for generations.

Jebel Saghro is the ancestral heartland of Telhou’s people, the Aït Atta, a historically powerful Amazigh tribe—the term translates to "free people"—that has thrived in the harsh landscape stretching from the High Atlas Mountains to the northern edge of the Sahara. For millennia, this region has served as the stage for one of Africa’s oldest and most grueling migrations. Twice each year, Aït Atta families embark on a journey of upwards of 180 miles, moving their livestock from the lush, verdant summer grazing grounds of the High Atlas to the winter pastures of Jebel Saghro. This seasonal ritual, known as transhumance, represents a semi-nomadic way of life that is, tragically, beginning to fade under the pressures of modern development, climate change, and shifting societal priorities.

It is late September, and Telhou, her husband Hmad, and their daughter, Sa’dia, are ten days into their trek when I join them, accompanied by a dedicated support team from the travel operator Black Tomato. Hiking alongside this family as they navigate the ancient, winding trails is one of five highly immersive experiences that form the backbone of "The Keepers," a new collection of itineraries curated by the travel company. Each trip in this series is built around individuals whose specialized, ancestral knowledge is being passed down through the generations—from a 28th-generation Daoist master in Chengdu, China, to a mariscador on Chile’s Chiloé Island who has spent a lifetime mastering the rhythm of the ocean’s tides.

As a pioneer of "off-the-grid" luxury, Black Tomato has cultivated a reputation for identifying exactly what modern, discerning travelers crave next. With "The Keepers," co-founder Tom Marchant suggests that in an era where nearly any piece of information can be accessed or generated in seconds, the true luxury of the future is deep, human connection and the transmission of tangible, lived experience. More than ever, travelers are seeking to step into the role of students rather than mere spectators.

Before my arrival, the Bel’awane caravan was a lean, self-sufficient unit: 200 goats, two loyal sheepdogs, a pair of chickens for eggs, and three donkeys laden with tea kettles, water jugs, blankets, and essential supplies. To accommodate my presence and ensure the safety of the journey, Black Tomato integrated a support structure consisting of five mules and a dozen additional personnel. This included two drivers, four logistics experts responsible for setting up my canvas tent—complete with a bed and a portable flush toilet—a professional chef, and five experienced mule handlers. Many of these men are cousins of the Bel’awane family; several, including our head mule handler, Zaïd Oukhazaid, have reluctantly traded their own nomadic pasts for the stability of village life, a transition often forced by the increasing unpredictability of the climate and the drying of traditional water sources.

On the day of my arrival, Zaïd and a fellow handler meet me at the roadside in Tagdilt, a village perched on the edge of the Dadès Valley. Both men wear coarse, traditional sheep’s wool djellabas over modern trekking pants and plaid shirts. Their heads are wrapped in shesh, the long, turban-like scarves essential for protection against the harsh sun. Zaïd, diminutive in stature but possessing an outsized personality and a deep, infectious pride in his Aït Atta heritage, cracks a wide smile that reveals the gap left by four missing front teeth. He reaches out with a sinewy arm and, after two vigorous, bone-crushing handshakes, pulls me into a warm bear hug, exclaiming, "Welcome, welcome!" It is one of the few English phrases he has picked up through his work with international tourists. While my own command of Arabic, French, and the local Berber dialect is rudimentary, I find that communication transcends vocabulary; with Noureddine (Nouri) Bachar acting as my translator, we bridge the gap through shared laughter, smiles, and universal gestures of gratitude.

With rain clouds gathering on the horizon, the family pushed ahead with the herd to reach the designated camp, Nouri explains. "The nomads dictate the days," he says. "You are here to support their journey, and we are here to support yours." Once the mules are loaded with our gear, Zaïd beckons us to follow him into the Martian-like landscape ahead. I finally understand why Saghro is known as the "Land of Thirst" in the Berber tongue. Before us sprawls an endless, arid expanse of flat-topped mesas, dry riverbeds, and umber-colored cliffs. Zaïd seems to sense my hesitation. "Drop me in a city, and I’d be lost," he says with a shrug. "But drop me anywhere in these mountains, and I know exactly where I am."

The two-hour hike is merely a warm-up for the days to follow, where we will trek for five or more hours at a time. We reach the Tircht pass, sitting at 6,100 feet, just as the team is finishing the setup of our camp. Each Aït Atta family holds traditional rights to specific migration routes, including these permanent stone enclosures known as azib, which provide shelter for the goats. Zaïd begins to prepare a fire to heat water for tea, but I stop him just as he prepares to drop a massive, iceberg-sized chunk of sugar into the pot. I ask Nouri to jokingly tell him that I’d like to keep my teeth. The request elicits a loud, hearty laugh from Zaïd, and he pours me an unsweetened serving with a wink.

After sunset, the family and our support crew gather inside a large, traditional goat-hair tent for a formal introduction and a communal meal by candlelight. The atmosphere is remarkably reminiscent of a family reunion. The men exchange news and gossip, while Telhou and her 17-year-old daughter sit quietly nearby. Traditionally, the man of the house leads the caravan and handles the heavy lifting of camp logistics, while the women and children bear the arduous, constant task of guiding the goats and managing household duties. My presence offers the women a brief respite from cooking, as our chef serves bowls of harira, a rich, tomato-based soup fragrant with beans, herbs, and spices. Nouri passes me a spoon, but I follow Zaïd’s lead, picking up my bowl with my hands and taking a long, hearty slurp. "The nomad way," Zaïd says, nodding in approval.

This way of life is under immense pressure. Rising global temperatures and years of severe, recurring drought have significantly shrunk the available pastures. Since 2019, legislation has required children between the ages of 6 and 16 to attend school, leaving fewer hands available to assist with the daily care of the herds. Of Telhou’s six children, four are currently in school; one daughter is already married, and soon Sa’dia will follow. Once the youth are exposed to the conveniences of modern life—electricity at the flip of a switch, running water at the turn of a handle—it becomes increasingly difficult to return to the hardships of living entirely off the land. Hmad tells Nouri that only six families in his sub-tribe, the Ait Slilou, made the trek to Jebel Saghro this year. There used to be upwards of 80. It is a sobering trend, one mirroring the decline of traditional pastoral lifestyles from the Swiss Alps to the American West, where cultures dependent on the land are slowly vanishing.

The braying of donkeys acts as our morning alarm, rousing us before the sun touches the peaks. While I sip coffee and enjoy a breakfast of baghrir—delicate, crepe-like pancakes topped with amlou, a local almond-based spread—the crew dismantles the camp. We leave no trace, save for the stone azib that sheltered the herd. By 7:30 a.m., Nouri and I set off with the family. Hmad guides the donkeys along a dusty, tree-lined path, while Telhou and Sa’dia manage the difficult task of off-roading with the goats. I watch in awe as Sa’dia scrambles up near-vertical scree cliffs in her gold-striped dress and simple plastic loafers, moving with the same effortless grace as the hardy mountain goats.

Today’s 7.5-mile trek takes us over the Tizi n’ Tircht pass, soaring to 8,200 feet and providing panoramic views of the distant High Atlas and the rugged valley below. We encounter only one other nomadic family with a small caravan of camels. By the time we arrive at the remote campsite of Azib Almou n’ Ouarg, I am famished. I devour a lunch of kefta and Moroccan salads before removing my hiking boots to rest my aching feet. The women, who move at the rhythm of the herd, stopping frequently to allow for grazing, do not reach the camp until late afternoon.

By the second night, I feel like a genuine member of the group, especially when I learn that a goat has been sacrificed in my honor. We share a "hoof-to-horn" meal, and the conversation turns toward the shifting political landscape of Morocco. It is a historic day; the king has recently appointed the country’s first female prime minister. When I ask for their thoughts, Zaïd jokes that it is the end for men. Sa’dia admits she is only concerned with the goats. Telhou, however, offers a warm, knowing smile. "I am happy," she tells Nouri. When I ask why, she simply replies, "Because I am a woman, too."

On our third morning, I ask to join the women off-trail. By now, I have begun to distinguish the goats—noticing twisted horns or a shaggy beard on a one-year-old kid I have named "Mittens." Telhou uses primal, rhythmic shouts to keep the herd together, while Sa’dia wields a slingshot with impressive skill to steer stragglers back to the group. She lets me try, and we collapse into giggles when my rock launches backward. Telhou tells Nouri she is impressed by my stamina and asks if I enjoy the work. I realize that I truly do. What would otherwise be an intense hike now has a tangible purpose, and the shared labor has forged a deep human connection to this otherworldly landscape.

As the journey concludes, I find myself reflecting on the simplicity of the nomad life. It is a world where modern, screen-based stresses are replaced by the raw realities of finding water, staying warm, and protecting the herd—the family’s primary currency—from jackals and wild dogs. On our final day, I spot Mittens attempting to stray, and I instinctively mimic Telhou’s commanding howl. The goat obeys, scampering back to the fold with me in tow. Before we part ways, I ask Nouri to convey my deepest thanks for their hospitality. Telhou looks at me and says, "She has earned her keep; she is a nomad at heart." As I prepare to return to my own world, I realize I wouldn’t mind making this a recurring pilgrimage. Perhaps, in some small way, experiences like these can help ensure that the ancient, resilient nomad way of life survives for another generation.