From Green Mountains to Red Sands: Entering the Deep South of Algeria

Article by Camilla Baier

Lupine Travel is kicking off their new Adventure Series: a set of trips created for curious, active travellers looking to go beyond the usual paths. Designed by Lupine’s Robert, each journey explores remote landscapes, challenging trails, and vibrant local culture. For this first exploratory trip, we headed to Algeria: a country of vast beauty, complex histories, and famously warm hospitality. The first took us deep into Djurdjura National Park, hiking through the lesser-visited reaches of Algeria’s Atlas Mountains. For those wanting to extend the adventure, an optional add-on led us further south, into the heart of the Sahara, to trek among the soaring peaks and volcanic plateaus of Ahaggar National Park, beginning and ending in the storied desert city of Tamanrasset.

After a few unforgettable days hiking the pine-lined trails of the Djurdjura National Park and exploring the historic streets of Constantine on the Atlas Hiking Tour, we boarded a domestic flight and headed south into the heart of the Sahara. Our destination: Tamanrasset, gateway to the Hoggar Mountains and home to the Tuareg people. It felt like stepping into another Algeria altogether. We left behind the green hills of Kabylia and the Roman ruins of Djemila, ready to trade snow patches and cedar forests for red rock, sand, and silence. What lay ahead would be three days of hiking and star-gazing through some of the most remote and hauntingly beautiful landscapes the country has to offer.

Day 1: Arrival in Tamanrasset

Following a slightly delayed, but straightforward late-night flight from Constantine, we landed in Tamanrasset, the southern gateway to the Sahara. Once outside, the desert air cool and dry, we were met by our warm and welcoming local team. Groups were quickly assigned to 4x4s and introduced to the drivers who would be our guides through the south. Even before reaching the hotel, conversation had already begun, a lively mix of gestures, broken French, and our first attempts at Tamasheq greetings. We had barely left the airport, and already the landscape, the people, the pace of things all told us: we were somewhere else entirely.

On the short drive into town, we passed clusters of public buildings, including the Tamanrasset University campus, their signage beautifully inscribed in Tifinagh, the traditional Amazigh script. The terracotta-red tones and sweeping architecture, we’d realise the next day, seemed to echo the very mountains that encircle the city.

Day 2: Into the Heart of Ahaggar

After breakfast, we reconvened with our drivers and set off towards Ahaggar National Park, stopping near Mount Hoggar for a scenic photo break. Out came plastic bags filled with colourful cloths, which our drivers patiently wrapped around our heads in the traditional Tuareg fashion. We’d never quite managed their poise and effortless coolness, but we were grateful for the protection, as the desert sun was fierce, and a restrained but relentless wind whipped grains of sand into our eyes, noses, and ears.

We snapped our first photos with the Hoggar (or Ahaggar) Mountains, gentle giants glowing rusty red and orange in the Saharan sun, already filling our camera rolls despite knowing we’d be spending the next three days among them.

Our next stop was the Afilal Guelta, a hidden river oasis nestled in the folds of the desert. For those of us new to the Sahara, the sight of water in this environment was quietly astonishing: small pools tucked between boulders, ringed by reeds and floating lily pads. We marvelled at colonies of tadpoles before arriving at a crisp, inviting pool, too tempting to ignore. Some of us plunged in, others clambered up the rocks for sweeping views over the surrounding landscape.

When we returned to the small mud-brick hut where we’d parked, we found our drivers (somehow cooks, translators, guides, and tea-makers all in one) had laid out a feast that defied logistics. Somehow, from the maze of boxes and barrels expertly strapped to our trucks, they had conjured up a meal of fresh salads, hot dishes, and mint tea laid out on carpets in the shaded hut, a nomadic feast in the middle of nowhere.

On the Edge of the High Plateau

Bellies full, we continued onwards to Assekrem, where we’d be setting up camp for the night.

Assekrem is a high plateau in the Hoggar Mountains, rising from the larger Atakor massif. At its summit sits the hermitage of Charles de Foucauld, still inhabited today by a small handful of monks. Surrounded by a dramatic crown of jagged volcanic peaks, at about 2,600 metres,  the Assekrem Pass feels both remote and at the very pulse of the surrounding landscape.

We reached the base just as the afternoon light began to fade. Before heading up to the hermitage, we were handed mattresses, blankets, and pillows, our “camp” for the night spread across a cluster of simple, mud-brick shelters.

With our beds made, we began the ascent. The path zigzags up the mountain in a gentle rhythm, the walk surprisingly meditative – or perhaps fittingly so, given the pilgrimage-like nature of the place. White pebbles lined the trail, clicking quietly underfoot like wind chimes scattered across the hill.

At the top, we were greeted first by the view, still staggering, even in the muted afternoon light, and then by the resident monk. A member of Les Petits Frères de Jésus, he welcomed us and offered a short tour of the hermitage and its story. He had been stationed here for about a year, and spoke passionately about Charles de Foucauld; the French soldier, explorer, ethnographer, Catholic priest, and hermit, who built this place in 1911. Foucauld had devoted himself to understanding the Tuareg people, living among them and documenting their language and culture.

Before heading back down, we wandered to the far side of the plateau to catch a first glimpse of Mount Tahat, the peak we’d be climbing the following day. On our way out, we snapped a photo of the sundial on display on the hermitage wall: a local timekeeper that tells you exactly when to start your hike to catch the sunrise (which we planned to do), depending on the season.

As dusk fell, we made our way back to camp. Lights were already flickering inside the huts. Our drivers had been busy again: dinner was laid out, somehow even more elaborate than lunch. The desert chill arrived quickly with nightfall, but was offset by steaming bowls of tagine, sweet mint tea, and what was quickly becoming a group favourite, a spiced ginger and honey infusion.

We settled in under thick blankets as the wind whistled outside. It was hard to believe we’d only been here a day.

Day 2: Summit and Stars

With our alarms set for 5:45, we made good on our promise to return to the hermitage for the sunrise we’d been told not to miss. Climbing the stony path, still half-asleep and shivering slightly in the pre-dawn chill, the silence was absolute – broken only by the soft, familiar chiming of pebbles underfoot, their sound heightened by the stillness.

And it was worth it. Nestled among the surrounding boulders or perched on the bench outside the hermitage, we watched in hushed awe as the golden-orange sun began its slow rise over the dark silhouettes of the Hoggar Mountains. The light crept across the skyline, throwing long shadows and bathing the plateau in a kind of ancient, elemental glow. I couldn’t verify it on the UNESCO website, but many sources claim that in 2015, Assekrem was named the most beautiful sunrise and sunset in Algeria – and even the world.

We’d believe it.

Back at camp, a hearty breakfast fuelled us for what lay ahead: the hike up Mount Tahat.

Towards Tahat

The approach took us around the base of the mountain, gradually gaining elevation with a mix of steady climbing and scenic pauses. At 3,003 metres, Tahat is Algeria’s highest peak, and the scramble near the top offered a fun and satisfying challenge. The views just kept growing more spectacular with every step and before long, it became impossible not to turn around constantly. Every glance back revealed a new sweeping vista, prompting more stops, more photos, more gasps.

The summit arrived with hugs and high-fives. My faithful seven-year-old hiking boots chose this mountain (and honestly, who could blame them) to begin their retirement. My summit photo includes one boot held together with tape, courtesy of our Tour Leader Robert, who patched it up mid-scramble without missing a beat.

But none of that mattered. We proudly cracked open the metal summit box, signed the logbook, and took a beaming group photo with the Algerian flag.

The descent took us down the far side of the mountain, opening up a new view of the landscape; broader, drier, and shifting constantly in colour and tone as we descended. By the time we reached the bottom, our drivers were waiting, ready to take us on to the next camp. The track was rough in places, parts washed out after last year’s unusually strong rains, but nobody minded, as we watched Mount Tahat shrink in the rearview mirror, a new notch in our memory and muscles.

Somewhere along the way, a group of seemingly wild camels wandered across the sand, looking relaxed and indifferent to our presence. Our driver smiled and explained that no camel here is truly wild; they all have owners, and at night, they’ll be whistled home by their herders. For now, though, they too seemed free, basking in the same post-climb glow we felt ourselves.

Under the Watchful Eye of Ilamane

That night’s camp was set in a dried-up guelta, with sweeping views of Mount Ilamane. We’d seen her from afar earlier that day, but now, up close, her presence was undeniable. Ilamane rises from the plain like a sentinel, its profile unmistakable: a woman cradling a child. Revered by the Tuareg, the mountain carries a quiet, maternal power, something that resonates in the stillness of the surrounding desert.

As evening fell, we pitched our tents near Oued Ilamane. For those less enthused by wild camping, there’s comfort in the return of our trusty mattresses, blankets, and pillows from the night before in Assekrem. While we settled, our drivers and cook sprang into action once more, conjuring yet another delicious meal.

We gather on a rug beside the fire, sipping hot tea and watching the clearest night sky I’ve ever encountered. The drivers chuckled at our collective wonder, especially as we started confidently pointing out constellations, most of which we’re probably inventing. After a few blurry attempts at star photography, most of us gave up and just enjoyed the view. Our tour leader, Robert, ever the patient chronicler, managed to take an incredibly long exposure shot that we’d all end up sharing later.

After a hike, any meal tastes better. But after a desert hike, with food cooked over fire and eaten under the stars, it tastes like something else entirely. Tired, well-fed, and wrapped in thick blankets, we crawled into our tents with that deeply satisfying mix of exhaustion and awe.

Day 3: Final moments beneath Ancient Trees

We wake under the calm, watchful eye of Ilamane. Another open-air breakfast, simple and perfect. As the crew packs up camp, we stretch our legs and wander over to the ancient Ilamane mosque. A weathered structure hundreds of years old, still standing stoic in the middle of the desert. Its continued presence feels like a quiet act of resistance, or faith, or both.

Then we’re back in the trucks, driving away from Tahat and Ilamane, these two enormous stone guardians that have shaped the land and the stories of this region. The landscape begins to shift once again. 

We make a stop at the Tadjmart Museum, a modest but beautifully kept straw building focused on the geology, flora, and fauna of Ahaggar National Park. We learn how this region, now so arid and stark, was once green and teeming with life. The evidence is etched into nearby stone: 5,000-year-old petroglyphs of giraffes, impalas, and lions – animals that no longer roam here.

From there, we continue to a giant sycamore tree, its broad canopy offering shade and a surreal moment of cinematic beauty. Our drivers clear the ground of thorny branches – a gesture we come to appreciate moments later when, true to form, I step on one and drive a thorn clean through my flip-flop. My shoes, by now, are a recurring theme.

But the tree becomes our shelter from the midday sun, and the site of our final desert meal. Our cook prepares everything with his usual care, but the highlight is the traditional bread: kneaded by hand, buried beneath the sand, and baked under the coals. We’re each given a small taste (just a teaser, to collective protest) before it’s torn into pieces and cooked into a rich Chakhchoukha. Sweet tea follows, and a few of us drift into naps in the tree’s cool shadow, while others sit in quiet reflection on what the last few days have offered us.

Eventually, and reluctantly, we tear ourselves away and begin the drive to Tamanrasset.

Back in town, we stop at a jewellery cooperative, where Tuareg artisans craft traditional pieces, silver, stones, and the soft clink of hammers shaping heritage into wearable art. Nearby souvenir shops tempt us with leather goods and woven carpets.

And just like that, it’s over; the dust, the mountains, the many delicious meals. What remains with you are the memories – the views, the photos, and the longing to come back soon. Even well after your boots (or flip-flops) have fallen apart.

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Why join this new trip?

This isn’t just a trek. It’s a journey into the soul of the Sahara. Towering volcanic peaks, ancient desert trails, and deep-rooted Tuareg traditions come together in one of North Africa’s most spectacular and least-trodden landscapes. You won’t just see Mount Tahat – you’ll climb it, sleep beneath its shadow, and share stories over tea with those who call this land home.

With Lupine’s trusted local guides and a route designed to challenge and inspire, this is the perfect launch for their Adventure Series.

Check out the full itinerary and join Lupine in April 2026: Algeria – Hiking the Sahara Extension Tour

Camilla Baier is a German/Brazilian writer and researcher based in Edinburgh.
Follow Camilla on Instagram: @camilla_baier