Morocco Earthquake 2023

A realtime narration of the events which unfolded on the night of the 8th of September, 2023, Morocco’s most devastating earthquake in over 60 years. Our guide, Chris Jackson, gives his point of view on the situation and an insight into some of the decisions faced during the night.

The below is a very personal account of the earthquake and following night. Each and every person in our group and on the mountain that night will have their own account and so in order to avoid speculating their thoughts and putting words into their mouths I will tell events purely from my own perspective. Some have already posted their view of the disaster, whilst others may wish to share theirs in the future.

The earthquake - 8th September 2023

At 23:11 our launching pad for Toubkal's summit, the Refuge de Mouflons, jumps into activity as the walls pulsate, bunks sway and plaster board crumbles to the sound of a deep, reverberating rumble. I wake bolt upright and am thrown side to side whilst clinging to the woollen blanket, I irrationally think “Holy s***!”, before considering… 

Avalanche? No snow.

Rock fall? But why are we shaking…?

By the time my eyes adjust to the dim room, just about illuminated by the clear night sky, the rattling has been replaced with confusion and panic. I look across the room to where one of our clients had been sleeping. A huge crack is now visible, shooting up the wall. 

“Chris, what should we do?" 

Believe it or not (…!), this is far from normal and has never happened in any of my previous experiences. 

"We are going to slowly head outside for a bit,” I say as calmly as possible.

Half of our team share this dorm and I now hear a flurry of movement - head torches are grabbed, bodies hurry towards the doorway. I carefully climb down from the top bunk, believing even a slight shudder could collapse the cracked building. This is only half the team, the others are spread over 3 rooms in the refuge... Have they got out already? Are they OK? 

Cracks throughout the building. We have very few photos from the inside of the refuge, but a layer of cracked plaster board coated many of the bedrooms (photo by Stanley Collins)

Leaving the dorm, we turn left into the hallway - an open space with hanging lights that continue to sway, but no longer function. Here I leave my roommates, who are making their way down the stairway to the nearest exit, and I dash to find our other clients. Two are already gone and the other four are frantically grabbing belongings. The priority quickly shifts to dropping it all and exiting. As we burst out the door, I scan with my head torch and see a huddle of people near the exit. Approaching closer, silhouettes dissolve to reveal features I can recognise. Laura counts us in and confirms I’m the 14th and final member. We are all out. Everyone’s safe. I’m proud of the team for their speedy evacuation. For a few, this is their first proper mountain expedition. They have had the initiative to grab head-torches and jackets, but leave behind less important belongings. 

Congregating outside the refuge minutes after the quake (photo by Gerdus Van Zyl)

Now outside, we give the building a wide birth, but peaks over 4000m remain standing on both sides, shaken and undoubtedly weakened. Where are we safest? Everywhere has its pros and cons. For now I feel it is best for us to be on our feet and ready to react to either a rock fall or a collapsing building. I momentarily leave the group, who are starting to piece together what has happened from emerging news articles whenever someone finds a patch of signal.  

Although most associate mountains with a fear of heights and falling, the longer you spend in exposed situations, the more you realise those risks are largely controllable. However, what comes down from above is mostly out of your control and a far scarier prospect: the rock falls, the avalanches, whether naturally occurring or dislodged by other parties. With this in mind, I try to scan our terrain with help from the map, and establish where we might be less exposed to rocks falling from above. I am suddenly annoyed at myself, for having admired the breathtaking views when we arrived earlier, ignoring details such as the safest place to congregate after an earthquake. But who could have known?

An image from the morning showing fresh rock fall. More unstable rock remains above basecamp (photo by Gerdus Van Zyl)

Whilst scanning Afella, a mountain to our southwest, a distinct pale streak becomes clear on the cliff, with an apron of light grey debris extending down no further than 30m from our mountain refuge. This rock scar is fresh and explains the immense rumble of tumbling rocks  to which we awoke. My anxieties around the building collapsing now seem insignificant as I stare at the unstable cliff teetering 1000m overhead, so I usher everyone a few meters closer to the building. Far enough away not to be fully buried if the refuge crumbles, but, more importantly, further from the path of destruction if the mountain is to release another cascade of boulders. Trying to weigh-up all these theoretical risks would be extremely complex at the best of times, let alone in the pitch darkness of night, which makes gaining a complete picture virtually impossible.

Heading towards the Refuge de Mouflons at the end of day 2. The steepness of the valley is clear with an abundance of loose rock and crags sitting above the refuge (photo by Laura Mitchell)

At this point, I return to the group to check-in, offering reassurance that we are in the safest place we can be right now. I am extremely grateful for Laura, who has been managing the group whilst I was absent, making sure everyone is together and coping. She has already gathered information that confirms our suspicions about what is going on: a 6.8 magnitude quake with its epicentre 70km South West of Marrakech. We are 64km south of Marrakech, at 3,200m and 1,000m below the summit of Jbel Toubkal, North Africa's highest peak. Laura begins reaching out to clients’ emergency contacts, who will soon awake to headline news on the BBC of a devastating earthquake hitting the High Atlas Mountains.

The location of the epicentre, we are positioned on the ‘T’ of Toubkal (from Google)

A few minor tremors accompanied by small slippages in the newly laid scree and boulders give way to an eery calmness. We notice the sky for the first time: beautiful, littered with an impossible number of shooting stars. The clear night has generated temperatures around the freezing point, with a brisk wind adding to the chill. The frustrating reality is that we must press pause and wait until morning. Key decisions can only be made once we can see our surroundings. This means at least another 6 hours under the stars, and at this point hypothermia becomes a very real possibility. 

We know there is a bunch of blankets in the dorm room of our rickety refuge. I realise I must try my luck and go back inside, and with no recent tremors I feel it’s now or never. I dash in with purpose, gathering as many woollen blankets as possible. My first excursion into the cracked building is efficient and the reward seems to outweigh the risk. But we only have enough for one blanket between two, as pairs huddle close on the wall. I make a few more hair-raising trips. Now we have enough blankets and warmth to see everyone through the night.

Our team establishes a new basecamp, 5 metres from the door of the Refuge de Mouflons, equipped with 6 thin camping style mattresses and a dozen blankets. I am grateful that everyone is willing to get very up close and personal, making me feel no pressure to risk gathering more supplies. I know I took a risk, and whether or not it was a wise decision I am unsure. But in this moment, as I watch people starting to settle for  the first time since the quake, it certainly feels right.

Our huddle beginning to form, a cold night awaits (photo by Gerdus Van Zyl)

As we begin to wind down in an attempt to get some rest, we hear news, initially in rather panicked Arabic, of another predicted shock at 2:10am. Would this cause more damage? Would it come early? Or, not shock at all? All of a sudden, with limited signal, we all become 'experts' on earthquakes, discussing seismic waves and oscillations within the ground. In reality, we are none the wiser, but researching and feeling clued up seems to offer some reassurance. Laura and I ensure everyone has boots and head-torches on, ready to react quickly.

I restlessly pace next to the group, who are mostly huddled under blankets. Some lay with closed eyes (certainly not sleeping) whilst others’ eyes remain locked open. I keep an eye on my watch and at 2am, with 10 minutes to go, Will rises from the sea of blankets and curiously asks:

"When does the countdown start?”

Whether this is intentionally comedic, or not, it is well timed and helps the group to relax a bit. The threat is imminent and I continue to check my watch, trying not to look obviously concerned. 2:09am. Nothing. 2:20am. Nothing. At 2:30am, a rock falls from above and everyone scrambles to their feet alongs with a mix of Arabic, English and French shouting. It turned out this was nothing more than one of the newly laid boulders slipping, but a great practice run nonetheless.

A starlit night, distracting from the situation (photo by Gerdus Van Zyl)

After 3am, with no major tremors and fatigue from the previous days catching up, surprisingly many are able to sleep. I try joining the group and lay down, but the magnitude of the job ahead begins to set in. Options and obstacles circle round in my thoughts and I accept a sleepless night. A boulder 10m from the group becomes my office for the night. It gives a good view of the nearby cliff face, which is now our biggest threat. I know there’s nothing I can do if it collapses. But the more I study the hillside, the more I feel strangely reassured. I can start to envision its run out (the path the boulders would take). Part of me thinks: this rock is over 100 million years old and has remained standing through ice ages and more. Surely it will hold for another few hours?

Every now and then, some of those who can’t sleep, come and have a chat. One of my best friends from home, Ben, is unable to sleep and we have a pretty long chat. The usual banter gives way to acceptance of our vulnerability. There is no place for bravado in this situation. We look up the most recent papers and at this point start to consider the headlines our friends and families will awake to. What will they think? They know we are safe right now. So far we have been lucky, but how far would our luck continue... 

At this point I am able to think about my own safety for a moment or so. Weirdly, I don’t feel scared. I choose to spend a lot of my time in the mountains, and every guide knows this means at points we put our lives in nature’s hands. On good days, when the mountain is kind and the sun is shining, it’s the best job in the world. Today, it feels as though nature is furious, but I get peace from knowing so much is out of my hands, but what I can do to avoid the worst of that rage, I’m already doing.

A big day lies ahead and I try to envision every possible eventuality to feel prepared for whatever tomorrow throws our way. What is the condition of the path? Are the bridges still standing? Is the road out destroyed? Is it even safe in Marrakech? 

By 4am, I’ve managed no sleep so far tonight, and only 3 hours the night before and fatigue is setting in. I remember having read in the book 'Why We Sleep' that when you doze off just a little you can enter REM sleep, a creative period, and if you wake up during this time you can take the creativity into your conscious thoughts. Famous scientists and authors have tried to harness this by falling asleep with marbles held over a saucepan, which would fall and wake them just as they nodded off. Drifting a little, but unable to sleep, I feel as though I’ve entered a similar creative space, unlocking solutions for the following day. 

Waking from an uncomfortable night by a beautiful sunrise (photo by Gerdus Van Zyl)

After deliberating for several hours, I feel comfortable to join the group, naively thinking I might manage some proper sleep. But even without the discomfort of trying to sleep in a 14 person spoon, the weight of tomorrow's job is just too heavy to push aside. Laying awake, I stare at a spectacular star-filled sky, supercharged with fear, awe and responsibility. This is the first time in my life I truly understand the meaning of “I just can’t sleep, there’s a lot going on in the office”. 

Look out for the next blog which will describe the day after the earthquake and making our way back to Marrakech