Dead Mountain: The True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

by Eichar, Donnie

  9

  JANUARY 25, 1959

  WHEN THE TEN HIKERS ARRIVED IN IVDEL, IT WAS STILL dark, and a half-day’s wait lay ahead of them for their next means of transportation. For those traveling from Sverdlovsk, a ski-hiking excursion into the Urals meant several days of assorted travel in order to get anywhere near the point where they would begin using their skis. And because the railway deviated east from Ivdel, the group would have to take a bus to continue north to Vizhay. There, at their last civilized outpost, they would have a chance to send out any final dispatches before slipping off the radar.

  Once again, Yuri Blinov and his group were shadowing Igor and his friends. Blinov, who would later become a devoted member of the search team, wrote in his diary of this period, “Together we went through all the transitions between trains, buses and trucks in Serov, Ivdel and Vizhay. In other words, on our way we still communicated like members of the same hiking team.” After spending the night at the Ivdel train station—a far more obliging terminal, as it turned out, than its counterpart in Serov—the hikers caught a tram to Ivdel proper. Situated at the junction of the Ivdel and Lozva rivers, the town existed first as a gold-mining settlement, and later as the location of the Ivdellag—a Soviet prison camp built in 1937.

  Unknown to most Westerners until the 1963 English-language publication of Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich—and, later, The Gulag Archipelago—Stalin’s ramped-up secret prison system had only been rumored to exist at this time. In fact, the Gulag system predated Hitler’s concentration camps and would go on to function for many decades after the liberation of Buchenwald and Auschwitz. It wasn’t until 1989 that Gorbachev finally began to reform the Soviet prison system.

  But on their brief stay in the town, the young hikers would see none of the Soviet dissidents exiled to this region; they were focused entirely on readying themselves for their own temporary exile into the Russian wild. At the moment, this meant waiting at the Ivdel bus station. For the men, this would have been an ideal moment to break out the cigarettes and let their lungs fill with the heat of burning tobacco. But, as Zina liked to remind them, they had made a pact not to smoke, and no one had brought any cigarettes. So as they stood in the cold, the only smoke issuing from their mouths was their breath hitting the air.

  At last, a small GAZ-651 rolled up. GAZ was a Soviet make of buses and trucks that had been mass-produced since the end of World War II. This particular bus most likely doubled as a transporter to shuttle local workers to and from the camps, but today it was a tourist bus. The GAZ had only twenty-five seats, and with the hikers alone numbering twenty, and a handful of locals needing seats of their own, the only solution was to pile baggage and people on top of one another.

  If this had been the city, the driver might have felt compelled to turn away the backpackers, but camaraderie forms quickly in small towns, and everyone involved was determined to make it work. As the bus left Ivdel, the travelers were balanced comically on several layers of backpacks, skis and each other. “Top-layer passengers sat on chairbacks,” the Dyatlov group’s diary recounted, “with their legs on the shoulders of comrades.” But their discomfort didn’t stop Georgy from filling the air with the strumming of his mandolin, or his fellow passengers from singing along, as Ivdel receded through the windows.

  The two-hour bus ride was an “express” of sorts, stopping only for bathroom breaks. In rural parts of the country—as is still in practice in Russia today—bathroom stops were at the whim of the bus driver, and when he pulled over, the doors were thrown open to the collective urinal of the roadside. Women filed along the left side of the bus, while the men went to the right.

  At one of the more comfortable rest stops along the way, the bus to Vizhay parked near a shop, which allowed the passengers to stray farther from the bus and for longer than was usual. Because the vehicle was such a muddled heap of baggage and passengers, after it finally pulled away, it took the hikers some time to realize that someone was missing from their ranks: Where’s Kolevatov?

  It was certainly unlike the disciplined Kolevatov to have missed his ride. Was it possible that he had slipped away for an illicit smoke break? “He was always smoking an antique pipe during hikes,” Yudin later remembered his friend, “fuming everyone with an aroma of real tobacco.”

  None of the hikers would have thought to keep tabs on Kolevatov because he tended to look out for himself. Yudin describes him as being a careful person, bordering at times on pedantic. But Kolevatov’s reputation had soared among those at the university’s hiking club the previous summer after his return from a hiking excursion into Siberia. The trip had taken Kolevatov’s group along the Kazyr River and through a particularly challenging section of the Bazybay rapids. When their raft overturned, and nearly all of their belongings were lost, it was Kolevatov’s foresight that saved the lives of his group: He was the only one to have properly secured his pack to the raft. Because he had the sole pack of flour and book of matches, he saved the group from starvation.

  Whereas one of the other passengers might have been forced to stay behind to wait for the next day’s bus, the intrepid Kolevatov wouldn’t let his mistake ruin the trip. He did the only thing he could: He ran. The driver had a schedule to keep and couldn’t alter his route or turn the bus around, but he agreed to wait. The hikers peered out the bus windows until they could see the figure of their friend sprinting toward them. Though Yudin doesn’t recall why Kolevatov missed the bus, he remembers how frightened his friend looked at having been nearly abandoned. When he boarded the bus, “His eyes were bulging from his head.”

  Years later, Yudin couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if they had neglected to notice his absence until later. “Maybe he would have had to turn back, to wait the next day for the bus to Vizhay. The entire group would have been delayed by a day. It is difficult not to wonder: How would it have changed things?”

  At two o’clock that afternoon, the bus arrived in Vizhay, a sizable woodcutting settlement complete with a school, hospital, shops and even a community center that screened movies. The town had been built on the backs of Gulag prisoners and free workmen of the area, both of whom would be sent out into the forests by day and return to their respective camps at night. Because the prison camps were kept strictly separate from the town, none of the hikers saw any prisoners during their stay in Vizhay, but, as detailed in Blinov’s diary on the day of their arrival, they did see members of the free workers’ camps: “On that day, a meeting of young Communist party members from all work camps was held and was coming to an end when we arrived. After the meeting, young Communists were transported to their camps.”

  Happily for Blinov’s party, they happened to meet a group of these workers who were driving back to their encampment, Sector 105, for the night, the exact direction in which Blinov and his friends were headed. The Dyatlov group, for their part, wouldn’t be able to hitch a ride to their next destination until the following morning. They would have to spend the night in Vizhay.

  The two groups enjoyed their remaining time together by getting a late lunch at a local cafeteria, one frequented by the area’s woodcutters. There, according to Kolevatov’s journal, they enjoyed a final meal “in a warm, friendly circle.” The Vizhay cafeteria wasn’t quite warm enough to inspire the shedding of outerwear, but it did provide the students a homey atmosphere and hot food. The travelers gathered at several tables near the windows, and between servings of bread and stew, they spread out maps, journals and last-minute projects on the plaid tablecloths. Zina, who was already anticipating foul weather ahead, got to work with a needle and thread making bahily, boot covers made out of a weather-resistant tarpaulin.

  Zinaida “Zina” Kolmogorova at the group’s Vizhay accommodations, January 26, 1959.

  Later, the Dyatlov and Blinov groups assembled for a final photograph before parting ways. Then Blinov and his party climbed into the truck with the Sector 105 workers and waved farewell to their cla
ssmates, confident they would see them back at school the following month. But it was there, Yuri Blinov later wrote, that “we saw Dyatlov’s group for the last time.”

  The Dyatlov hikers in Vizhay cafeteria: Alexander Kolevatov (far left under mirror), Yuri “Georgy” Krivonishchenko (right of mirror), Igor Dyatlov (back against wall) and Nikolay “Kolya” Thibault-Brignoles (back against window), January 26, 1959.

  The Dyatlov hikers gather with their friends to say good-bye for the last time, January 26, 1959.

  The Dyatlov hikers’ tent one day after it was found. Vladislav Karelin (left) and Yuri Koptelov (right). The search team’s activities in and around the tent, combined with recent snowfall, have caused the canvas to collapse. February 27, 1959.

  10

  FEBRUARY 1959

  THERE ARE NO BODIES IN THE TENT. FOR BORIS SLOBTSOV and Mikhail Sharavin this means that there is a chance their schoolmates are still alive, perhaps holed up in a cave or shelter somewhere. The careful arrangement of items in the tent, including food ready for consumption, contributes to a sense of normalcy and give the pair further cause for optimism. If it were not for the partially collapsed tarpaulin, they might have supposed Igor and his friends were there only moments before.

  The two men step outside of the tent to consider their next move. As they scan the surrounding landscape, snow begins to fall, and they realize it is probably too late to search the area. Before heading back to camp, they gather items that may prove useful to the search party: a jacket, a camera, the medicinal alcohol, a pair of skis, Igor’s Chinese torch and the ice ax.

  When the men reach camp, they find that the chief radio operator, Igor Nevolin, has since arrived with the rest of his group. Now that they can communicate via radio, Slobtsov has a radiogram sent off to investigators in Ivdel breaking the news of their discovery. The message reveals the location of the tent—on the eastern slope, at a height of 1,079 meters—and explains that further investigation has been suspended due to an approaching snowstorm. A reply comes from Ivdel that same night, requesting that a helicopter landing and campsite for roughly fifty people be arranged nearby. There are also strict orders that the items in the tent remain untouched. It is, of course, too late for that.

  Radiogram operator Igor Nevolin. Radiograms were the search teams’ only connection to Ivdel. The device’s misplaced battery was later found in a 2009 expedition. Second from left, Boris Slobtsov, third from left, Mikhail Sharavin, February 1959.

  Word of the tent quickly spreads among the search groups, and the next day, multiple search teams arrive on the eastern slope to begin a more intensive search. Besides Slobtsov’s and Nevolin’s teams, there is a group headed by the Dyatlov group’s hiking adviser, Yevgeny Maslennikov, and an Ivdel penitentiary unit led by a Captain Chernyshev. There are also Mansi volunteers, Sverdlovsk outdoorsmen and UPI students.

  The newly arrived teams began examining the area in and around the tent in a way that Mikhail Sharavin later described as “chaotic”—a job, he says, that in hindsight should have been left to experienced investigators. But the lead prosecutor on the case, Vasily Tempalov, has not yet arrived, and the searchers see no point in wasting time with procedural formalities. In their eagerness to find the hikers alive, searchers pick over the tent and its contents for clues. Policemen with search dogs come, led by Lieutenant Nikolay Moiseyev.

  View from the Dyatlov tent site. Photo taken by the rescue team, February 28, 1959.

  Drawing from Yevgeny Maslennikov’s diary included in the criminal case files: “Position of hollow and azimuth directions to landmarks (height 1023, brook and outlier rock at the pass) from Dyatlov tent.”

  Unfortunately, there are no discernible tracks in the surrounding snow for the dog teams to follow. This is presumably due to the slope’s incline and the wind having swept away any traces of footsteps. But if there had been evidence of the hikers’ prints, the teams of men now swarming the tent have certainly obliterated them. Farther down the slope, however, where the land levels out, one of the teams picks up impressions in the hardened snowpack. About 20 yards away from the tent there are multiple sets of footprints that have remained preserved. Some of the prints are large. Others are smaller and less distinct, as if the person who left them had not been wearing shoes. The investigators count nine sets of prints, extending for nearly half a mile toward the river valley. The tracks are split into two parallel paths, continuing toward the valley before merging again. The searchers follow this footpath until they hit a patch of freshly fallen snow, at which point the prints disappear. But the searchers continue on, hoping to pick up the trail again.

  Meanwhile, about a mile away in the Lozva River valley, Mikhail Sharavin and another member of Slobtsov’s group, Yuri Koptelov, are scouting an area suitable for camp. With the growing number of searchers, they’ll need a place to sleep for the night and a central base where they can store equipment and send radiograms back to Ivdel. Scouting out the evening’s campsite is not the most thrilling task, but it’s an order from Ivdel, and Sharavin doesn’t argue.

  Around midday, the young men come across a spot that doesn’t seem quite right. Beneath a large cedar tree, they notice charred cedar boughs partially buried by snow. As they draw closer, they find what looks like traces of a fire pit. The haphazard nature of the pit tells them this was not a proper campsite. Nor does it appear to be the remains of a Mansi fire, as the Mansi tended to stick close to the woods and river to set their winter fur traps.

  Footprints made by one of the nine hikers,, February 1959.

  Just north of the pit, one of the men points to something sticking out of the snow. As they draw closer, they see that it is a human knee.

  SHARAVIN AND KOPTELOV LEAVE THE SITE UNDISTURBED and head back to camp to alert the others. A group including Yevgeny Maslennikov is dispatched to the cedar tree; and, when the snow is excavated from around the exposed knee, they find not one body, but two, lying side by side, both men. They are not wearing jackets, or, for that matter, pants. One has on a checkered shirt and a pair of swim trunks under long underwear. Only the right leg of the underwear remains, with the other leg torn away. His feet are bare, with snow wedged between his toes. The other body is slightly more covered, in an undershirt, a checkered shirt, long underwear, briefs and socks. But the clothes on both bodies are brutally shredded, with pieces apparently missing, leaving much of their discolored skin exposed. One lies facedown in the snow, his arms folded under his head like a pillow. There are broken cedar branches lying beneath him. The other lies on his back, his face turned upward. His mouth and eyes have been gotten at by an animal, probably a bird.

  A piece of clothing found near the cedar tree, February 1959.

  Despite the damage to his face, Sharavin and Koptelov are able to recognize the upturned hiker as Georgy Krivonishchenko. The body lying face down is his classmate, Yuri Doroshenko.

  11

  2012

  MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH YURI YUDIN HAD BEEN predictably stiff, but by our second meeting, he was relaxing into my company and joking about my fascination with the case. Like Kuntsevich, Yudin was perplexed by the idea of an American traveling to Russia to solve a mystery that by all appearances had nothing to do with him. “Do you not have mysteries in your own country?” he asked again, teasing this time.

  As we sat down and I started the tape recorder, Yudin pulled out a yellowed songbook he used to take with him on hiking trips. Because there were few public radio stations broadcasting music in the ’50s, he and his friends often had to make their own music. It was the beginning of what he called “an era of the bards,” in which lyrics about love, nature and politics—accompanied by mandolin or guitar—became popular among Russia’s youth. Bard songs, much like folk music in America, had spontaneously sprung up outside of the establishment. For those who wished to avoid reprisals from the Soviet government, these songs had to be memorized, as any recordings could serve as evidence against them. “We would be sitting on the train,
and maybe one hundred students would be singing songs,” Yudin said. “Sometimes they were very antigovernment, but no one worried about it.”

  On shorter trips, Yudin and his friends might take along a portable record player, and at night in the tent, they would play bard, jazz and classical music. Many of their records were etched on a kind of vinyl called roentgenizdat or “bone records,” which were illegal. During World War II, rationing in Russia had made vinyl prohibitively expensive, and cheap X-ray film became the bootleg music industry’s substitute. After purchasing a used X-ray plate for a ruble or two from a medical facility, music lovers could cut the plate into a disk with scissors or a knife before having it etched with their favorite tunes. Students studying engineering, I was told, particularly excelled in this bootlegging process.

  But even a thawed Khrushchev regime had its standards to uphold, and in 1959 the government began a crackdown on this illicit music market. One government tactic was to flood record shops with unplayable records, many intended to damage record players. Some of these records included threatening vocals placed in the middle of a recording, which screamed at the unsuspecting listener, “You like rock and roll? Fuck you, anti-Soviet slime!” Eventually the use of bone records declined as replacement technologies, such as magnetic reel-to-reel tape, took over. But until then, bone-record makers were hunted down and sent to the Gulags. Particularly offensive to the Soviet government were bootleggers who reproduced American jazz records, music Stalin had declared a “threat to civilization.”