Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25128
surfing. For years the local kids have ridden plastic bags down these slopes. For years the local hotels have held onto old pairs of skis, some of them early 1970s nightmares, the boots permanently welded to the bindings and the bottoms endlessly scraped by the merciless desert sand. They rent them to unsuspecting travelers at ridiculous prices and the travelers lug them out into the hot day, often returning without ever having tried them on: the boots are too smal l, the walk too far, the desert's expanse too menacing. We met a pair of Bedouin, robes flowing, feet sandal-c lad, who returned. We drank more tea and tried the airport again. Finally our snowboards cleared customs, finally we were on our way. The dunes at Merzouga are no strangers to sand told us about the rains. After a good rain, the business end of a shovel makes a great sled . But no, they said, no one has come out here with snowboards. No one, that is, but us. We made camp at the base of the highest dune in Morocco, Erg Chebbi, strapped boards to packs, put on heavy boots in the incredible 105°F heat and started hiking. Hiking uphill through sand means every step up is a half-step down. Rise and fall, rise and fall. Sure, you can kick steps into sand the same way you kick steps into snow, but sand doesn't compress and travel is slow. All around us are endless dunes, a miniature ocean, a sea bottom from long ago. It is a place with weather patterns all its own. From the peaks you can see all the way to Algeria, the landscape spreading out li ke a tapestry, undu lating, majestic. If you didn't know better, you'd believe that nothing lives here. Another Moroccan illusion. ~'~I~~I roval air maroc