One fine day in the high Himalayas
Adventure, altitude, and avalanches on the trail to Manaslu Base Camp.
Nearly four thousand meters above us, Manaslu dwarfed the surrounding mountains. At 8,163 meters, its summit sliced into the clouds, the wind tearing off a plume of ice and snow which trailed behind it like a long white scarf. It’s a near-perfect mountain—an immense massif of snowy ridges narrowing to a single, elegant point that juts toward the heavens.
We were in Sama Guan, a small village at its base, the staging point from which climbers began their assault on the summit. Long trains of heavily laden mules snaked through the cobbled streets. Helicopters buzzed incessantly to base camp fourteen hundred meters above. Zombie-like climbers limped past, bodies ravaged by the effort to reach the summit: lips cracked and blackened from supplemental oxygen; faces burned from being 8,000 meters closer to the sun.
We weren’t climbing Manaslu. Just looking at its snowy, wind-lashed flanks was enough to set the heart hammering. Our goal that day was humbler: a climb from Sama Guan to base camp and back. The path traced the edge of the Manaslu glacier, climbing from 3,390 to just over 4,800 meters—higher than Mont Blanc. It is a brutal vertical gain, worsened by altitude—roughly 50% less oxygen in each breath compared to sea level.
Suda, our Nepalese guide, was a man of few words. That morning, news had arrived that his wife had given birth to a baby boy. He was flushed with emotion—proud, distracted, a little unsteady. Against my better judgment, I shared a celebratory beer with him at 7 a.m. Alcohol and altitude do not mix; I immediately felt lightheaded. He worried aloud that his head wasn’t in the right place for the climb. After the beer, I wasn’t sure mine was either.
Almost immediately after leaving Sama Guan, the path climbed steeply through muddy switchbacks, threading thick stands of silvery Himalayan birch. We stepped aside for a train of thirty mules, packs empty, moving in single file. Their bells chimed a Himalayan melody as a young Nepali boy urged them forward with a long, thin stick.
It was the last day of the Manaslu summit season, and the mules were being sent up to haul gear down from a dismantled base camp. We and the mules seemed to be the only traffic heading up. Everyone else—climbers, porters, Sherpas—barrelled down in the opposite direction.
As we cleared the tree line, not even a quarter of the way up, Suda stopped abruptly. Choking back tears, he told us he was turning back, his mind on other things. We understood—who wouldn’t? Guideless now, but feeling strong, we pressed on. It was hard to get lost when the only way was up.
After three hours of steady climbing, we rested on the edge of the path, feet dangling over a vertical shelf. Far below, the turquoise shimmer of a glacial lake lay calmly at the base of the icefall. To our right, the glacier shifted and cracked, dumping massive chunks of ice with a loud boom. Below, Himalayan Tahrs grazed precariously on cliff edges, while above, Himalayan Vultures soared, dark wings silhouetted against the snow. Manaslu loomed over everything, its peak appearing and vanishing in swirling clouds. Every few minutes, the ground trembled as avalanches roared down its slopes—we counted nearly twenty that day.
Above 4,000 meters, the altitude began to take its toll. Breaths grew ragged, hearts pounded. We slowed to a steady plod, one step after another up the narrow track. Past 4,400 meters, everything shifted. The trail reared up vertically through low cloud. Above, only blue sky. Air felt impossibly thin. Bent double, hands on knees, we climbed higher. Head throbbing, hands and feet tingling, I felt disoriented.
It felt almost embarrassing to be so spent—4,800 meters isn’t exactly Himalayan glory. As an armchair mountaineer, I’d “summited” K2, Everest, Annapurna many times from the sofa. I’d always imagined altitude heroics. Still, the human body is remarkable. Four days later, we crossed the notorious Larkya La Pass at 5,200 meters feeling strong, our blood thick with new red cells. The acclimatisation plan had worked—specifically, this climb to 4,800 meters.
In contrast, Nepali porters breezed past as if gravity didn’t apply. Men and women carried staggering loads down from base camp—tables, chairs, entire fridges rested on their backs carried with a simple head strap, the traditional namlo. They bounded down the trail, smiling, greeting us with a cheerful “namaste” as we wheezed uphill. It was tremendously humbling.
Finally, after nearly six relentless hours of climbing, we crested the last ridge and base camp came into view. It looked like a busy anthill—tiny figures weaving between clusters of yellow tents tucked among massive boulders. Dismantling was well underway. Dozens of mules stood patiently, piled high with gear, awaiting the signal to descend. Climbers packed up, while a group of Sherpas celebrated the season’s safe end with beer and dancing, laughter echoing off the mountainside.
We took the obligatory photo beneath a string of tattered prayer flags, then collapsed nearby to rest. Far above, tiny figures edged down the summit ridge—climbers, well over 7,000 meters, mere specks against the vast mountain. Helicopters buzzed in and out, landing briefly before plunging like stones down the glacier.
We stayed half an hour before we began the descent. Clouds had rolled in, thick and cold. Wedged in a mule train, we shuffled along the narrow path. The animals pushed relentlessly, better to be shoved into the mountain than off it. A runaway mule clipped a porter carrying a table—she spun wildly, teetered, then crashed back onto the trail. It could have ended badly.
Nine hours later we were back where we started—spent but exhilarated. It hadn’t been perfect in any conventional sense. We’d climbed without a guide, battled altitude, and endured long stretches that were anything but fun. But it was perfect in the way great days in the mountains often are: demanding, unpredictable, unforgettable. The Himalayas: raw, punishing, perilous—and utterly magical.
Until next time.
Beautiful read Andrew. And the photos too - wonderful!
Incredible 👏🏻