Creative Mapping of the Seti River

I first encountered the Karnali River in a YouTube video titled “The Tears of Shiva.” The short film documented four kayakers descending Nepal’s “last major free flowing river,” before hydroelectric dams were constructed along the Karnali. I was immediately captivated by this river, the translucent glacial melt band that descends 671 miles from Tibet’s Mt. Kailash to converge with the Ganges River in India. Mt. Kailash is sacred amongst Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, and Bon religious practitioners, and has been preserved as a “sacred landscape.” The semantics, history, and cultural significance of the Karnali fascinated me, in addition to the river’s natural beauty and unique positionality at the precipice of development, climate change, and environmental policy. 

The convergence of sacredness, recreational use, and industry upon the Karnali River struck a chord with my own familiarity and perspective on rivers. Two main personal identities—being the child of an environmental lawyer, and being a raft guide—shaped my interest in Himalayan rivers. My mom's career was dedicated to navigating the balance between ecosystem, industry, and the millions of crucial stakeholders involved in California water law. Growing up, our dinner table conversations often revolved around pressing policy and litigation issues pertaining to the state’s persistent and severe drought. Nowadays, as a guide in the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness, we affectionately call the wilderness area "The Church." The Wild and Scenic Salmon River system where I work is threatened by downstream dams, which have become a hot topic of political controversy surrounding conservation, recreation, and industry

In the months leading up to my departure for Nepal, I daydreamed constantly of the Karnali River. I carefully planned my journey to the remote region of Tibet, researching the (notoriously dangerous) flights from Kathmandu to Humla, where I would take either a bus or a car as far as vehicles can go, then carry on by foot to the upper reaches of the Karnali’s watershed. I dreamed of steep river gorges, and small mountain villages; prepared interview questions and read research papers about the proposed dams’ various impacts.

Come time for the project’s fruition, I found myself in a traveler’s hospital in Pokhara, Nepal, reading a book my friend’s had thoughtfully purchased for me called “Karnali Blues.” Rather than river currents, I watched the steady flow of antibiotics and steroids through an IV drip for eight consecutive days. Confined to a windowless room in an otherwise empty hospital, I awaited a diagnosis and treatment for a peritonsillar abscess that made it difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to swallow. The experience drained all sense of adventure from my body. Wracked by fear, loneliness, and uncertainty, I wanted nothing more during that week than to go home. 

It quickly became evident that traveling to the Karnali, where there was no guarantee of reliable healthcare or evacuation, was out of the question. I had known that traveling to Nepal would require adaptability, but the disappointment of not being able to pursue my carefully planned adventure weighed heavy. More than anyone else, one of my nurses, Laxmi, revived my excitement for being in Nepal. We spoke about my interest in rivers, my job at home as a river guide, and her childhood in a small village along the Seti River in the mountains near Pokhara—a village that was nearly entirely decimated by flooding in 2012. 

As I accepted that my plans would have to change, the Seti River became the new focal point of my interest. The Seti flows from the Annapurna Conservation Area, through Pokhara (Nepal’s second largest city), into the “terai” or plains of the Nepali-Indian border. The Seti is also considered sacred in the Hindu religion, and has several sites along the river that are used for ceremonious cremation, pilgrimages, and other religious rituals. 

The mountainous stretch of the Seti is increasingly susceptible to glacial lake outburst flooding, unpredictable flows, and landslides associated with new weather patterns due to global climate change. The region near Pokhara is subject to relatively unchecked resource extraction in the form of sand and gravel mining, as well as hydroelectric dam development. Within the metropolitan area, the Seti is intensely polluted by human and industrial waste. These upstream factors have had disastrous effects on downstream ecosystems, where crucial wildlife habitat and agricultural practices are suffering from the river’s deterioration. 

Many of my conversations with journalists, local residents, farmers, miners, and researchers highlighted the dire circumstances of the Seti River’s condition. I was particularly struck by how rapidly—within a single generation—climate change and development had completely altered the Seti River. Parents who had once bathed, drank, and raised crops from the Seti River now would not consider the same practices for their children because of how polluted the river is. Sites that had been used for decades as in purification rituals had been completely eradicated by hydroelectric dam construction. The Seti’s once flourishing fisheries—that previously fed entire communities—barely sustained the handful of remaining fishermen. 

Amidst these rather dismal stories of the Seti River, I found immense hope and inspiration among students at Tribhuvan University, who were deeply invested in restoring and protecting their local environment. I had the opportunity to join in a conference hosted at the university where students, professors, and researchers from all different backgrounds shared their work on environmental research and conservation. One of my favorite conversations at that conference was with a student who was the leader of the birding club at Tribhuvan. He brought his binoculars with us as we traveled on a bus from lake to lake in the Pokhara basin, and pointed out numerous bird species which have been or are currently under threat. He meticulously wrote down each type of bird we saw, where and when we saw it, and logged an assessment of the habitat conditions. 

Over the course of a month, I got to know the Seti from a myriad of different perspectives. My academic perspective was a case study on ecosystem services and community uses of the Seti River, but in the end, this was an accompaniment to the personal growth I experienced over the course of my time abroad. My final project for the study abroad program was a series of watercolor sketches that reflected various components of the Seti River, and represented different interactions I had throughout the course of my independent study. The Keller Venture Grant enabled this entire project by helping with access to transportation, housing, and by funding many, many cups of tea—a Nepali requisite to accompany any sort of interaction. I am so thankful to the professors, students, and strangers who shared their personal and professional stories with me, and gave me a small glimpse into the network of the Seti River.