Whiteout II: 6 (The Fall Expedition)

6. The Fall Expedition

     “Manish had always been willful as a child. He was the more active  of the two of us, always getting into fights, disobeying our parents, he never listened to anyone but himself. In the end I think that’s what killed him. It’s no secret that the Sherpas won’t lead expeditions up the mountain in the fall. We tell the mountaineers that it’s too dangerous, which is true, but not in the way that they think.

     Sure there’s the occasional rogue blizzard, but for the most part we can get through those. It’s the creatures that come out in the dead of winter that are the real reason. There’s a reverse cycle high on the mountain. During the spring when we make most of our ascents it is dead, nothing there but the snow and ice. During the winter it’s a completely different place, everything comes alive in ways that most would not think possible.

     As far back as I can remember the elders have told stories about what dwells on the mountain. Some would just say that it’s the wolves of winter, stalking prey on the slopes, but others told a much taller tale. They talked of a singular beast that only begins to roam once the first new snow has fallen. They say it comes in the first blizzard, awakening for the winter, and returns to the mountain at the first sign of spring. Mirka they called it, the wild man of the mountain. Most maintained that seeing it spelled death.

     For this reason at the first sign of snow our community would stop its expeditions, but every once in a while, someone would try anyway. When my brother and I were just children there was a Norwegian climbing team determined to summit before the winter snows came. It was already late September, and most crews had given up for the winter. There was only one man fool enough to take them, my father.

     He had never paid much heed to the tales of the beast, and called them ancient ghost stories, told only to frighten children and caution foreigners. The first snows had not yet fallen and he was convinced he could reach the top before they started. They packed up their gear and set out for one of the most ambitious summit bids in years. He thought that they could set up at base camp and reach the summit in less than a week’s time.

     There are several stages of altitude acclimatization that one has to go through on the mountain, but the Norwegians were well trained, and so was my father. Previously he had made the trip from base camp to the summit in only 10 hours, just short of our record. Overall the bid seemed fairly safe if they could maintain their timetable. The summer had been long and provided a longer opportunity for the climbing season.

     Early in the morning they set out and we watched as their lights disappeared into the darkness and up the mountain. There was something about the air. The chill ran heavier than usual and bit straight to the core. I begged them not to go, but my father promised to be safe, and take all of the proper precautions. My brother and I spun prayer wheels for him every day, but on the third day the mountain betrayed them. Out of nowhere, the worst blizzard in twenty years gripped the slopes, blotting out the mountain from view.

     The wind howled louder than usual that night. Shaking the foundations of the buildings around us. All I could do was look up at the fearsome white of the mountain and pray. It was the middle of the night when I woke up to screaming. Someone was in the street outside and I could hear the cries of the other villagers. I ran out to see what it was and saw my father standing in front of the door.

     Half of his arm had been torn away and he bore three gashes across his chest. His parka was soaked red and at the sight of me he fell to the ground. I sat there with him and watched as he fled life in those last few moments. The man who had never shown fear in his life was terrified. His eyes remained wide the whole time, vigilant for whatever had left him with his mortal wounds. The snow fell and he passed into the beyond.

     The other members of the village said that it had been a pack of winter wolves come early, and that they had not been properly equipped. My father had never put stock in any of the stories of creatures on the mountain. They carried no weapons with them, and so, for the longest time I believed them. Until only 15 years later my brother tried to make the same bid.

     He hadn’t even wanted to summit. There was a small group of travelers looking to go to base camp, no higher. They wanted to get the lay of the land for a spring expedition, feel the chill in their bones. It was only supposed to be a few day trip, but they never returned. Days passed without hearing from them, and that was when I wrote the letter to you.”

     “Why did you come to us for help?”

     “I could not afford the great Manchester, and you were the next best. I figured what we were dealing with could not be wolves, and so I baited you with a much smaller case. In the end it worked did it not?”

     Clever. “I suppose it did. A few months ago you would have never got me on this god-forsaken mountain, but here I am, believing in myths I thought to be foolish, and hunting a monster that will likely kill me. God I wish I had a drink right about now.” Thinking about it all made my head hurt. The odds were too insurmountable, but something within me continued to push me forward, further into danger, further into the unknown.

     As the night dragged on we slowly fell asleep. The wind whipped at the edges of the canvas, but we were still warm, bundled in layers of clothing and sleeping bags. The tent became a fuzzy memory and I drifted off to some place better. I was on a beach, lazing in the sun, when someone began to blast a foghorn. Those bastards are ruining my lounging. I’ve earned this haven’t I? The foghorn continued unabated. I looked around for the source but soon found myself to be the only one on the beach. The earth around me began to shake and I felt frightened.

     In an instant the beach melted away and Lopsang was shaking me. “Listen!” Outside the howling was back and louder than ever. I crept to the viewing port of the tent, hoping that the beast would not be staring straight back at me. The moon was once again full, illuminating the slopes in perfect light. From the head of the valley above Manchester’s camp rolled a cloud of snow. A storm was brewing at the top of the mountain and rolling down. “We have to warn them.”

     “We bloody well do not!”

     “If we don’t, they will die. The creature is coming for them now.”

     “Even if I did want to help them how would I do it? We’re too far away to get close enough to warn them. I’m not going to haphazardly climb down a mountain, risking my own life for someone I don’t even like that much!” James had awoken at this point and was searching through the bags for something. His hand came out holding a series of red flares. “You do realize if we get lost those are our only means of distress signaling right?”

     “Who the hell would we signal?” He had a point. Even if we did signal no one was going to come after us, and the only other person on the mountain was Manchester.

     “Fine.” I said reluctantly. Give me the flares. We unzipped the tent and stepped out into the frigid night air. My breath froze before my eyes, making me want to crawl right back in the tent and ignore the problem at hand. James struck up one of the road flares and began to wave it maniacally. The lights of Manchester’s camp were still on, but they were not moving at all. “James, get the binoculars.”

     James rushed inside the tent and found them. Looking down at the camp I could see a few tents with men inside them standing guard. The flaps were half open, but no one was outside keeping watch. It was difficult in the mountains, no one wanted to be out in the middle of the night. More often than not it could mean minor cases of frostbite, if not death. No matter how much you pay a porter, they’re probably not going to be willing to lose a limb for you.

     “James run a little further, Lopsang, you go the other direction. We need to create a wider field of view. I lit up my own flare and we all began to wave at them. There was no point in yelling, they wouldn’t have heard us, and more likely than not we would have brought an avalanche upon ourselves. I looked down at the camp once more. There was movement from one of the tents as someone noticed us. They were doing a lot of pointing and shouting.

     “They’re looking at us, not the storm. James try throwing the flare in that direction.” I said pointing at the cloud bank barreling down below us. He threw it and it spiraled through the air for a brief moment and was caught by the wind, blowing the exact opposite direction, and back down the mountain. The men at the tents looked confused. They scratched their heads and soon there were more lights as others came to join the commotion. The camp was alive with activity, and finally someone noticed the mortal peril they were in.

     Everyone was running now. From deep within the storm there came the inhuman howl, only this time it was mixed with a roar that shook the mountains around us. High above the valley a shelf of ice broke loose and tumbled down into the camp below. I watched just in time to see one of the guards swept away by the massive sheet. His light spiraled down the mountain and off the edge of a cliff. “Jesus.”

     “There’s nothing we can do.” Said Lopsang. “The storm is too close now.” It moved like a wall, thundering down the mountain with the speed of an avalanche. The area had always been known for sudden and unpredictable storms, but I had never seen them quite like this. From the top of the ridge the scene seemed almost unreal. Hundreds of tiny lights scrambling for their tents or other hiding places while the storm carried onward towards them.

     The line of snow collided with the camp and chaos ensued. Fog obscured my vision, but soon the roars were punctuated by brief bursts of gunfire. I could have sworn that I heard screaming, but it would have been impossible from that distance. In the gunfire I could see the massive shape of the creature, moving with speed unlike anything I had ever seen. It showed no fear in the face of certain danger. After a while I could no longer watch as Manchester’s camp was decimated. We crawled back into the tent and did our best to shut out the roars that continued to echo off the valley walls.

     I don’t think any of us slept a wink that night for fear of what we might see in the morning. Images of base camp filled my head. Tents covered in blood, the entrails still freezing in the snow. I could not close my eyes without feeling the guilt. We were alive and safe while the others fought for their existence at the whim of a man they didn’t even know. It was sick. Through my hatred I found myself drifting into an uneasy sleep. Waking every few minutes in fear that the yeti had somehow bypassed our protection and come for me.

     My dreams were horrible. What we saw when morning came was much worse…