Dead Mountain: The True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

by Eichar, Donnie

  When Tatiana began to take things into the kitchen, I sensed our time was up. I would later notice a pattern with my interviews. Everything was friendly until it was suddenly over. Before we said good-bye, Tatiana left me with a final thought: “My mother’s intuition was right. In 1994, before she died, all she remembered was that it was her fault.”

  On the train ride back to Kuntsevich’s place, I couldn’t get Dyatlov’s mother out of my head. I wondered how many fretful mothers throughout history had been ignored by their obstinate children, only to see their nightmares realized. As if the loss weren’t enough, these mothers were sentenced to a life of regret and of hearing the same refrain repeating uselessly in their heads: I told you so. With the birth of my own child imminent, the pain of Igor’s mother tugged at my heart.

  Igor Dyatlov was beginning to take real shape in my mind as a twentieth-century Renaissance man and adventurer. However, I knew that in order to create a fuller picture of the man and his final days, I would have to go beyond speaking with his sister—who, after all, had been only twelve years old at the time. I would have to talk to Yuri Yudin, the last person to see Igor and his friends alive. I found it difficult to believe that the president of the Dyatlov Foundation hadn’t the slightest idea where the man was. But if Kuntsevich knew Yudin’s whereabouts, he certainly wasn’t telling me.

  5

  JANUARY 24, 1959

  ON THE MORNING AFTER THEIR DEPARTURE, THREE HOURS before the lazy winter sun had risen, the Dyatlov group disembarked in Serov, an iron and steel manufacturing town 200 miles due north of Sverdlovsk. Blinov and his party joined them on the platform. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, and after ten and a half hours of gaiety and irregular sleep on the train, both hiking groups were weary. The next train, which was to take them to Ivdel, wasn’t due to depart until evening, leaving the group of friends no choice but to spend the day in this unfamiliar mining town. Perhaps they could visit a local museum or—befitting their academic studies—a metallurgy plant.

  Their first instinct was to get some sleep inside the station while it was still dark. They quickly discovered, however, that the doors were locked. The workers inside, speaking brusquely through the station windows, refused to allow any travelers in from the cold.

  In classic fashion, Georgy lightened the mood by taking out his mandolin and breaking into song right there on the platform—a conspicuous disruption given the early hour and inhospitable surroundings. In comic imitation of a busker, he set out his felt cap for tips, his beanpole frame and protruding ears adding to the comedy of the moment. But his spontaneous merrymaking didn’t last long because a nearby policeman heard the noise and strode over. Yudin recorded the incident in the group diary:

  A policeman pricked up his ears; the town was all calm, no crime, no disturbances as if it’s communism—and then Yu. Krivo started to sing, he was caught and taken away in no time.

  Without ceremony, Georgy was marched to the police station around the corner. His friends followed and watched as he was scolded by the sergeant.

  A sergeant reminded Comrade Krivonishchenko that Article II.3 of Internal Order at railway stations prohibits disturbing other passengers. It’s the first station where songs are illegal, and the first one where we didn’t sing.

  After a stern warning, Georgy was let go, at which point the friends retreated in the opposite direction from the police station, chewing over the details of Georgy’s near arrest as they went. They planned to meet Blinov’s team at the station that evening, which gave them the day to explore the town. Not far down a snow-paved road lined with log-cabin-style houses, the travelers encountered an elementary school, bearing the uninspired name of School #41. Desperate to find a place to catch up on their sleep, they knocked on the front door. A cleaning lady answered and, after hearing their predicament, allowed the group inside. They were soon greeted by a sympathetic schoolmaster, who agreed to let the hikers rest there if, in return, they would speak to his class later that day about their trip. The sleepy friends readily agreed to this new plan.

  A typical Soviet school day was broken into two periods: a morning session devoted to proper lessons, followed by a less structured afternoon session, during which pupils could pursue their own activities or gather for guest speakers. Schoolchildren could typically expect war veterans, factory workers, museum docents or writers as afternoon guests. But a group of mountaineers who could regale them with their adventures? This was a rare thing.

  Local villagers in Serov, January 24, 1959.

  Alexander “Sasha” Zolotaryov in Serov. Photo taken by the Dyatlov hikers, January 24, 1959.

  With Igor and his friends well rested, they piled into a classroom of roughly thirty-five young faces, ranging in age from seven to nine. The little ones were eager to learn, and when the hikers revealed the contents of their backpacks, the children were held in captive fascination. There were ice crackers, maps, Zorki cameras and flashlights—known as “Chinese torches”—passed around the room. The guests even treated the class to a tent-pitching demonstration, and by the end, the children were begging to be taken along on future expeditions. With the educational portion of the visit concluded, the classroom erupted in song. The tattooed Sasha stepped forward with several new songs, including a Russified version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” by Samuil Marshak. The song gave Sasha and the schoolchildren the opportunity to act out the verse.

  Our Mary had a little lamb,

  As loyal as a dog,

  It always walked with her, yes ma’am,

  Through thunder, storm, and fog.

  When it was very, very young

  She took it to the steppe,

  But now, although it grew its horns,

  It still walks in her step.

  Say, Mary walks out of the gate,

  The lamb walks after her.

  She hops along the street, and what?

  The lamb hops after her.

  She reaches a corner, makes a right,

  The lamb walks after her.

  She shoots ahead with all her might,

  It dashes after her.

  While Sasha was certainly the star of the sing-along, the children fell hardest for Zina, and became emotional at the idea of her leaving them. They asked her to be the leader of the “Pioneers”—a youth group similar to the Scouts in the United States—not understanding that Zina couldn’t stay. As evening drew near, the hikers wrapped up their visit with one last song, but the happy conclusion didn’t prevent the children from becoming tearful when the hikers moved to leave. With their teacher’s permission, the entire class poured out of the school and followed the ten adventurers down the road all the way to the train station. The kids pleaded with Zina again, begging her to stay and promising to be well behaved if she would only agree to remain behind and lead their children’s group.

  The hikers said their final good-byes to the children and boarded the 6:30 PM train bound for Ivdel. As they took their seats—and Lyuda prepared to disappear beneath hers—the travelers assumed their adventures in Serov had come to an end. But there was one final incident awaiting them in the train car, a peculiar one given that none of the hikers drank alcohol. Yudin recorded the incident in the group diary:

  In the carriage, some young drunkard demanded we give him a half-liter bottle, claiming we’d stolen it from his pocket. That’s the second time today the story ended with interference of a policeman.

  After the disruption resolved itself, the hikers were left most vividly with the impression of the classroom they had visited that day—and the love the schoolchildren had so readily given them.

  Weeks later, once School #41 had gotten word that the Dyatlov group was missing, the children all wrote letters to UPI, expressing their concern and asking the frank questions that children ask. What happened to their new friends? Where was Zina? But their mail went unanswered, even after the group’s fate was known. Yuri Yudin received one such letter from a child they had met that day, but he didn’t
have the heart to write back. What could he say?

  6

  FEBRUARY 1959

  ON FEBRUARY 20, THE SAME DAY A SEARCH HELICOPTER is dispatched from Sverdlovsk, the Ivdel prosecutor’s office orders a criminal investigation into the case of the missing hikers. There is nothing yet criminal to investigate, but the purview of the office goes beyond the strictly criminal. The regional prosecutor, Nikolay Klinov, assigns prosecutor Vasily Tempalov to head up the investigation, most likely because Tempalov’s Ivdel office is closest to where the hikers were last seen. Tempalov holds the title of junior counselor of justice—the equivalent rank of major in the army—and though at thirty-eight years he is relatively young, he has considerable experience prosecuting cases in the region. He has zero experience, however, with young hikers gone missing, and until the searchers turn up some evidence of the hikers, there is little Tempalov can do from his office.

  The Sports Committee of Sverdlovsk, meanwhile, is trying to determine the hikers’ route so that they can relay the information to the search teams. Because Igor Dyatlov’s intended course was not found in the hiking commission’s files, the committee will have to track down someone acquainted with the group’s journey. Not realizing that one of the hikers, Yuri Yudin, has since returned to town, the committee turns to the only man they believe can help: Yevgeny Maslennikov, chief mechanical engineer at the local Verkh-Isetsky Metal Mill. Not only is he a distinguished UPI alumnus, he is also one of the best backcountry skiers in the city and serves as a hiking consultant to clubs throughout the larger region of Sverdlovsk. In fact, he personally signed off on Igor Dyatlov’s proposed course into the northern Urals.

  When Maslennikov receives a call from Valery Ufimtsev of the Municipal Sports Committee, he is surprised to learn that Igor and his friends have not yet returned. “I told him what I knew about their route,” Maslennikov later told investigators. “I said that the route was hard, but the group was strong; they couldn’t lose their way, and therefore the situation is critical.”

  After relaying the group’s intended destination of Otorten Mountain, Maslennikov suggests to Ufimtsev that one of the hikers may have a leg injury that has slowed the entire group. Or, he speculates, they all caught the flu and are recovering in a nook somewhere. Before Maslennikov hangs up, he agrees to join the growing search efforts as an adviser. Three days later, he would himself fly to Ivdel to join the air and ground searches.

  Gordo and Blinov, meanwhile, have been unsuccessful in their attempts to pick up the hikers’ trail leading from Bahtiyarova village. By the estimates of Mansi villagers, the hikers had arrived approximately sixteen days earlier, putting their visit around February 4.

  On February 23, the day after Gordo and Blinov visit the village, several Mansi tribesmen join the search effort. Their help is essential, as the Mansi know these mountains intimately. The group is headed by Stepan Kurikov, who, despite his Russian name, is a respected elder of his people. It is not unusual for the partially assimilated Mansi to take Russian names.

  By now the search teams have arranged for radiograms to be sent back to Ivdel and Sverdlovsk. The radio is heavy and requires skilled operators, but this wireless form of communication is the only way to send messages rapidly between the mountains and the city hundreds of miles away. The first radiogram reads:

  MANSI AGREE TO JOIN SEARCH

  DAILY PAYMENT FOR 4 MEN 500 RUBLES

  MANSI FOUND TRACKS 90 KM FROM SUYEVATPAUL TOWARD URAL RIDGE

  GIVE PERMISSION FOR SEARCH

  /BARANOV/

  Upon Maslennikov’s arrival in Ivdel on February 24, there is a noticeable escalation in the search efforts. The same day, the Ivdel municipality agrees to a search of all possible routes the Dyatlov group may have taken. In addition to continued aerial sweeps, there are new boots hitting the ground, among them UPI students, family members, local officials and volunteers from the surrounding work camps. Over the next few days, nearly thirty searchers fan out over the snowy topography, targeting the Vishera River in the Perm region, Otorten Mountain itself, the Auspiya River valley, and the surrounding areas of Oyko-Chakur and Sampal-Chahl.

  A search by helicopter over the Auspiya River is quick to pick up ski tracks along the bank. Groups on the ground, meanwhile, follow up on the discovery of Mansi hunters that ski tracks and evidence of camping were spotted 55 miles from the Mansi village of Suyevatpaul. In response to the latter, a group headed by the Mansi team’s Stepan Kurikov, accompanied by a radio operator, sets out in the direction of the ski path. In anticipation of finding the hikers at the end of these tracks, they equip themselves with a first aid kit and food.

  By the next day, however, there is still no immediate sign of the hikers. One of the groups, headed by UPI student Boris Slobtsov, is searching the Lozva River valley when a message drops to them from overhead. Aerial note-dropping is a common form of communication, particularly in remote areas where radio transmission is difficult or impossible. The communication can work both ways. For the searchers to relay to airplane or helicopter pilots that everything is fine, two people lie parallel in the snow. To indicate the direction they are headed, four people form the shape of an arrow. If a message needs to be communicated to searchers on the ground, a note is attached to a brightly colored object, often red, which flaps visibly on its descent.

  Helicopter search for the hikers, February 1959.

  Members of the search team gather to strategize. (From left to right: Mikhail Sharavin, Vladimir Strelnikov, Boris Slobtsov and Valery Khalezov.) Photo taken by Vadim Brusnitsyn, February 1959.

  The note dropped to Boris Slobtsov on February 25 instructs the party to alter its route and begin searching along a smaller adjacent river, the Auspiya, where ski tracks were recently spotted. Slobtsov and his team of nine promptly change course and that same day pick up not only on the Dyatlov ski trail, but also evidence of one of their campsites along the river.

  Boris Slobtsov is not a trained searcher, nor is anyone else in his group. He is twenty-two years old, in his third year of studies at UPI and is a member of the hiking club. He not only admires Igor Dyatlov as a fellow hiker, but also considers him a friend. If something like this could happen to someone as capable as Dyatlov, it could happen to any one of them. It was a fellow hiker’s duty to help in any way that he could.

  Slobtsov’s group sets up camp that night in the protection of the neighboring forest, planning to reconnect with the ski tracks the next day. The next morning, however, as they resume their course along the river, Slobtsov and his crew are unable to pick up the trail. The wind that day is strong, and it is easy to imagine that the tracks have simply blown away. The wind is so fierce in this region, Slobtsov notes, that the straps on his ski poles often lie parallel to the ground. With no trail to follow, the searchers have no choice but to continue along the river.

  One of the searchers in his group, a volunteer named Ivan, complains of feeling ill and informs Slobtsov that he will be turning back to Ivdel. Though the group believes he isn’t sick at all, only scared, they agree to go on without him. Before Ivan leaves, he suggests that the group continue in the direction of Otorten Mountain until they encounter a streambed at the bottom of a slope. Because of the westerly wind in this area, he says, the snow has accumulated along the slope, creating potential avalanche conditions. The possibility that Dyatlov and his friends have gotten buried in snow is not one Slobtsov wants to believe, but after the group says good-bye to Ivan, they take his advice and head in the direction of the mountain. To increase their chances of success, Slobtsov suggests the team break into pairs, with Slobtsov taking classmate and hiking-club member Mikhail Sharavin. From the Auspiya River, Slobtsov and Sharavin head up the slope, hoping to get a better view from the hill overlooking the riverbed. By now, the weather is worsening and their time is limited.

  Otorten Mountain, the destination of the Dyatlov hikers. Photograph taken by the rescue team, February 1959.

  At some point in the afternoon, befo
re they are able to reach the crest of the hill, Sharavin sees something that makes his pulse quicken. “About seventy meters to our left,” Sharavin remembered later, “I noticed a black spot that was actually part of a tent.” Sharavin alerts Slobtsov, and the young men hurry toward the spot as quickly as the wind and deep snow will allow them. The tent’s poles are still vertical, with the south-facing entrance still standing. But recent snowfall has covered much of the tarpaulin, causing part of it to collapse—though it is not immediately clear whether this is the result of a storm, or of wind redistributing the surrounding snow. The men call out but receive no answer. There is an ice ax near the front of the tent, sticking out of the snow. There is also a partially buried Chinese torch, left in the on position. Sharavin retrieves the ax. He swings it behind him and brings it forward to rip open the tent.

  7

  2012

  MY TRIP TO RUSSIA HAD NOT PROVIDED THE RESOLUTION I had hoped. At least I had earned Yuri Kuntsevich’s trust, despite the language barrier. He had led me to Tatiana and, after that, had set up a meeting with Lyuda’s brother, Igor—a man of few words, as it turned out. I later found out that Igor passed away not long after I interviewed him. The circle of people who had known the hikers was becoming smaller all the time.

  Before I left Russia, Kuntsevich had transferred the entire Dyatlov case file to my laptop—452 digital pages, entirely in Russian. The case records had been available for viewing only since the late 1980s, when Gorbachev’s glasnost called for increased transparency of government activities. It wasn’t until the late ’90s that partial copies of the case—having been illegally smuggled out of the Sverdlovsk Regional State Archives—revived interest in the Dyatlov tragedy. But this incomplete copy of the case file was largely used by writers to sensationalize the tragedy, much to the exasperation of the Yekaterinburg prosecutor’s office. Additional clandestine photocopies continued to circulate into the new millennium, but it wasn’t until 2009 that stealthy copiers, most likely students, pieced together a comprehensive reproduction of the case and distributed it among a select number of enthusiasts.