Searching for Yeti in the Himalaya
“I Ought To Be Thy Adam, But I Am Rather The Fallen Angel.”
—Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, 1818
The Fire
1974—Barun Valley, Nepal.
Shaggy and brooding—noses skinned by the sun—four of us crouched in the mist. The fire spit orange. Someone grunted. No one spoke. We were bitter, stunned and clinically heartbroken. One day short of the summit, we had been shut down.
The weary majority at base camp had taken a vote. Most of them had quit the climb days or weeks before. They feared getting drawn back onto the mountain. Suddenly we needed to flee before winter sealed the pass, our food ran out and we all succumbed to the kamikaze summit fever of a few die-hards. Overnight the radiant south face of Makalu had changed for them into a devouring monster. Yesterday all of us on the expedition had started the week-long retreat to an airstrip and Kathmandu.
Voices drifted to us from the main camp. Lots of happy talk and laughter: the hot showers and cold beer waiting, the chateaubriand at Boris’s Yak and Yeti, last-minute souvenirs to buy, and home, ASAP. No hint of the confrontation two nights ago that had stopped just short of fists and a knife.
Our little bunch hunkered by the flames, waiting for them to hit the trail. Fritz had a side trip in mind for a few of us.
A soft murmur came through the mist, and then the smell of sandalwood incense. Norbu Lama appeared with a wicker tray. This was a surprise. Norbu was the senior climbing Sherpa, not a cook boy. Every morning he said his prayers, even in storms and up high.
“Breakfast,” he announced. A veteran of many expeditions, he was no stranger to bad blood on the exits. Gravely he served us each a chappati, a hardboiled egg, a finger-sized banana, and—miracle of miracles—one orange per man. Fresh fruit as we left! It was a cosmic slap, the friendly kind.
“Shipton La,” Norbu said. That is the name of the pass in English, after the explorer Eric Shipton, who “discovered” it with Edmund Hillary in 1951. In 1972 a biologist had found yeti footprints up there.
We thanked Norbu.
“Today,” Norbu reminded us, “very long day.”
“We’ll catch up,” Fritz told him. We didn’t budge.
Norbu glanced in the general direction of the cave. It stared down like a Cyclop’s eye.
According to lore, the cave was a hermit’s refuge, a meditation chamber, or a yeti den. Clearly he wished for us to respect whatever we found, or better yet not go into the cave. Leaving a wake of prayers, he disappeared back into the mist.
The cook crew banged their pots clean. They were singing. Another week of trekking, and they would get paid. The ragtag army of porters sorted loads. At last the caravan departed.
The immense valley fell silent. Slowly the symphony began … of invisible waterfalls, the milky glacier stream, a cuckoo bird.
The uninhabited Barun drainage that begins at Makalu has become famous for its extraordinary biodiversity, including rare birds, orchids, red panda, snow leopards, and musk deer. In 2016 an official map named the trail the Yeti Path. Nowadays enough trekkers make it over Shipton La to sustain a few stone huts along the way.
But 50 years ago, there was no path. It was just us, an expedition per season, all aimed at one thing, Makalu.
We had seen the cave back in August. Over the months, a few of us had fashioned it into a reward. If there was time, if we were still standing at the end of the trip, we would delve into its mystery.
We were in prime yeti country. During the approach march, one of the Sherpas had made a joke about yetis and clowned around like a monkey. Then in October word had arrived from the village of Khumjung, near Everest. A Sherpani had been badly mauled by a yeti. It had broken the necks of her yaks and eaten them. After that our clown lost his laugh. He looked haunted. His irreverence, he felt, might have triggered the attack. Yeti wield supernatural power. Out in the vast beyond, things have a way of stirring to life.
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