What I Learnt From Surviving A Natural Disaster

Escaping with my life...

Hey friends,

Greetings from NCR, India!

After two weeks, I’m getting back to writing. Thank you to everyone’s messages of encouragement and support. I really needed them.

For those of you who don’t know what happened, read on…

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August 1st 2024, was the most intense day of my life. 

I was wet, cold, covered in only three layers, up at 12,500 feet, at 3:30 a.m., watching as the overflowing river whisked our campsite down the valley. All in the span of minutes. 

I was more than 10km from the nearest roadhead. SOS calls were not going through. Above, the sky was pouring on us, and below, the valley was slowly filling with water. 

I didn't know how to get out.

***

Towards the end of July, I went to Manali to embark on the Hampta Pass trek. This trek climbs up to 14,000 feet and is commonly done in the monsoon. I'd gone with a trekking company that routinely organised groups for these treks. The plan was to loaf in Manali before embarking on the trail.

The first few days in Manali were peaceful. I went to Kullu and visited some friends whom I'd last seen several years ago. I hopped on buses to see where they took me. I also went around the nearby villages, photographing interesting people that I met along the way. 

The people of Himachal Pradesh are beautiful…

During these days, there wasn't a hint of rain on the horizon. It was rather sunny, and I couldn't step out of my guest house in the afternoons. I had no idea how that would change over the coming days. 

Soon, the trek started, with us passing through some of the most beautiful parts of this state. The massive rock faces reminded me of the fictional realm of Khazad Dum in The Lord Of The Rings trilogy. A small stretch of pine opened up to meadows, albeit nestled in a valley, with a river thundering in the gorge below. The climb was relatively smooth, and we were up at 12,200 feet within a few days.

This campsite was called Balu Ka Ghera, which in the local language refers to the sandy riverside where we were supposed to camp. We were barely 40 feet from the shore, but the water was gently flowing, only later dropping steeply into the gorge. It made for the most idyllic setting, with the surrounding mountains reflecting neatly in the calm water. 

Balu Ka Ghera is the summit campsite of the Hampta Pass, meaning that we were to depart the next day at sunrise, making our way to the summit above 14,200 feet. This is a very high altitude (almost halfway up to Everest). We had an early lunch and settled in for the night.

Now, it had been raining for the previous few nights, but secure in our tents, we didn't pay much heed. We just hunkered down and tried to tune the pitter-patter out, waiting for dawn. The following day, we'd wake up to see that water had collected on the tent's outlining. It was never anything major, nothing that wouldn't dry up in the afternoon sun.

***

At 11:00 p.m., I woke up to rain. It was harsher than usual, battering hard against the polyester. I turned in my sleeping bag and tried to go back to sleep. My sleep is usually erratic in the mountains. 

But an hour or so passed while I kept blinking in and out of sleep. It seemed like it was going to be a rough night. 

Then, somewhere around 2 a.m., I heard the most gut-wrenching sound in the sky. I had never heard anything like it in my life. It made thunder sound like a weak squeal. It was coarser and forceful, as if God was tearing a wad of papers up in the heavens. I knew then that things weren't going the way we hoped.

Half an hour later, I heard that sound again, this time a lot stronger. 

Amidst the downpour, I heard someone shout, "Get up!" from outside. Their torch's blurry glow shone through the tent's polyester. 

Torchlights out at night, especially in the middle of a storm, couldn't be a good sign. 

At once, I opened the zip of the tent, but nothing could have prepared me for that sight. 

The riverside, 40 feet away when I went to bed, had come right up to the tent. The river had burst its banks. Water was already trickling in over the lip. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, I felt something move underneath me, which could only be water streaming underneath the tent's bottom liner. Outside, it was black, and my trek poles and trek shoes were nowhere to be seen. 

In the mountains, the flow of the rivers can change very quickly…

Immediately, I woke up my tentmate and scrambled out of my sleeping bag. We were racing against time; our tent was only hanging by its pegs. We rushed to get our things scattered within our tent. Luckily, most of my backpack was packed because we were due to make the summit push. I only kept out the stuff I'd need in the morning. 

I threw my bag on my back and plunged my feet into the icy water as I scrambled up to the higher tents. My tentmate and I didn't have the luxury of wincing from the cold. We got out and, through the haze, made our way to the dining tent on slightly higher ground. 

To my utmost surprise, I found my shoes on a higher bank. Someone must have grabbed them from floating away into the gorge. I thrust my feet into the bank, squelching out the water from inside it. My trekking poles and other gear were nowhere to be seen. 

Everyone else in our group was huddled in the dining tent. But we only completed our headcount when it became clear that we couldn't stay there forever. Within a few minutes, the time it took me to tie my shoelaces, water began flowing into the tent. The dramatic pace at which the water level rose made me fear the worst. 

I burst out of the tent only to see that half of the remaining tents had already been washed into the river. The rest were getting unhooked by the second and floating away downstream.

Not knowing what came over me, I jumped into the river and tried to grab a tent. What was I thinking? I'm not sure. These tents were expensive, and part of me couldn't fathom seeing all that money washed away in the storm.

It only took a few tugs for me to realise that if I didn't get out of the burgeoning river, then I might never. I clambered out and joined the team heading to higher ground.

There we were, twenty-odd poncho-clad trekkers scrambling uphill as the valley below us filled with water. Soon, only the dining tent remained, and I peered through the darkness as that got swept away, too. A chill went up my spine as the metal rod holding the tent up broke off like a toothpick in the upcoming water. 

We made our way under a rock, which partially shielded us from the rain. It was not even past 4 a.m., so we could barely make out the remains of our campsite. We all gathered against the rock, trying to get out of the storm as much as possible.

At this point, I genuinely didn't know what to do. Our trek leader and guides were deliberating among themselves. Still, I could tell they were stunned by the dramatic change of events. Should we ascend towards the pass and make it to the campsite in the other valley? Climbing meant gaining altitude, which was never a good idea in a crisis. So, should we descend down and risk passing through the river that had now burst its banks? But what was the state of the lower campsites? We didn't know. 

It was still dark; I could barely see the waterline slowly creeping up in the valley below. The lack of light introduced a whole new set of complications. Whatever decision we took, it would need daylight. 

So began the long wait, as we silently weathered the storm for what would be a grueling three hours. In those hours, while we barely uttered a word, my mind raced. 

Until we reached higher ground, my mind was operating on autopilot. Instinct had taken over. I had to simply get myself out of that perilous situation. Moving made me feel like I had a goal, a destination.

But remaining stationary forced me to sit with nothing but my thoughts. To distract myself, I opened my phone and tried an SOS call, but to no avail. We could barely hear each other over the raging storm. How would a paltry phone call reach anyone? It had been three days since we lost the signal. 

Despair crept into my mind, and I could no longer trick myself. How would we survive this?

Here’s a video someone took later when there was enough light…)

Looking back at my life, I realised I do so much to distract myself from genuinely confronting my feelings. I go on runs, make art, and take photographs, partly for enjoyment and partly to distract myself from my feelings. Even in the rain, I was itching to move because the illusion of a goal was better than enduring the storm in my head.

I looked around, and studied everyone else's faces. They, too, were going through their own mental debates. I saw the youngest in our group, a 13-year-old, quietly enduring the storm.

Something about our shared struggle breathed new life into me. It all came to me in one shining piece. 

I knew we could die there. But I didn't want to, and I was sure as hell going to try and make it out. And I think that made all the difference.

At 6 a.m., we decided not to risk the pass crossing and instead went down. So began our return journey—wading into the river, then passing over boulders and quicksand, and starting the 10km descent down the valley. On numerous occasions, I slipped into the quicksand and, with immense difficulty, pulled my feet out. After that, I stuck to hopping on the top of the boulders, ensuring I got my entire foot on the rock before moving forward, lest I slip on its slippery surface. 

Ironically, since some other trekkers had lost their entire gear, I lent them my jackets, which made my bag lighter and thus easier to carry. So I carried one of the duffel bags (containing some of the camp supplies) that we could save before the campsite was washed away. 

I won't recount the entire journey, but after 12 grueling hours passing through streams and broken sections on the mountain, we made it to the nearest road head. Luckily, down the valley, most of the water went into the gorge, so we just had tricky boulder sections to cross. By 10 a.m., the rain reduced, so we could see into the distance without blinking the water from our eyes. 

Making such a descent, given what we escaped, required an immense amount of energy, but brimming with adrenaline, we powered through. When we got a signal, we informed the base camp, who promptly sent cars to pick us up. I called my parents and did my best to assuage their concerns. 

***

When I look back, I know how close I came to death. 

I realised that, in a crisis, you don't have time to worry. Worrying is a privilege you can't afford at the moment. That can come later; at that very second, you must do everything you can to get yourself out of there. It's when your mind kicks into automatic, and you let instinct take over. 

I learnt the value of light and being able to see. After the cloudburst, we needed light regardless of our decision (climbing in altitude or descending). That's one variable that makes all the difference. 

After the evacuation, a friend made this schematic with some pictures he took once we got daylight. The campsite picture was taken the previous day.

An experience like this makes you think about what kind of person you want to be. Having gotten another chance, all the superficial things I was struggling with vanished, and I'm now faced with one simple question—"What kind of person do you want to be with the life I have left?"

I choose to live my life with intention. I'm not going to worry about what I have and what I don't. All that doesn't matter. I have to make the most of my time on this planet, and I can't spend it worrying about trivial things. We have such little time on earth, and I will not waste it on things I can't control. 

And I know that, whatever challenges life throws at me, I'll brave it with a smile. That's what saved me from a natural disaster.

***

My friends have asked me whether this experience has dampened my love for the mountains. They asked me whether I would go back after this. 

To this, I burst out laughing. Of course, I'm going back. I'm already vying for the next opportunity. I'll just be more careful, check the weather forecast (And steer clear of the rainy months when possible)

PS: Exiting Himachal Pradesh was a hassle on its own. Because the highway was broken, we had to take an alternative route to an alternative bus boarding point. Since all the traffic shifted to that road, it was jammed, and anyone who has been in a traffic jam in the mountains knows it takes hours to resolve. Our 45-minute journey took nearly 3 hours, and our bus threatened to leave. Later, the bus broke down because the battery needed replacement. We waited on the roadside for the spare battery to arrive. 

At midnight, our bus had to turn back because of the road's condition. We had to spend the night on the roadside, with one late-night dhaba and a rickety hotel. We spent the night sleeping in the bus, with no AC or air circulation, waiting until dawn, when we would know whether we had to turn back or whether we could move forward. Once again, I saw how having light made such a difference. 

At last, more than 48 hours after the cloudburst, I managed to get out of it and make it to safe ground. 

Favourite Quote

“One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else’s survival guide.”

Brené Brown

Have a creative, wild and inspiring week!

If you’re new, welcome to The Owlet! My name is Ishan Shanavas, and I am an Artist, Photographer, Writer and Student of the Natural World.

Here I talk about my work, along with curating the most interesting ideas on the internet. I confine them to topics like Nature, Culture, Photography, and Art but often fall prey to other genres.

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