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Nepal, earthquake, avalanches, exploding trees, dhaka topi, Kathmandu, Slovenian doctors, aftershocks & Manaslu Base Camp
The first thing I noticed was the noise. It was excruciatingly loud—as if four jet airplanes were flying low over the mountains. Then the ground began to tremble. It started slowly and grew with frightening force. The entire mountain range we were hiking through convulsed. Rocks broke off mountainsides and exploded when they hit the ground.
Someone yelled: “Earthquake!”
In the momentary chaos, the group split in two. We’d been walking in a riverbed in north-central Nepal and could have been hit by everything from an avalanche to a flood. Half the group ran down the riverbed, some climbed the steep hillside. I chose to run upriver, scrambling over wet rocks. My legs felt wobbly—as if someone had given me sleeping pills and thrown me into a war zone. I stopped a short distance upriver, at the edge of a ridgeline that bisected two ravines leading into the river.
The entire mountain range we were hiking through convulsed. Rocks broke off mountainsides and exploded when they hit the ground.
I watched huge boulders racing down the mountainside. The cliff faces were obscured by clouds and rain so the falling stones simply emerged from the fog. Rocks the size of refrigerators fell from the sky around the valley and crashed into trees, shredding them. One tree exploded when it was hit, sending splinters shooting through the air.
The sound of boulders raining down from above was all I could hear. My heart pounded. It was beating so hard it hurt my chest. I stared with a mix of awe and sheer horror as pieces of the mountain careened down the slope directly at us. With a river behind the small group I was with and a steep bank in front of us, we had few options. It would be slow going upriver over the slippery boulders. Downriver, rocks tumbled and crashed into the riverbed where we had been standing ten minutes before. They shattered into hundreds of pieces just twenty feet away. The earth groaned. I wasn’t sure if my knees were trembling from the shaking or from my own fear.
I looked up at a towering cliff face with a sheer two-thousand-foot drop. A low cloud hung around the mountain. Truck-sized boulders broke off the dark cliff face, falling in slow motion into the ether. Brown and gray-colored rockfalls streamed down behind them. In half a minute, the mountain crumbled to pieces. A sound like a gunshot blasted through the air. I had no idea where it came from.
My guide yelled at me to focus on the slope we were climbing. I was wide-eyed. My trekking partners were as well, staring in disbelief. I couldn’t stop glancing around to be sure we weren’t in the path of a flying boulder. Shortly before the earthquake hit, our group had run into a Slovenian couple who were both doctors. They were assessing an old Nepali man who was sick and looking for help.
Downriver, rocks tumbled and crashed into the riverbed where we had been standing ten minutes before. They shattered into hundreds of pieces just twenty feet away.
I looked at the old man now, as the earthquake raged on. He was dark, deeply wrinkled, hunched over and wearing a traditional Nepali hat—called a dhaka topi. He clutched a string of prayer beads. I heard him mutter prayers to the mountain.
When the initial quake began to subside, I knew we only had a short time before aftershocks would begin. We decided to move; our location was too unsafe. I hoped we could find a secure place downriver. That was a lot to wish for. I scrambled over the river rocks and returned to the trail. The old man followed us as quickly as he could, using his cane to work his way down.
From behind, came a trampling sound. Three horses raced past me. They must have bolted from their owner when the quake started. I didn’t know when the aftershocks would come, or how strong they’d be if they did. After twenty minutes, I thought maybe they wouldn’t come. After thirty, I was hopeful.
We ran for safer ground and I mulled over fears I’d felt in the moment. Some were irrational—like a giant hole opening in the ground and swallowing us. Or an enormous glacial avalanche descending upon us. Then I remembered the climbers who were currently at Manaslu Base Camp.
I have never been a believer, but in those moments I prayed for the lives of the mountaineering expedition on Manaslu Peak. Just a few days before, we all stayed at the same tea house. One morning we watched as fifty porters loaded their baskets with supplies, readying for the trek to base camp. It was a chaotic scene, one I’ll never forget. I thought of those porters, men and women, as well as the guides and mountaineers that were on the mountain during the earthquake. They could have easily been swept away by an avalanche. Earthquakes are not something you can anticipate at twenty thousand feet.
At about 12:30 p.m., the first aftershock hit. I had been walking, but stopped in my tracks. I made eye contact with a fellow trekker. We both realized this was just the beginning and that we were not in the best location. We were high above the river, in a sort of dry ravine, but there weren’t many trees around. The slope could easily slide, so I made it to the edge of the gulch while the aftershock raged. When it subsided, we reassessed the situation. The old Nepali man was still with us and the Slovenian doctors found some medications for him. He walked off, and I never saw him again.
Four significant aftershocks hit that night. Each time, I threw my sleeping bag open, ready to run outside into the freezing air.
We decided to walk to the next village, about an hour away. With adrenaline pumping, we made it in thirty minutes. We had a sweaty and nervous lunch inside a building while our guides tried to get the phone working. Looking out the window, I noticed a large boulder had miraculously rolled between two guest houses.
After lunch we walked the rest of the way to the village where we would spend the night. The tremors continued into the evening. Every time one hit, we raced out of the building into the yard and looked up at the cliffs. We were surrounded by them. It was impossible to get away from them in the deep cleaves of the Himalayas.
Four significant aftershocks hit that night. Each time, I threw my sleeping bag open, ready to run outside into the freezing air. My heart beat nearly out of my chest with every tremor. My trekking partners and I slept on the top floor and feared the worst. Either the building would collapse, or a boulder would knock it down.
In the morning, I anxiously went about my routine. Every few hours another tremor shook. The ground felt like it was pulsating. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if a tremor was hitting or if it was my nerves. The epicenter had been between twenty and fifty miles from where we were. The town closest to the epicenter was virtually flattened, with ninety-five percent of the homes leveled.
I consider myself lucky. I am fortunate to have not been in Kathmandu. Now about 7,500 people have been killed, and the number is expected to reach 10,000.
It is indescribable to feel the earth become volatile and mobile under your feet. “Disarming” doesn’t begin to explain it. We take the planet’s stability for granted. It is humbling to realize that it has more power than we ever will.
TJ Grist writes about people and places and is always enthralled by the local coffee brewing method of the country he is traveling in. Read more of his work here.
Cover Photo by Jean-Marie Hullot
All Other Photos by Ivan Borisov