On the 29th of November, I received an invitation that was both thrilling and slightly terrifying: climb Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. Oh, and I had only 31 days to prepare. With no mountaineering experience and barely enough time to gather the right gear, it felt more like an exercise in chaos than adventure.
Toubkal had been sitting on my bucket list for years, collecting dust while life kept getting in the way. Now, the opportunity was here, and despite the tight deadline and my inner voice screaming “Are you mad?”, I just couldn’t say no.
I thought most of my gear would suffice, but reality quickly set in. Trainers were not going to cut it for climbing North Africa’s tallest mountain in winter. After a heated debate with my wallet (which, for the record, I lost), I finally splurged on a proper pair of trekking boots.
These boots were something else. With soles so stiff they could double as skis, walking in them felt completely unnatural. Testing them on a beach walk with the dog was, frankly, ridiculous. Picture a toddler learning to walk for the first time, legs wobbling, arms flailing, while the dog stared at me like I’d lost my mind (okay it wasn't really that bad, you get the idea though!). Still, I figured if these boots could survive my clumsy stumbles on sand, they would be fine on Toubkal’s icy slopes.
Crampons were another story. The name alone was intimidating, conjuring images of medieval torture devices. With no clue how to buy or use them, I decided hiring was the best option. That way, I would not risk strapping them on backwards or accidentally impaling myself halfway up the mountain.
If preparing for a trek was not enough, I had the day-to-day running of Mortgage Monkeys and a house move on top of Christmas madness. Who does that? It was not until the day before departure that I finally started packing, and that was when I realised disaster had struck.
My sleeping bag was not up to the job. With temperatures in the Atlas Mountains already below freezing, I needed something that would not leave me as an icicle by morning. A frantic last-minute dash to the shops saved the day, but it was a close call.
As I packed, it hit me just how much comfort I was leaving behind. My warm house, my cosy bed, and the glorious convenience of central heating were about to be swapped for a very uncertain adventure. Packing was like playing Tetris with my sanity. I needed to strike a balance between essentials and not overpacking. Would it be cold? Windy? Snowy? The answer was probably yes to all three.
The UK was in the grip of a cold snap, and the thought of freezing conditions made this adventure feel very real. It was going to test me physically and mentally, but at least I would have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. That is more than many people can say, and it gave me a sobering perspective on what this trek really meant.
Every news headline seemed to scream about the UK’s cold snap, and it was impossible not to think about those braving the freezing temperatures without shelter.
Winter is tough for everyone, but for people experiencing homelessness, it is unimaginable. Snow, ice, and freezing winds turn an already unbearable situation into a fight for survival. While I had the privilege of preparing and buying gear, so many face these conditions with nothing.
This journey became more than just a personal challenge. It became an opportunity to do something bigger. Supporting Shelter UK, a charity that helps people find secure housing, gave the trek a deeper meaning.
For me, the freezing conditions and discomfort would be temporary. For many, it is daily survival. Even raising a modest amount could make a difference, and that thought gave every step of this adventure a greater purpose.
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