THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER29, 2021 31
my surroundings. My home for the night
was a dry riverbed, at about seven thou-
sand feet above sea level. Obelisks of
dark volcanic rock towered on the far
side of the valley. I looked up and to my
right, where a mountain loomed. The
next morning, according to my maps, I
would need to spend my first hour or
two climbing a thousand feet toward
the peak. For now, the views were too
gorgeous to contemplate such labor. The
afternoon sun was like olive oil; the
rocks in the valley glistened.
In the early evening, I gathered fuel:
tiny pieces of dried bush, slivers of wood
I’d sliced off a larger log. I made a cir-
cle of stones for a fireplace, and inside
it I placed my dried bush stems, with a
pyramid of wood shavings on top. To
start a fire, I used the Asher-approved
technique of striking a fire steel, so that
a glowing piece of ferrite flew away from
me. A spark lit the stems, and I added
ever-larger pieces of wood. My fire was
soon crackling. I had not excelled in
fire-making school earlier in the day,
and I felt like shouting joyfully to my
teacher. But he was long gone.
I boiled water, then rehydrated a dried
meal-in-a-bag. It was among the worst
dining experiences of my life. The tex-
ture of my “Burger and Beans” brought
to mind viscera. (“It’s just calories,” Asher
had said, when we ate a similarly un-
appealing bag dish during training.)
With the leftover boiled water, I made
a billycan of instant coffee, to take the
taste away.
By 6:30 p.m., the sun was falling be-
hind the mountains. I brushed my teeth
and removed my contact lenses, then
took a shit behind a huge rock, armed
with a packet of Kleenex. When the
light died, I climbed into bed, began
charging one of my G.P.S. devices with
a battery pack, and made notes in a rain-
proof pad, which was illuminated by a
flashlight strapped to my chest. Soon I
flicked off the light, then I stared for a
while at the thousands of blazing stars,
before trying to close my eyes.
I was half asleep when I was jolted
awake by beams of light and the sound
of crunching rocks. Two men with flash-
lights were headed toward me, with
some urgency, and they were calling out
something. I caught a glimpse of one
of the men: his face was partially ob-
scured by a scarf. I unzipped the shel-
ter, scrambled for my flashlight, put on
my boots, and, in a panic, tried to re-
member where I had packed my knife.T
he Black Tomato travel company
has predicated its business, in part,
on the notion that many affluent vaca-
tioners no longer wish to lounge for a
week by an infinity pool: they want to
earn their enjoyment in some way, ei-
ther through physical exertion or by
doing good works abroad. Black To-
mato specializes in adventure, and its
Web site beckons daring customers with
such offerings as “iceland: snorkel
and dive between tectonic
plates.” The company’s packages are
expensive. Some cost more than fifteen
thousand dollars per person.
The concept of Get Lost isn’t only
that clients must find their way out of
desolate situations; they have no clue
where in the world they are going, until
the last minute. Participants are also en-
couraged to surrender their cell phones.
The imperative is not just to disappear
but to disconnect. After an expedition
ends, clients are pampered at a beauti-
ful hotel before flying home. The loca-
tions for Get Lost range from the Mon-
golian steppe to the jungles of Costa
Rica to the deserts of Namibia. Its cli-
entele is similarly various. Predictably
enough, several tech bros have taken
such trips. But the firm has also arranged
an ambitious expedition for a newly-
wed couple, and for a stay-at-home
mother—who, upon returning home,
applied to join the Air Force.
As soon as I read about the idea, I
also wanted to get lost—although I
couldn’t quite explain the urge. I live in
Manchester, England, and, unlike many
of my friends there, I have never been
an enthusiastic camper. In fact, I avoid
such weekends if I can, not least be-
cause British campsites are laden with
persnickety rules about where you can
wash up and where your kids can play
sports. It’s like being back at school, ex-
cept less comfortable. You have to put
on your shoes if you need to pee in the
night. Also, I’m a huge man, and I find
crouching in tents annoying. Yet the
Get Lost concept had an enticing sense
of scale, and there didn’t seem to be too
many rules. During the various lock-
downs, unable to travel, I had longed
for adventure. Here it was.I had some reservations about Get
Lost. It would feel strange for me to
travel without having first researched
my destination. In my work as a reporter,
I go abroad often, and I would never fly
to a new country without at least read-
ing a few books, or talking to other jour-
nalists about their experiences there. But
I realized that it might be freeing, just
this once, to travel with few preconcep-
tions and with no control. I discussed
Get Lost with my wife. She said that it
sounded fun; I also detected an eye roll.
We agreed on my taking a trip lasting
six days. Black Tomato started prepar-
ing an itinerary that would begin in
early October.T
wo weeks before takeoff, Black To-
mato sent me a packing list. The
suggested items—not too many warm
clothes, sunblock, hiking boots, long-
sleeved shirts, a waterproof jacket—in-
dicated some mixture of desert and
mountain terrain. Because the trip’s
time frame was tight, I thought that it
wouldn’t make sense for the company
to send me too far from Greenwich
Mean Time. I guessed I’d be going
somewhere in North Africa. Two days
before I flew, I received my tickets: Man-
chester to Marrakech.
The morning after my arrival in the
city, Rachid Imerhane, a genial moun-
tain guide with slicked-back hair and
an impish smile, collected me from my
hotel. I turned off my phone and put it
in a bag in the back of the car. We trav-
elled ten hours to the starting point of
my adventure. I tried to winkle out my
destination from Imerhane, but he was
implacable. Once we left Marrakech, I
did a lot of staring out the window. The
experience was like a very pleasant kid-
napping, with coffee breaks.
We drove over high, winding passes
and down into a desert plateau, through
the city of Ouarzazate, which is some-
times called the Hollywood of Africa,
because it has a thriving film business.
A giant clapper board adorns the en-
trance to the town; “Gladiator” was
filmed there, among many other mov-
ies. After Ouarzazate, the High Atlas
Mountains rose to our left. On our right
was the Anti-Atlas. We turned right
onto a deserted tarmac road, and out of
the plateau.
The elevation increased, the roads