My Experience in Nepal: Hiking the Himalayas, Surviving an Avalanche, and COVID-19 Lockdown in Kathmandu
Starting out my year of travel in Asia at the beginning of January, I never would have imagined that I would find myself back in Montana at the beginning of April. However, looking back on my experience a month after returning, I can safely say that I managed to pack more than a year’s worth of excitement into three months.
I arrived in Kathmandu, Nepal, on March 2nd. I was there to hike the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayas, and would be joined by a friend I met while traveling through Vietnam and Thailand during the previous two months.
I was of course very aware of the virus situation and had even started regularly wearing a face mask, primarily to make the locals around me feel more comfortable. However, at the time Nepal had no reported cases of the coronavirus, so I had no issue with continuing our hike as planned.
After arriving in Nepal, we stayed in the capital for a few days to prepare for the hike. We spent our time bartering for gear, mostly knock-offs from well-known outdoors brands, planning our route, and meeting two other travelers who we would ultimately hike with.
I was initially pretty overwhelmed by the capital’s chaotic atmosphere. The streets were noticeably polluted and packed with people, motorbikes, and rubble. While I was able to adjust somewhat during the time I was there, I was relieved when we set off for the trail.
In order to reach the trailhead, we had to travel for two days, first by minibus and then by jeep. We bounced along on the dusty, precarious mountain roads while the drivers blasted Indian music at full volume. I thought it was kind of fun, but my friends were understandably less enthused.
However, it was clear to all of us during our first day of hiking that the travel had been worth it. As we ventured deeper into the mountains past bamboo and palm trees, I had the feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. The views were unbelievable, and the local hosts of the rustic teahouses we stayed in along the way were kind and welcoming.
Unfortunately, I woke up on the third day with a bad case of food poisoning. I was pretty sick for two days but I was determined not to turn back, so my friends carried my gear so that we could maintain our timeline. After I recovered I figured that the most difficult days of the hike were behind me, but I ended up being very wrong about that.
We spent 10 days in total hiking up to the high point of the circuit, Thorong La Pass, soaking in the beauty of the Himalayas.
The final day of our ascent was challenging due to the high altitude (ascent up to 13,550 feet) and snowy weather, but we made it up to the primitive “high camp” in good spirits. We had a big, boisterous group of people planning to make the 10 hour trek the next day, and with sunny weather in the forecast it seemed like nothing could go wrong, despite the significant snowfall we had had that day.
Unfortunately, the wind picked up a few hours into our attempt at the pass, signaling the start of another storm, and we had to turn back. Almost the entirety of our group decided to begin descending that day, but my friend and I decided to stay and attempt the pass again, since we weren’t having trouble with the altitude and we had no time pressure.
In hindsight, we should have gone down too, but we were pretty determined to make the pass after having come so close to it the day before. A few other hikers made their way up to the high camp that day and we decided to attempt the pass together, along with the other hikers’ two Nepali guides, a necessity in the snowy conditions, and two porters.
We started our second attempt in perfect weather. We began breaking a trail through the snow and were just rounding the corner to the first trail marker when suddenly, I saw the inner curve of the mountain straight ahead of us just… break away. The sound of the tumbling snow was ringing in my ears.
In shock, I saw a blue-jacketed arm gliding down the mountain. I kept my eyes fixed on the arm, terrified to look away in case it would be drowned out of view. Finally, silence.
“Please help me!” pleaded our guide from the snow, breaking the silence, his arm thankfully still visible. “Let’s GO!” shouted one of the others, jarring me out of my shock and into action. I began sprinting back on the path, the sound of my own breath loud in my ears as I tried desperately to get out of the way so we could get help. We grouped up by the first flag, the porters untying their packs to use the rope to pull the first guide out of the snow under the supervision of a Canadian firefighter and avalanche rescue crew member, a lucky addition to our group. It was only when we had our guide out of the snow and walking back over to us that I realized there were tears streaming down my face.
We made our way back to the camp, the guides speaking in rapid-fire Nepali, a sheen of quiet shock falling over the rest of us. Our guide was understandably shaken, but fine, aside from a very cold hand since he had lost one of his gloves in the slide. We knew we were very, very lucky, and we spent the rest of the day quietly together, drinking tea to keep warm in the unheated camp mess hall, quiet in a way that people can be with each other in times of crisis. Our guide recounted his terror and confusion at the experience, and we all shared a deep sense of gratitude that he was alive and completely unharmed.
The next day we left high camp well before sunrise, heading back down through the designated landslide area before the sun could recreate the dangerous conditions we had just witnessed.
My friend and I spent the next seven days hiking back down the trail. We had no WiFi or service during this week, likely because the snowstorm had wiped out the cell towers. It was a bit of a relief because that meant we could take our time processing this experience and absorbing the views with new eyes.
On March 20th, we came back into service and our phones exploded. We realized the world we were about to re-enter was very different from the one we had left. I was shocked to realize that almost all countries had closed their borders due to the coronavirus, and my only real options were to stay in Nepal (where there were only 3 known cases of COVID-19 at the time) and wait out the pandemic or return to the United States. I didn’t even have the option to return to Germany, where I had previously been living, because my residency status had expired a few weeks earlier.
My friend immediately booked a flight back to Australia, which meant we needed to get back to Kathmandu right away. We hired a private jeep to take us off the trail and made the entire journey back to the capital in one very long day.
The day after we were happily reunited with a few others from our trekking group, who shared stories of the trials our other friends had faced trying to fly back to Europe. I realized that the odds I would make it home anytime soon were pretty slim, considering I was literally halfway around the world from Montana. I figured I should at least try to make it back, so I booked the next reasonably priced flight that was still available, departing on March 24th.
Funnily enough, on our last walk together around Kathmandu, my friends and I discovered “Missing Persons” posters with my backpacker friend’s and my pictures and information. It turned out we were listed as “missing” in the country of Nepal because our friends had heard about the avalanche and become worried, reporting us missing to the police when they didn’t hear from us for the seven days we were out of service. When we finally got back in touch, they emailed the police station again, but that memo had been missed somewhere along the line.
We went to the police station, where everyone was very pleased to see me, and clarified the situation. The police were very kind and we had a funny chat that evening, soaking in the vibes of the bustling streets of Nepal. My friends, the last of my friends still in Nepal, headed to the airport that evening, and I packed my bag for my flight the next morning.
When I woke up, I left my room and started heading up to the hostel rooftop for breakfast, but was surprised to see all the hostel’s windows were shut, all the lights were off, and both reception and the kitchen were closed. I stood in the reception entryway, not sure what was going on, when suddenly the receptionist popped his head up from behind the desk, still half-asleep.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Lockdown” he replied. “Don’t you read the news?”
“Well, I have my flight,” I said, “I need to eat breakfast.”
“No flights. Everything closed.” he replied, dropping back down onto his bed.
I went and checked my phone, and sure enough, my flights back to the U.S. were cancelled. I wasn’t that surprised and I was pretty hungry, so I went outside to look for some breakfast. What did surprise me was the fact that absolutely everything was closed. No restaurants, shops, or markets were open.
The scene on the streets was disarming. Everything was shuttered, and there were almost no people on the street, a huge change from the day before. There were, however, plates of food that had been thrown out on the street in front of most homes, along with colorful powders and flowers, which I assumed had been set out for ritualistic religious reasons associated with the lockdown.
The lack of people made the abundance of stray dogs, heaps of garbage and piles of rubble from construction sites more obvious. The abandoned landscape reminded me of scenes I had seen watching my brother play Call of Duty. I had never imagined that I would find myself alone in a shuttered third-world country in the midst of a pandemic, searching for food — or searching for food, period. I walked around for over an hour without finding anything to eat, so I went back to the hostel and convinced the receptionist to make me some eggs.
I went out again a bit later with my hostel-mate, the only other person still staying at the hostel. He had been luckier finding shops, having gone out a bit later in the day and keeping his eyes peeled for barely-cracked doors and the like, which I hadn’t picked up on. Initially most of the shops were hidden, as the shop owners didn’t seem to be quite sure if they were actually allowed to be open or not. The only reason we were able to find one of the shops was because we caught the eye of a young boy waiting on the street. He led us around the corner to a bright blue door, opening it to allow us to have a quick look at the goods inside.
Later that day I started to think a bit more seriously about my situation. I realized getting a flight out at this point was basically impossible. I chatted with the guys who ran the hostel, and they assured me that I was safe there, and that they had enough food for the six of us for the week the lockdown was supposed to last. I decided not to worry too much about my situation, especially considering that Nepal went into lockdown largely as a preventative measure, still with only three reported COVID-19 cases.
I notified the US Embassy in Nepal of my location as a precaution, and my parents notified the senator’s office of my situation. The embassy informed me that they would be working on arranging repatriation flights at some point in the coming weeks, but had no definite information yet. Since I was safe, the embassy advised me to shelter-in-place at my hostel, and I obliged.
During this time my hostel-mate and I spent most of the time hanging out on the hostel rooftop, but would sometimes venture into the streets together to go food shopping. We were relieved to find that more small shops selling eggs, chips, and other snacks seemed to be opening up as the week wore on, but the selection was incredibly limited and the stores were very small. Luckily a few Western restaurants were allowed to open for takeaway to cater to stranded tourists, which we appreciated.
The fact that more things appeared to be opening also started to clarify the severity of the situation Nepal was facing. Nepal went into lockdown because their health care system is not strong enough to manage even a fraction of the threat the virus poses. However, the vast majority of Nepali people do not enjoy the economic security that would allow them to survive the lockdown in isolation without starving, forcing the majority to try to return to work despite the risks. We were glad to see stations set up to distribute free food to the needy, and noticed many restaurants doing the same.
For me, the first week of lockdown wasn’t so bad. My hostel-mate and I had food and shelter, so we passed the days quite comfortably, relatively speaking. It was after the lockdown was extended that I really started to question our position, finally realizing the long-term nature of the situation.
The day after the lockdown extension was announced, we tried to go outside but realized that we had been padlocked in by the guys running the hostel. They told us that the police were not allowing anyone outside except between the hours of 5 to 7 pm, which they had taken upon themselves to enforce. They eventually removed the padlock after a long discussion about fire hazards, but we could tell that they were quite agitated.
We also noticed the situation on the streets becoming more tense. The police and military were constantly patrolling the street, armed with rifles and automatic guns. They would yell at my friend in Nepali if we out walking for too long, assuming he was a local. Stranded tourists were allowed to roam relatively freely at the time during the allotted period, but the rules were quite strict for Nepalis. Almost the only vehicles we saw on the streets were ambulances or trucks full of armed military and police.
News that Nepali migrant workers had been forced out of India and had snuck their way back into their villages without any virus testing increased worries about the coronavirus threat, setting everybody even further on edge. We also worried about food supplies, as Nepal is largely dependent on India’s supply chain for many goods, which was under question at the time. I was also concerned by stories of threats and discrimination from other stranded tourists, propagated by the Nepali media blaming Westerners for spreading the virus.
I had initially struggled to make the decision to leave, but now I was ready to get home. When the embassy sent out the online form for the second and final repatriation flight for US citizens, I filled it out immediately. I remained in touch with the senator’s office, and felt reassured that I would make it back to the US.
On April 6th, I packed my backpack and walked to the American Recreation Center in Kathmandu, the meetup point for the flight. As soon as I arrived I felt relieved. Waiting in the long line before the health check, I was called over to join a group of backpackers and we exchanged travel stories. They had heard about the avalanche and were surprised to meet me in the flesh; I was surprised by my mini-celebrity status in the Nepal adventure circles.
As we went through the health check and filled out our forms, I was reassured by the friendly and organized Embassy staff. I felt a profound sense of gratitude towards my countrymen, and I was glad to be going home. We took a bus to the airport and I finally boarded the first of my five planes.
The journey back to Great Falls, Montana took 46.5 hours, which went by much quicker than I expected. There was a strong sense of camaraderie on the repatriation planes, which appeared to be filled to absolute capacity. I spent most of the duration of the two flights to the U.S. chatting with my seatmates, alternately exchanging lockdown stories and dozing.
On my first flight I sat next to a clearly stressed Nepali-American woman who sanitized her hands every few minutes. She was very concerned about the risks of flying, but was returning to the U.S. to support her overloaded husband, who was working as a doctor on the front lines in New York. On my second flight I sat next to an American man who had been living in Nepal for the past 8 years, but had decided to return to the United States due to his concerns about safety in Nepal during the pandemic.
We arrived in Washington Dulles about 24 hours after I had first arrived at the meeting point. I spent the overnight layover with the group I had met in line, exchanging backpacking snacks, braiding each other’s hair, and doing yoga.
I was again the last in my group to depart, so after saying my goodbyes, I walked around alone in the almost entirely empty airport.
This was a completely different scene than the one I had experienced four months prior, during my stopover while flying home from Germany for Christmas. Then, the terminals had been packed and overflowing with bustling holiday cheer. Instead, I walked through an entire wing of the airport without seeing another traveler. I marveled at the cleanliness and emptiness, a strange and profound experience after months in developing countries.
I made my three domestic flights back to Great Falls without issue, my last plane containing a grand total of two other passengers.
I disembarked the plane, had my temperature taken by the National Guard, and met my family for a socially-distanced six-foot-away welcome. I then drove myself back to my parent’s place for my two-week quarantine in their camper in the backyard.
Now, out of quarantine and appreciating the relaxed restrictions here in Montana, the full weight of my experience has begun to set in. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I fell into some sort of alternate universe when we were caught in the vibrations of the avalanche, given the surreal nature of this global pandemic. However, in these uncertain times, I am uplifted when I reflect on the many positive interactions I had during my journey. I continually witnessed the amazing capacity humans have to stick together and help each other in times of crisis, regardless of nationality or political affiliation. My experience gives me hope that we will come out of this pandemic united by empathy and a renewed sense of community.
I am also deeply aware of the privilege associated with being able to return to the United States during this pandemic, where life in Montana has already returned to relative normalcy. As new cases in Nepal increase, I worry about the continued impacts of the virus on the Nepali people and those in other developing countries. I don’t think any of us, myself included, fully understand the impact the coronavirus will have on the developing world.
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When researching relief efforts in Nepal, I came to admire the Hiteri Foundation, a crowdfunding platform that has been actively distributing food to daily wage workers and those living on the streets through the duration of the lockdown (https://www.hiteri.org/campaigns). “Stories of Nepal” has been doing the same, providing monthly food parcels to those in need. (https://www.gofundme.com/f/stories-of-nepal-covid19-relief-fund) Cidi.org, supported by USAID, also has a wealth of information connecting donors to reputable organizations responding to the outbreak globally. (https://www.cidi.org/disaster-responses/coronavirus/)
This article was originally published in the Conrad Independent Observer.