In the steep middle hills of Nepal, there are places where the cliffs hum. High above terraced fields, the air vibrates with the collective buzz of the Himalayan giant honey bee (Apis laboriosa), the largest honeybee species in the world. Its hives, some longer than a person is tall, cling to sheer rock faces hundreds of feet above the valley floor.

Twice a year, men from the Gurung, Magar, and Kulung communities take on the perilous task of harvesting this honey. They climb to the hives on rope ladders made from bamboo and nettle fiber, some dangling more than 300 feet over empty air. The reward is “mad honey,” a rare crimson nectar infused with grayanotoxins from rhododendron flowers, potent enough to cause dizziness, slowed heartbeat, and even hallucinations.

Honey hunting is more than a feat of bravery. It begins with ceremony. Hunters make offerings to cliff deities, often fruit, flowers, rice, or the sacrifice of a chicken or sheep. The rituals are meant to honor the spirits believed to guard the hives and protect the climbers from harm.

Once the prayers are complete, a small team approaches the cliff. The hunter’s companions manage ropes, prepare smoking torches to calm the bees, and catch the heavy honeycombs in woven baskets lowered from above.

From his precarious perch, a hunter leans into the swarm, smoke drifting around him, bees pelting his bare face and hands. With a bamboo pole tipped with a flat blade, he slices the comb from the rock, its weight pulling against his balance. Every movement is deliberate. One slip could be fatal.

The comb is lowered to the ground, dripping with deep red honey. Villagers gather to taste it fresh, though only in small amounts. In larger doses, the honey can bring on intense nausea, blurred vision, and hallucinations. For centuries, it has been used sparingly as a medicine, an aphrodisiac, and, in some cases, as a weapon. Ancient armies are said to have laced enemy food supplies with it.

Climate change, deforestation, and dwindling bee populations threaten this ancient practice. Hunters who once filled baskets with honeycomb now return with only a fraction of what they once harvested. Younger generations, drawn to city work, are less willing to risk their lives for the tradition.

Still, in the spring and autumn, the ladders go up. Smoke curls into the sky. And somewhere high on a cliff in the Himalayas, a man edges out over the void, chasing honey that tastes like no other.

Until next time,

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