The Yeti: A Novel

by Rick Chesler

  * * *

  As he climbed the Lhotse Face, Dustin felt relieved more than anything. The last four days had gone pretty much as planned. At Camp I, thanks to Francesca’s charm, Dustin had been able to shed Skinner long enough to return to the spot where he buried the package in December. This time the weather was in his favor and he had no problem locating and digging up his prize.

  He’d certainly earned it.

  Once the yeti had taken off with its yak, Dustin and Wangchuk had trekked through the snows for days, heading north toward the mountains. Dustin fought dysentery and altitude sickness. Multiple times they became lost. Each time they waited for night, then followed the familiar rancid smell.

  Their quest finally ended at Kala Pattar, an impressive mountain that looked like a large brown rock below the south face of Pumori.

  Impossible, Dustin had thought. The hill was well-known to travelers trekking through the Himalayas. The summit could be reached in a mere couple of hours from Gorak Shep. In the spring, of course. Now in the dead of winter it would take significantly more effort and climbing equipment.

  But Dustin and Wangchuk were prepared. They were dressed against the cold and carried with them glacier goggles and crampons. They could climb Kala Pattar, if needed.

  But how was it that the yeti could hide in plain sight?

  Unless Kala Pattar was only its home in the winter. That coincided with everything else he knew or suspected--that the yeti could not breathe at low altitudes for long. That it lived high in the mountains during times of high traffic. But now in winter, the coast was clear. It was free to live here at Kala Pattar and roam.

  This was it, Dustin knew, as he stared at the mountain alongside Wangchuk. He’d leave here with conclusive proof of the yeti.

  Or he’d die trying.

  * * *

  Ian lifted the receiver, a rare smile on his face. “Go ahead, Ruiz.”

  “We’re here at the summit, Vergé and I,” the Spaniard said breathlessly. “A little later than anticipated, but we made it.”

  Ian glanced at his watch to record the exact time. “Good job, Ruiz. And have you done me my small favor?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now put the Frenchman on so I can congratulate him.”

  A few moments passed while Ian sat back, feet up, hands behind his head, relishing his first success of the season.

  “Gaston here.”

  Ian reached for the receiver, noting the client sounded much stronger than his guide.

  “Congratulations, Vergé,” Ian said. “Fourth time’s the charm, eh mate?”

  “So it seems,” Vergé said. “Merci, Ian. Merci beaucoup. I never could’ve done this without you.”

  “Well,” Ian said, still grinning, “as the Americans say, that’s why you pay me the big bucks. Now, enjoy your time on the peak, but don’t dawdle. The weather appears to be on your side, but at the summit things tend to take a turn for the worse when we least expect it.”

  “Right you are,” Vergé said. “Standby. I’ll give you your guide.”

  A half-minute passed before a winded Ruiz came back on the line. “Visibility’s good today, Ian,” he huffed. “We’re going to take some photos, spend fifteen to twenty minutes, then head back down, all right? Over.”

  “Acknowledged.” Ian set down the receiver and turned to Aasif. “Sounds a bit knackered, doesn’t he?”

  The doctor nodded.

  Lifting the receiver again, Ian said: “You and Vergé, you two getting on okay?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Then: “Yeah, boss. Just fine.”

  “Right then,” Ian said, relieved. He’d been second-guessing his decision to put Vergé with Ruiz.

  Then, of course, there was this other bit of business. Patty poked Ian in the shoulder, prodded him to ask about Egger and Norbu.

  “Did you pass your other two teammates?” Ian said.

  Last Ian had heard from Norbu, he and Egger had just made it to the South Summit. That was nearly three hours ago. Even without bottled oxygen, the Austrian and his Sherpa should have reached the peak by now.

  “Actually,” Ruiz said, panting, “we passed them back at the base of the Hillary Step.”

  Norbu was fine, the guide told them. But Egger had been resting in the snow.

  Ian shook his head, frowning. “Still insists on not resorting to bottled O2. Well, that’s his decision. But if they’re not on the summit within the hour, I’ll have no choice but to turn them back around. You might want to give Egger the heads-up if you run into them on the way down. Tell him to strap on some gas, unless he wants to crawl back to Austria without having reached the peak.”

  “Aye, sir.” Ruiz sounded as though every bloody word were an effort. “See you soon, Ian. Over and out.”

  * * *

  When Zack’s crampons hit hard rock instead of ice, he knew he had reached the Yellow Band, and that it was time to head left over the anvil-shaped Geneva Spur - the last major hurdle before South Col, also known as Camp IV.

  With an unusually quiet Tashi at his side, Zack traversed along the fixed rope, gladly bidding farewell to the Lhotse Face. Minutes ago, he’d overheard the good news, that Gaston Vergé and Miguel Ruiz had finally made it to the summit. Team One of the Himalayan Skies expedition was indeed the first to reach the top this season.

  As it turned out though, Team Two would have some company. The Scottish expedition was today making for the South Col, same as he, Dustin, Francesca, Skinner, and Tashi.

  “Nice day for a climb, ay mates?” came a muffled voice from behind an oxygen mask surrounded by an unfamiliar turquoise climbing suit.

  Zack gave it a rest and looked over at the climber from behind his glacier goggles.

  “Name’s Simon,” the climber said, holding out a gloved hand. “Sorry ‘bout your mate Jimmy.”

  Zack lowered his oxygen mask and took Simon’s hand. “Thanks.”

  Simon followed suit. He appeared to be around the same age as Zack, his thin chapped lips buried behind a thick unkempt beard.

  “Supposed to get good weather again for our summit bid tomorrow,” Simon said in his Scottish accent. “Gonna see if we can’t get me clients up to the top by noon.”

  Zack dreaded talk with strangers even at sea level, let alone above twenty-five thousand feet. “Two of my teammates just reached the peak,” he managed, anxious to replace his mask and move on.

  “Good fer them, mate.” Simon slapped Zack on the shoulder. He glanced at the sky, then nodded to Tashi. “Best be on your way, boys. Maybe we’ll see you again at South Col.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Zack said, eagerly strapping on his oxygen to catch some breaths.

  “If not,” Simon said, “be sure to look us up if you’re ever in the Scottish highlands. Family name’s MacAulay.”

  “Will do, Simon,” Zack said from behind his oxygen mask.

  Then he turned and continued along the rope right behind a silent Tashi.

  * * *

  So close, Dustin thought as he continued toward South Col. Despite all the pain he was almost giddy. In fact, he was giddy. As giddy as he’d been back in December, while he and Wangchuk watched and waited, buried in the snows behind Kala Pattar.

  It was true, he’d learned. The yeti only emerged from its lair at night. Dustin and Wangchuk had watched for two days as the yeti set out empty-handed and returned with food. Both nights the yeti had been gone for hours. On the third night, Dustin intended to make his advance on Kala Pattar. He would wait until the yeti left its lair then enter the cave and gather evidence. Photos, tufts of hair, fecal matter; whatever he could get his hands on. Once he had what he needed he’d again bury himself outside in the snows with Wangchuk and wait for the yeti to return.

  Then he’d snap its photo. And run.

  * * *

  Later, with his head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his parka, Ian paced outside the communications tent, waiting for word from Patty. Team Two
was steadily progressing toward the South Col. But Team One was another story.

  Vergé and Ruiz had spent too much bloody time on the summit, Ruiz insisting that Egger and Norbu were coming up the ridge and would join them at any moment. It wasn’t until the sky darkened and a bloody storm began blowing in that Ruiz finally caved and followed Ian’s orders to make haste down the mountain.

  No word at all came from Egger or Norbu. They’d been out of radio contact now for nearly four hours. If they hadn’t turned round by now they’d be in peril, caught up high in the storm.

  “Ian.”

  The pitch of Patty’s voice caused him to start. He gathered himself before he faced her, then nodded and made his way into the tent.

  “It’s Gaston.” She handed him the receiver.

  “Go ahead, Vergé.” Ian’s throat felt as though he’d swallowed razors, and he no longer recognized his own voice.

  “I’m just below the Step.” Vergé sounded frazzled. “Egger and Norbu are here.”

  Ian tried to draw a breath. “What’s their status?”

  A long pause. Then: “Egger’s in a really bad way.”

  Ian slumped into the chair, feeling as though he’d just taken a strong jab to the chest.

  When he regained his composure, he sat forward and prodded the Frenchman for details. Dr. Aasif hovered over his shoulder, listening intently.

  Vergé said, “Norbu tells me Egger went mad a while back, threw their radios off the mountain. The Austrian was clearly hypoxic but continued refusing oxygen. When Norbu tried to turn him around, Egger struck him with an oxygen tank.” There was a lengthy pause. “Looks as though Norbu’s sustained a broken leg.”

  “Bloody hell,” Ian said quietly, leaning back in his seat again.

  “Sounds like cerebral edema,” Aasif said, shaking his head. He took the radio from Ian’s hand. “Is Egger conscious?”

  There was another long pause, presumably as Vergé checked. “Negative, but he’s got a faint pulse.”

  “Listen,” Aasif said. “You need to inject him with a shot of dexamethasone.”

  “Wait a bloody second,” Ian said, snatching back the transmitter, wondering why they were speaking to a paying client and not his guide. “Where in the hell’s Ruiz?”

  Vergé’s voice came back. “Ruiz is still at the top of the Step. Said he was fine but it looked as though he was struggling. Made me go on without him.”

  Ian sank lower in his seat, afraid to utter the next question. It was almost as though he were there on the Southeast Ridge, almost as though he could see the entire scene for himself. Slowly, he said: “What does the sky look like?”

  “Hold on,” Vergé responded, following a few moments of quiet. “I’m administering the shot of dex.”

  Ian turned to Patty. “See if you can get Simon from the Scottish team on the horn. Tell him we may need their help with a rescue.”

  Patty nodded and lifted the spare receiver.

  “Then get hold of Skinner,” Ian added. “Tell him to alert Blaisdell and Hitchens, tell them what’s happened, but not to move without my order. First we’ll have to see how it goes with the storm.” He coughed into his fist, then said softly to Patty: “I’m not sending those boys on a bloody suicide mission.”

  Vergé’s voice now sounded frantic. “Egger doesn’t seem to be coming round.”

  “How about Norbu?” Ian said. “Can he walk at all?”

  “The sky’s getting very dark,” Vergé said, ominously. “We don’t have long now. I’m heading back up the Step to find Ruiz.”

  “Negative,” Ian shouted, his voice strained, his knees nearly collapsing beneath him as he shot to his feet. “You’ve got to get down the mountain. If you head back up the Step now you’re dead.”

  Another long pause. “I’m aware of the risk, Ian. But we went up together; we’re going down together. Do what you will. But I’m not leaving this infernal mountain without my guide.”

  Chapter 23

  South Col

  That evening at Camp IV, after melting snow for water, Zack and the others huddled inside their respective tents, anxiously awaiting news. Last they’d heard, Vergé was back atop the Hillary Step with Ruiz, both men stranded in the storm. Some forty feet below the two, Egger was still unconscious, and Norbu remained incapacitated with at least one fractured bone in his left leg.

  Skinner and Simon had together organized a rescue effort, but their progress was halted less than fifty feet from the South Col by the fast-moving storm. Any rescue attempt would now have to wait until morning.

  Zack stared across the space of the small tent at Tashi, who sat cross-legged and silent, a contemplative look smeared across his shadowed face.

  “You’re concerned about Norbu,” Zack said..

  Tashi bowed his head once. “Concern for us all.”

  Outside, the fierce gale-force winds threw everything they had at the tents, and Zack wondered if they might not be blown clear off the mountain. The winds here at twenty-six thousand feet often rivaled those that ripped the peak. If their tent surrendered now, he and Tashi would be launched over the Col’s western edge and dropped some four thousand feet onto the cold hard ice of the Western Cwm.

  Zack closed his eyes, imagined Vergé and Ruiz exposed to this, pictured them hunkered down in a bivouac, Vergé waiting, Ruiz praying for dawn.

  Egger, Zack figured, was as good as dead. But maybe if Norbu found some small measure of protection he could ride out the storm.

  After all, Norbu wasn’t quite human; he’d evolved.

  Zack breathed much better on bottled oxygen, but he was still freezing cold. The good news was his feet no longer hurt. The bad news was that the pain had vanished along with all feeling in his toes.

  He chuckled behind his oxygen mask.

  Then a high-pitched shriek sounded over the hollering wind.

  Zack looked up but Tashi didn’t flinch.

  Maybe it was just in my head.

  At that, Zack laughed again.

  * * *

  Dustin heard the high-pitched shriek, too. Suddenly he was trembling in panic. He glanced at Skinner who was fast asleep, snoring like a goddamn yak. Dustin tried to settle down. Rocking his body back and forth, he tried to tell himself that he’d made it through the worst, that bitter cold December night at Kala Pattar.

  The entrance was hidden, the cave dark and deep. As eerie as it was, Dustin never dreamed of turning around and backing out. Sheer will pushed him forward, expelled the bats and butterflies from his gut.

  The cave was silent, the only sounds emanating from the outside, the wind and weather making their usual racket. Dustin had been surprised at hominess of the lair, at its sheer depth, a tunnel like a long foyer that went on forever. He realized the deeper he traveled the more impractical it would be to escape if the yeti returned prematurely.

  Yet it was a chance he was willing to take.

  Wangchuk remained outside the cave, ready to alert Dustin should the yeti return. For this he had a small whistle. But as deep in the lair as Dustin was now, he feared he’d never hear it.

  * * *

  At Base Camp Ian sat in the communications tent, his head in his hands, Patty standing over him, smoothing down what was left of his hair. The radio was on, tuned low, because when neither Vergé nor Ruiz was speaking, all they heard was the bloody wind driving the bloody snow.

  “They’ll last the night,” Patty said softly. “It’s been done before.”

  Ian sighed. He knew she was right, that it had been done before: a bivouac in the Death Zone. But he knew, too, that the odds were well stacked against them, that chances were both his client and his guide would die.

  And so would Egger and Norbu, he thought. That is, if they weren’t dead already. He was staring down the barrel of a major disaster, one starring Himalayan Skies.

  Norbu, Ian knew, was a father of five. And husband to a lovely wife. To Ian, the Sherpas, especially Tashi and Norbu, had always been like family. Es
pecially after Liz left him, just one year after Luke had died on K2. Now more of Ian’s mates were dying on this cursed mountain. and Ian was helpless to stop it.

  He glanced over at the computer. Goddamn those blasted weather reports. Ten thousand Euros for what? Some tosser’s best guess? A bloody roll of the dice?

  Patty’s hands were now massaging his stiff painful neck, and he briefly wished she’d take them, once and for all, and put them round his bloody throat. Squeeze the fucking life out of him.

  * * *

  Gaston Vergé shut his eyes, tried to block out the Spaniard’s incessant prayers. They reminded him of his mother’s thirty years before, as she sat at the foot of his brother’s sickbed. Gaston had begged his mother, begged her to take Jean Paul to a doctor, to a hospital. But no, she left his younger brother’s fate to the divine. To a ghost in the sky. To some supernatural being who wasn’t there.

  “Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,” Ruiz started again, “santificado sea tu nombre...”

  Gaston had lived a full life. Though there was much he still wanted to do, he had no regrets, no complaints. He’d spent the bulk of his years in Paris, which to him remained the most beautiful city in the world. He’d climbed the financial ladder, then ascended six of the tallest mountains on earth.

  “Danos hoy nuestro pan cotidiano...”

  He’d lived happy; he’d die content. After his brother’s untimely death, he had watched his mother sink deeper and deeper into depression, deeper and deeper into religion. Searching for answers that weren’t there. Until finally she killed herself just to be with Jean Paul in a so-called heaven. A far better place, she said in her suicide note, than any place “down here.”

  “Y no nos metas en tentación, mas líbranos de mal. Amén.”

  Gaston had learned from that experience. Resolved himself then and there as he stood before his mother’s coffin that he wouldn’t waste his life, wouldn’t waste a single precious year. Studying the great philosophers, he came to understand his place in the universe, remained vividly aware that life on this earth, his life, was only a temporary incident. That he had a limited amount of time - a pittance, really - to learn what he could about this planet. And so he seized every opportunity he had to do so.