Day 72: Assekrem to Hassi-Messaoud
Pull myself reluctantly from my sleeping bag, which has had more use in the Sahara than on all my previous journeys put together. I keep thinking I won't need it any more, then up comes a night like this. Middle of the Sahara and cold as a Scottish winter.
Bleary, grunted greetings. Queue for the lavatory, faces washed with a splash of bottled water. Tea has been made by someone, God bless them. Then out onto the mountainside. The mass of bright stars, normally such a delight, seems to be almost hostile this morning, the cold already intensified by a wicked little wind. The top of the hill is a few hundred feet away, up a steep zigzag footpath. Nigel and Pete set the pace, weaving up like mountain goats, despite carrying more than anyone else. Maybe Nigel, a well-established quinquagenarian like myself, felt an urge to prove himself after yesterday's encounter with the boyish sixty-eight-year-old Tom Sheppard.
Choose another day from Sahara