DUNE RANCH | Scarabeo Stone Camp, set against the Atlas Mountains Sven Laurent

WE WERE ABOUT an hour outside Marrakech when our driver, Mustafa, asked us a question we weren't expecting: "Vous avez le GPS?"

Disheartening, but also delightful. My girlfriend, Dana, and I had been seeking a place where we could get off the grid and lace up our hiking boots. We were pretty sure we'd found it—even if, well, we hadn't quite yet found it.

The camp at night Sven Laurent

Scarabeo Stone Camp, a tented retreat set amid the desert highlands of Morocco, is a vanisher's paradise. Twice a year, the Belgian owners, Vincent T'Sas and Florence Mottet, disassemble their tents, pack the pieces into trucks and relocate the entire property: in summer, to a shadier spot a few miles away; and, come winter, to the sun-beaten flat to which we were now headed.

The deluxe bivouac, set up in sparsely vegetated terrain located a 45-minute drive outside Marrakech, doesn't have an address. It isn't even on Google maps.

Though this quirk was appealing when we'd booked our trip, we were now beginning to comprehend its downsides. The day before, when we'd arranged for Mustafa to drive us in his SUV, we'd given him all we had: the name of the resort, the name of the surrounding area and Vincent's phone number. Before picking us up, Mustafa had called to get general directions—too general, we now confirmed.

A meal in the dining tent Sven Laurent

Mustafa kept moving up the road until he found cellphone reception. He called Vincent again, then pulled a U-turn and retraced the 10 miles we'd just covered, finally turning onto an unfamiliar dusty back road. As we passed through Agafay, the village nearest Stone Camp, we saw the last power lines we would lay eyes on for two days.

There it was: a dozen or so simple white tents neatly arrayed on a sloping flat. The snow-covered Atlas Mountains loomed in the distance. Vincent was leaning against a white Land Rover, clad in an olive-green safari jacket and flanked by the camp's two smiling caretakers. No one else seemed to be around for miles.

Our host led us downhill and showed us to our spacious tent—one of five guest rooms, it turned out; the other tents served as lounge, massage or restaurant areas. Absent were the arabesques and colorful textiles we'd seen in Marrakech. Instead, our space was filled with straw mats, a platform bed and a vintage globe set on a battered suitcase. It added up to a somewhat rough-and-ready take on French country chic—emphasis on the rough. There was a composting toilet in the adjoining bathroom and a showerhead roped to a pole—hot water available on request.


Relieved to discover that we had no reception, we buried our phones in our luggage. We then headed into the canopied lunch area. Not until we'd each polished off a salad of chopped kiwi, plum, strawberries and pomegranate seeds did it really dawn on us that we had the entire camp to ourselves. This place felt bracingly unfamiliar, and it was ours alone to discover. Feeling giddy, we returned to our tent, grabbed the thermal blankets and straw hats that had been provided for us and came back outside to read. The wind picked up, and before long we'd migrated back inside. I don't normally go in for siestas, but here, with the winter sun pouring through the canvas walls and the soothing desert silence, how could I resist?

It was dark when we woke up. In the dining tent, we played cards and sipped Cabernet Sauvignon by candlelight as we awaited our dinner. The gas-powered space heater hissed. Did I mention there was no electricity?

A guest tent Sven Laurent

An hour later, our bellies were full of hearty chicken tagine and hot, sweet mint tea. Vincent strolled down from the kitchen tent to join us for some stargazing while the caretakers, Hamid and F'tah, cleaned up. The tiny orange lights of Marrakech shone in the distance. I felt as if I were looking in on the city from a secret perch. We said good night, and followed the lanterns that lined the path down to our tent.

Swaddled in blankets the next morning, Dana and I sat down to a breakfast of coffee and msemen, a fried Moroccan flatbread that's crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside, and very, very hard to stop eating. It came served with local honey, which we'd barely licked off our fingers when the guide for our morning trek arrived. As she led us across the dry riverbed behind the camp, Hafida boasted that she was the first certified female mountain guide in Morocco. Her brisk pace was convincing.

The Lowdown: Scarabeo Stone Camp, Morocco

Hadley Hooper for The Wall Street Journal

Getting There: Royal Air Maroc flies from New York to Marrakech's Menara Airport, via Casablanca. (The average journey is 6½ hours.) Several European airlines, such as Air France and Iberia, offer direct flights to Marrakech from their hubs. Stone Camp is a 45-minute drive from Menara Airport. Have Scarabeo book the car transfer for you, to improve the chances of your driver knowing the way.

Activities: Stone Camp contracts with local experts and operators for more than a dozen activities, from mountain-bike desert tours ($35 each) to lessons in dune-buggy driving ($800).

Staying There: Stone Camp is spread across a sloping desert. Accommodations consist of up to 10 rustic-deluxe tents. Given the camp's proximity to Marrakech, a one-night stay is definitely an option, but two is recommended ($240 a night, scarabeo-camp.com ).

What to Bring: Winter clothes (for chilly desert nights), sun block, enough cash to cover your stay and a good book or two, as there's no TV and nearly all of the on-site reading materials are in French.

In the days before arriving here, Dana and I had walked through Marrakech feeling jostled and overstimulated. Here, we basked in the still expanse of brown, sun-baked hills. Hafida had us storm up the steepest one, which left us panting.

Still slightly out of breath, we descended back to the riverbed and came upon a flock of sheep and goats trailed by a shepherd wearing a long blue robe. Dana and I hung back as Hafida exchanged a few words with him in Berber. He came from the mountains, she explained as she returned to us. He was taking his livestock through the valley until the snow up there melted. We watched as he ambled over to a baby goat that lay bleating away from the herd. He scooped it up with one hand and carried it back to the herd.

We worked up a good sweat, passing shriveled oases and an abandoned village whose mud-walled courtyards called to mind the Old Testament. Just beyond, we walked through an inhabited settlement that didn't look all that much different.

At lunchtime, Vincent met us atop a nearby butte. Hamid had set a table with half a dozen salads for the three hikers to share. Dana and I devoured them with fresh bread as Vincent told us about his vague plans to add a whiskey bar to the camp. He had a group and a couple coming for the weekend, he said, which made me even happier that we'd booked a midweek stay. We all piled into his Land Rover and jounced up the desert's sharp slopes and around its sandy corners as he drove us back.

I whiled away the afternoon trying without success to fly a kite in the slack wind. Sunset brought hot-pink streaks of cloud and the sweet smell of hookah smoke wafting down from the kitchen tent; presumably, the caretakers were enjoying their break. Dana and I ate dinner again by candlelight, and by nine had burrowed under a duvet.

The following morning, I had stretched out in the sun with a book when Vincent appeared and presented me with the bill. I'd brought little cash, on the assumption that I could swipe my credit card. We agreed I'd find an ATM in Marrakech—there certainly weren't any around here—and I'd meet Vincent that night in the city. He drove off to run some errands, neglecting to mention a checkout time.

I resumed reading, then looked up in the direction of the hazy mountain range and spotted another shepherd and his grazing sheep and goats. Rarely have I felt as strong a sense of release from the world that I usually inhabit.

Mustafa arrived at noon to drive us back to Marrakech. This time, he knew the way.