You leave Marrakech before the city wakes fully — the taxi drivers’ calls thin, the kasbahs shrink in the rearview — and the air shifts. Olive groves take over the roadside, their silver leaves flickering like a slow applause as the Atlas foothills step forward. After an hour or two of mountain villages and mosaic-tiled rooftops, the road drops and you hear it before you see it: the river demanding attention, spray whispering through the canyon. Ouzoud announces itself in sections — ribbons of water tumbling over stepped ledges, spitting mist that dots your camera lens and chills the back of your neck.