Page 77 - Self Talk

For seven torturous hours we rocked from side to side
in low gear over the High Atlas Mountains on the Old Caravan Trail, a deeply rutted path barely wide enough
for our Land Rover. My travel companions oohed-and- aahed with every jolt while I tried not to imagine the precipice on the other side of my blindfold, courtesy of Royal Air Moroc. My fear of "the edge" had made this part of the trip tough, but it would be worth the heart racing and cold sweats. In two days we'd meet our guides and camels for the journey's pìece de résistance, a week of camping in the mighty Sahara’s jaw-dropping bazillion granules of sand.
We stopped for dinner on a pebbly, eons-old riverbed that still carried a thin ribbon of precious water. As our cook fired up the stove for yet another meal of tangines and Moroccan whiskey, the sun dropped behind the mountain