The best fuel for some trips is pure adrenaline. Between galloping in the High Atlas and kitesurfing off a next-big-thing beach town, Jason Harper found a nation both deeply traditional and thrillingly young

I yank hard on the reins, slowing Sakoi enough to get him turned around on the mountain road. Through the thin saddle, I can feel the energy in his ropy muscles. The last gallop has heated him like a vacuum tube; he's in a frenzy to run.

I've got a piece of that frenzy too. This gallop is what I most wanted. Minutes ago, before trading my gentle nine-year-old mount for this fine six-year-old, Hassan gave me a manful, long look and asked, "You have ridden really fast before, yes?"—and I couldn't admit the whole truth. Sure, I've ridden fast before. But nothing, truly, like Sakoi.

Round two, facing back down the earthen road. The Arabian's head ducks, he bunches up, bowstring muscles contracting. I lean forward instinctually, and he's off. Hooves strike gravel. Trees streak into Monet smears of color. I've never ridden this fast.

On the immediate right, the road's edge and a long, rocky drop one misstep away. My eye strays over, and my mind flashes an image of a stone dropping down a well. It's too late for a midcourse correction, and seconds later I lose the sweet spot in the saddle. I fight to stay in an upright crouch, flashing now on the broken bones of a friend who recently shattered her arm in a bad horse fall. I have no health insurance. Losing control is one thing, losing it in the remote wilds of Morocco…Somehow I hang on.

Three days ago, I landed in the 105-degree heat of Marrakech, threw my backpack into the Land Cruiser owned by my guide, Brahim, and looked south to the peaks of the High Atlas, my playground for the next few days. I was off to climb Jbel Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. Brahim and our translator, Abdul, pointed me to the passenger seat, and I was soon spirited off into the blank desert flatlands. Marrakech may be international chic, but the two-lane road out of it offers quick access to the older Morocco, the one with terraced villages the color of sand and goatherds lolling by the side of the road, following our progress with crinkled, patient eyes.

Brahim was recommended for his outdoor savvy and his knowledge of Morocco's wild places. As he navigated, we worked out our language situation. He was fluent in Italian, I in Portuguese; we both had some Spanish. Combining the three into a linguistic slushy, we found that we understood each other quite well. Abdul, a happy-faced youth from a tiny mountain village, sat in the backseat and tried to follow along. He'd be my guide for the two-day ascent of Toubkal.

I've never lost the seven-year-old's penchant for getting into things. I'm impatient during six-course meals, and I've torn several pairs of good pants lately while climbing trees. So I've taken to dosing my travel with adventure—hiking, mountain biking, trail running, sea kayaking, rally race car driving, horseback riding, dune boarding. The activities keep me happy and even-keeled, and I've learned more while getting lost (or getting hurt) during these activities than I ever could have in the confines of a tour bus.