Nestled within Nepal’s trans-Himalayan corridor, Mustang has long been a land of both abundance and scarcity. Snow-capped peaks cast long shadows over barren, windswept valleys. Ancient Tibetan Buddhist monasteries perched precariously on cliffs, their prayer flags fluttering in winds that have shaped both land and lore. Generations of farmers etched terraced fields into rocky hillsides, coaxing from the unforgiving soil apples so crisp they became symbols of Mustang’s ingenuity and perseverance. Life here did not defy nature—it moved with it. The cycles of snowmelt and monsoon dictated planting, harvest, prayer, and pilgrimage. But that delicate balance, honed over centuries, is now unraveling.
Mustang today no longer tells a story of quiet endurance, but one of escalating emergency. Winters, once defined by a serene blanket of snow that insulated life, now arrive barren and bitter. The snowpack—Mustang’s natural water bank—is gone. Springs, once fed by slow, predictable melt, now yield nothing. Fields lie cracked and fallow. Crops wither before maturity. Livestock, once the backbone of the local economy and culture, are vanishing from dust-hardened pastures. And tourism, once buoyed by Mustang’s stark winter beauty and cultural mystique, is fading as snowless landscapes and landslide-prone trails turn visitors away.
Here, climate change is not abstract. It is not a threat on the horizon or a projection debated by distant experts. It is a predator, stalking villages, devouring traditions, and dismantling livelihoods with ferocity. It has reshaped the land, emptied barns, severed trails, and muted festivals once anchored in the rhythms of a snow-fed world.
Mustang’s collapse is not an isolated tragedy—it is a mirror reflecting Nepal’s imminent future. This once-remote highland, long considered resilient due to its self-reliant communities and adaptation to extremes, is now ground zero for climate-induced disruption. If Mustang, a region whose people have survived for centuries at the mercy of thin air and sparse rain, is faltering so rapidly, what lies ahead for Nepal’s more densely populated regions?
Consider the lowland floodplains of the Tarai, already vulnerable to monsoon volatility. Or the mid-hill farms, where rain-fed agriculture sustains millions and any shift in precipitation wreaks havoc. Or the teeming cities—Kathmandu, Pokhara, Biratnagar—where overstressed infrastructure and unchecked urbanization compound every climate shock. If climate extremes can hollow out Mustang, the implications for these regions are dire.
What’s unfolding in Mustang is a warning shot. The snows that once defined its seasons are vanishing across the Himalayan arc, endangering the glaciers that feed rivers essential to 1.5bn people downstream. As temperatures rise nearly twice as fast in the Himalayas as the global average, Mustang’s parched orchards, empty yak barns, and shuttered homestays offer a preview of a broader unraveling.
And yet, this is not just about lost apples, absent snow, or displaced herders. It’s about what vanishes with them—ancestral knowledge, spiritual connection to land, and a model of harmony between people and nature that the rest of the world has largely forgotten.
When snow becomes memory
For centuries, the arrival of the first snowfall in Mustang marked more than a seasonal change—it was a reset for the land and its people. Snow blanketed apple orchards and barley fields, fed glacial springs, and sustained fragile mountain ecosystems. It signaled a time of rest and replenishment, while gradually releasing meltwater to sustain life through the arid months. Today, snowfall has retreated into memory. The landscape remains cold, yet eerily bare.
“The cold still cracks our skin, but the earth stays barren,” laments Lopsang Gurung, a farmer in Marpha, standing beside a deep, jagged well drilled in search of vanishing groundwater. This absence of snow has ruptured Mustang’s hydrological balance. Springs that once flowed year-round now run dry by early spring. Groundwater levels plummet as villagers dig deeper in desperation. Monsoon rains, once steady and life-giving, now arrive in violent torrents that erode topsoil and flood fields. Scientists report a 30 percent decline in snow cover since 2010—a change that has triggered cascading effects: mistimed flowering, disrupted migratory patterns, and failing crops.
Cultural life suffers too. Losar, the Tibetan New Year, once danced with snow-laced prayers and processions, now unfolds on dusty ground. “Our festivals feel hollow without snow,” says Pemma Dolma, a teacher in Lo Manthang. Communities are experimenting with solutions: artificial glacier projects and groundwater regulations offer glimmers of hope. But so far, these efforts remain too scattered, too under-resourced. Mustang’s snowless winters are not just a regional concern—they’re a red flag for Nepal and the global climate community.
Farming on the brink
Agriculture—the heartbeat of Mustang’s rural economy—is faltering. Apple orchards, once the region’s pride, now struggle to survive under an onslaught of climate extremes. Warmer winters disrupt the chilling hours apples need to bloom. Invasive pests and fungal infections thrive in erratic weather. Meanwhile, violent hailstorms repeatedly shatter entire seasons of hard work. Narayan Thakali, a third-generation farmer, recalls when his trees yielded eight tons of apples annually. “Now, we’re lucky to get three,” he says. To salvage his crop, he relies on synthetic pesticides, fully aware of their long-term damage to soil and water.
Declining snowmelt has forced farmers to depend on deep wells, some drilled 20 meters down. But groundwater, like snow, is vanishing. In some areas, water tables drop two meters each year. And yet, adaptation simmers below the surface. Farmers are trialing dwarf apple varieties needing fewer chill hours. NGOs are promoting integrated pest management to reduce chemical use. Solar-powered micro-irrigation systems are boosting yields in pilot villages. These efforts show promise, but without cohesive, national-level policies and investment, they remain isolated lifelines.
Vanishing livestock, vanishing traditions
Yaks, chyangra goats, and sheep once roamed Mustang’s high pastures in abundance. Their meat, milk, and wool formed the bedrock of rural life, while their presence anchored seasonal rituals and social bonds. Now, those pastures are drying up.
A staggering 60 percent of Mustang’s alpine rangelands have degraded since 2015. Warmer temperatures and erratic snowfall have altered grassland composition, replacing nourishing alpine flora with inedible scrub. Foot rot and other diseases, once checked by cold winters, now spread easily in moist, warming soils. Herders, without reliable veterinary services, either overuse antibiotics or abandon livestock altogether. Traditional migrations to summer pastures—once communal rites of passage—have all but disappeared. In Dhe, empty yak barns sit like silent tombs to a way of life vanishing before our eyes. Still, resilience flickers. Insurance schemes based on satellite weather data are being piloted. But the scale of the crisis demands far more coordinated intervention.
Tourism at a tipping point
Winter once drew throngs of domestic and international tourists to Mustang’s stark, snow-covered beauty. Between December and February, snow lovers, trekkers, and spiritual seekers filled local lodges, generating nearly a third of the region’s GDP. But as snow vanishes and trails succumb to landslides, visitors stay away. Between 2020 and 2023, winter tourism declined by 65 percent. Villages like Thasang, once bustling with homestays and guides, now face economic ruin.Communities are attempting to pivot. But progress is uneven. Poor digital connectivity, unreliable infrastructure, and a lack of funding for cultural preservation remain stubborn barriers. Declaring Mustang a Climate Emergency Zone could unlock vital international funding for green infrastructure and culturally sensitive tourism alternatives. Without it, the region’s tourism sector may collapse entirely.
Floods, landslides, and glacial peril
The July 2023 flood in Kagbeni was not an isolated event—it was the new normal. Fueled by an intense monsoon downpour, the Kali Gandaki River tore through homes and fields, leaving behind wreckage and displacement. Landslides and flash floods routinely cut off entire villages. High in the Himalayas, glacial retreat has accelerated, giving rise to unstable glacial lakes. These ticking time bombs threaten to burst and send walls of water hurtling into valleys below. Scientists have identified 11 such high-risk lakes in Upper Mustang alone. Although early-warning sirens and bioengineering efforts, like planting sea buckthorn to stabilize slopes, are underway, only 15 percent of vulnerable households have flood insurance. Without robust national support, communities are forced to gamble with their survival.
Seeds of adaptation
Yet amid the wreckage, Mustang offers glimpses of what climate adaptation can look like when tradition meets innovation:
Agriculture: Solar-powered drip irrigation, climate-resilient crops, and SMS-based weather alerts offer smarter, water-efficient farming.
Livestock: Hydroponic fodder systems, mobile veterinary apps, and drought-triggered insurance build pastoral resilience.
Tourism: Eco-certified homestays, resilient trekking trails, and immersive digital storytelling can renew Mustang as a sustainable tourism hub.
Disaster defense: Vegetative slope barriers, glacial lake sensors, and satellite-based landslide alerts can save lives.
A call to action
Mustang stands not only as a region in distress but as a living model of the future awaiting much of Nepal. Its unraveling is a choice: surrender to collapse, or turn crisis into transformation. A national climate resilience pilot in Mustang could unify scattered innovations and funnel investment where it’s most needed.
Global support—from NGOs, governments, and climate finance institutions—should treat Mustang not as a disaster zone but as a climate innovation lab. Communities here carry ancestral knowledge: how to read clouds, revive springs, and live lightly. Their wisdom must be woven into policy and action.
As a Thakali proverb goes, “A dry riverbed still remembers the monsoon.” Mustang remembers its seasons. If Nepal listens, acts, and invests wisely, Mustang might not only survive—it might lead.
The author is Phd scholar in climate and green finance : research focus on green finance and climate change
