A Trek to Sama Gaon in the Manaslu Region

It was spring in Europe, and Patrick, Javier, and I were excited. Three years ago, we had had to postpone our trip to Nepal due to Covid restrictions. Finally, we were able to head down and complete our wish to complete a trek in Nepal.

We touched down in Kathmandu on a clear day, and at the airport, Lakpa, our travel companion in Nepal, was waiting to greet us. Lakpa was from Karmaia Adventures, co-founded by Mingma and Mirel. We had been connected with them through mutual friends in Spain who recommended Karmaia Adventures. We loved their approach, and over two video calls, they had crafted a wonderful itinerary for us, including assistance with hotel bookings and paperwork for the trek. It was they who had suggested we trek to Sama Gaon, as we wanted an authentic, not-too-crowded experience, but also had only one week to complete the entire trek.

Lakpa was cheerful and attentive. After asking us how our journey had been, he took us to the hotel. Kathmandu was colourful and bustling, with a temple or ancient structure seemingly every kilometre. In the evening, Lakpa took us to Kathmandu Durbar Square and then to Thamel for light drinks and dinner. When we asked if we needed to do anything for the permits, we were surprised to find everything had already been arranged. Lakpa handed us two permits — one, the Manaslu Restricted Area Permit (RAP), and two, the Manaslu Conservation Area Project (MCAP).

The next day, our journey began with a long and bumpy drive to Machha Khola. From the windows of our jeep, we caught glimpses of terraced hillsides, scattered villages, and the river carving its way through deep gorges. By the time we reached Machha Khola, it was already evening. Lakpa asked us to settle in and said, “Tomorrow, the real walk begins.”

The following morning, we set out with our back packs and heavy excitement. Walking along the Budi Gandaki, we realised how different this trek was – the trail was narrower, often hugging cliffsides or dropping steeply to the roaring river below. Sometimes it was a suspension bridge that carried us across, swaying gently as we stepped, with glacial waters raging beneath.

By the time we reached Jagat, we were already feeling the remoteness. The village was small, its stone houses clustered along the trail. There were fewer trekkers than I’d expected. Our guide organised our permits and accommodation with ease, and I silently thanked him for navigating the logistics that felt very complicated in this region.

The walk from Jagat to Deng tested us further. The trail seemed to rise and fall endlessly, at times narrowing into rocky ledges where we pressed close to the cliff, careful not to look down at the torrent below. At other points, it widened into lush sections where waterfalls tumbled down, feeding into the Budi Gandaki. We stopped often, not just to catch our breath, but to take in the sheer rawness of the landscape. The river seemed like a constant companion — sometimes thundering, sometimes whispering, but always reminding us of how deep into the gorge we had gone.

Crossing Philim, we began to feel the shift in altitude. Villages were more scattered, fields less abundant, and life seemed harder here. Lakpa, who seemed to know everyone along the way, greeted locals and exchanged quick conversations. He had a deep knowledge of the region, and as we entered Tsum Nubri Valley, he explained that the entire Tsum Valley prohibited the killing of animals for sacred reasons. He told us about a temple, the Sarong Gumba, high up in the mountains, where animals are said to eat directly from the hands of monks. Along the way, he pointed out details we would have missed on our own – the prayer flags fluttering at village entrances or the long ancient mani walls etched with Buddhist mantras. His knowledge gave perspective to the long hours of walking.

By the time we reached Namrung, the mountains began to rise closer, snow peaks peeking from behind the ridges. The air grew crisper, the villages quieter, and our excitement surged — Sama Gaon was near. That final stretch from Namrung to Sama Gaon felt long but exhilarating. The trail opened gradually, the gorge giving way to broader valleys, and the Budi Gandaki, which had been a roaring companion at our side for days, finally mellowed into a calmer stream.

Reaching Sama Gaon felt like arriving at the heart of Manaslu. The village sat tucked against the backdrop of towering peaks, with Manaslu herself looming above, shrouded in clouds. Yaks grazed lazily in the fields, children played in the courtyards, and the prayer flags fluttered endlessly in the mountain wind. We sat on a stone wall, watching the evening light drape the village, and it felt as though time had slowed to match the rhythm of this remote place.

Yet, with that arrival came a sense of regret. The Manaslu Circuit, one of the great Himalayan trails, was just beyond us — the Larkya La Pass waiting for those who had the time and preparation to cross it. For us, Sama Gaon was the final stop. A part of us ached to push further, to complete the circuit, but another part knew this short trek had given us a capsule of the Manaslu experience: the relentless rise and fall of trails, the intimacy of walking alongside the Budi Gandaki for days, the remoteness that made every village feel like a discovery, and the sudden, overwhelming presence of the high peaks.

The return journey retraced our steps, and yet it felt different. Downhill, the trails seemed gentler, though no less narrow. The Budi Gandaki once again became our companion, guiding us back, its roar fading gradually as we descended into lower valleys.

Looking back, the trek to Sama Gaon may not have taken us over the high pass, but it gave us something just as valuable. It revealed a raw, remote part of Nepal where the mountains still feel untamed, where the trails demand focus, and where the river reminds you of your smallness at every turn. Perhaps one day, I will return to complete the circuit — but for now, Sama Gaon holds a chapter of its own in my story of the mountains.