Blizzard on the Eastern Face: How a Sudden Storm Turned a Trek into a Test of Survival
They came for the silence and the thin, clean air—hundreds of people tracing the lesser-trod path to Everest’s eastern Kangshung face, drawn by an eight-day National Day holiday and the promise of alpine beauty. What they found instead was a night that tasted of iron and snow: wind that cut like a blade, tents heaving under the white weight, and a cold that slipped past gloves and down jackets to bite the bone.
By the time the valley cleared, 350 trekkers had staggered into the patchwork township of Qudang, exhausted and hushed, and rescuers had established contact with more than 200 others still making their way out, state media reported. Local officials and villagers had mobilized quickly; news agencies earlier said nearly 1,000 people had been stalled in and around the remote Karma valley at the height of the crisis.
The night the mountain closed its doors
“The snow came like someone had thrown a blanket over the world,” remembered Lhamo, a yak herder who lives in the village below the camps. “We could hear thunder on the ridge. People knocked on our doors at midnight—shivering, asking for tea.”
Trekkers who reached Qudang described a relentless freeze that began Friday evening and did not quit until Saturday night. At an average elevation of roughly 4,200 metres, Karma valley is high enough that weather swings can turn swift and unforgiving—staff reported continuous snow mixed with rain, and in places lightning and thunder that frightened even seasoned guides.
“I’ve led groups here for seven years,” said Pema, a local trekking guide. “I can’t remember October ever being like this. It was warm in the afternoons and then suddenly it was blizzard. People were wet through. We worried about hypothermia all night.”
One trekking group of 18 described huddling into a single large tent for warmth, keeping watch on the snow load outside. “We were digging snow every ten minutes,” one member said. “If the roof had collapsed, there’s no telling what would have happened.” Two men and a woman in that party suffered hypothermia when temperatures slipped below freezing despite seemingly adequate clothing; they were stabilized as the group descended.
A community that would not wait for orders
What the valley lacked in paved roads it made up for in human response. Villagers, rescue teams from nearby towns, and local officials formed chains of support, removing drifts blocking access and ferrying people to shelter. Tea was boiled, wood stoves stoked, and the staple hearth foods—warm barley tea and steamed buns—were shared among strangers until relatives could be contacted.
“We packed a thermos and some bread and headed out at night,” said Dorje, one of the volunteers. “We found people crying and hugging each other. There was fear, yes, but also this fierce kindness. Everyone wanted to help.”
Authorities suspended ticket sales and entry to the broader Everest Scenic Area late Saturday as a precaution, while teams worked in stages to shepherd groups to safety and account for guides and support staff. There has been no clear public tally yet of every local guide and yak handler involved with the stranded trekkers.
Mountain moods and the risk calculus of adventure
Karma valley is one of the more verdant approaches to Everest—a contrast to the stark, arid north face that visitors often know from postcards. Alpine forests and melt-fed streams give the place a sense of being slightly removed from the world’s bustle. That remoteness is part of its allure and part of its danger.
“People come seeking solitude, the idea of being small beneath something enormous,” said Dr. Mei Lin, a climatologist who studies mountain weather patterns. “But the Himalayas are changing. We’re seeing more erratic precipitation and shorter transition periods between seasons. Systems that used to arrive predictably in late autumn are now less tied to calendar dates.”
Scientists have warned for years that mountain regions, including the Himalayas, are warming faster than many lowland areas, which can mean more intense precipitation events and unstable snowpacks. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) assessments have highlighted rising risks to glaciers, water supplies, and mountain communities across Asia. In practical terms for trekkers, that means sudden rain turning to heavy, wet snow, and higher risk of hypothermia and avalanche conditions even during what used to be reliably dry seasons.
The human cost beyond the valley
The blizzard was not an isolated hardship. South of the Tibetan border, in Nepal, persistent heavy rains have unleashed landslides and flash floods. Since Friday, at least 47 people have been reported killed; 35 of those deaths occurred in Ilam district in Nepal’s east, authorities said. Nine people remain missing, and three were fatally struck by lightning during the stormy period.
Roads have been washed away, bridges collapsed, and entire communities were cut off as swollen rivers journeyed angrily downhill. “When the river moved the earth, it took our path to the world with it,” one farmer in Ilam told a reporter, surveying fields turned into gullies. “We are rebuilding, but the fear remains.”
What this moment asks of us
There is a human drama here—families relieved, guides exhausted, villagers whose kitchens became makeshift rescue centers—but there is also a larger conversation about how we travel, who we call upon in emergencies, and how climate shifts are altering the calculus of risk in mountain regions.
Should more permits be limited during uncertain seasons? Should trekking companies be required to carry additional emergency gear or satellite communications? How should governments balance the livelihoods that come from tourism with the safety of visitors and local communities?
“We love showing the world our mountains,” said Pema, the guide. “But we need better forecasting, more training, and shelters along the routes. We need to be prepared for weather that used to be ‘once in a decade’ but is now arriving more often.”
After the storm
For those who made it to Qudang, survival was both raw and tender: villagers offering hot tea, strangers sharing stories, hands warm around steaming cups. For others still on the route, rescue teams worked methodically, guiding groups out in stages. And for the region as a whole, the episode—a blizzard in October, heavy rains to the south—reads as a reminder that high places are not immune to global shifts.
When your path climbs into thinner air, what will you pack besides boots and camera? How will you factor in the increasing unpredictability of the planet’s weather? The mountains ask these questions now with a louder voice; the challenge is whether our answers will be sharp and swift enough.
- 350 trekkers reached Qudang after the blizzard; more than 200 others were contacted by rescuers.
- Karma valley averages about 4,200 metres in elevation—high enough for acute exposure risks.
- At least 47 people died in weather-related incidents in Nepal during the same period, including 35 in Ilam district.
The storm has passed for now, but the echoes remain—footprints in the snow, a ladle set aside in a Qudang kitchen, a guide checking his weather app with a new wariness. Mountains are timeless teachers. The question is whether we are listening.
