Whiteout Rewrite II-6 (The Fall Expedition)

6. The Fall Expedition

      “Manish was always a willful child. He was the more active out of the two of us, and that led to some altercations that most would have rather avoided,” Lopsang trailed off and took a drink from Nick’s flask.

     “He got in a few fights,” said Nick matter-of-factly, grinning. “Man after my own heart.”

     Lopsang smiled a little, but turned grim as he continued. “Yes, quite a few fights. No matter how many cuts and bruises he came back with, he never stopped. That’s just the way he was; the only opinion that mattered was his, and to some lesser extent, mine.” A tear might have brimmed at the corner of Lopsang’s eye, but he blinked it away, and replaced it with a stoic stare into the blue flame of the camp stove.

     “We were both mountain guides, but he always took more risks. It’s no secret that our village does not provide guides for expeditions in the fall. Mountaineers would tell you that it’s the unpredictability of the weather, which is true, but not the whole truth. There’s the occasional rogue blizzard, but for the most part, they’re nothing but an inconvenience. It’s what roams the mountain in the dead of winter that we try to avoid.

     During the spring the mountain is barren, nothing there but snow and ice. During the winter, it’s a completely different place. Creatures come out of hiding in the worst of ways, and even expeditions to base camp become dangerous.

     When we were children, the elders would tell us stories of the creatures dwelled on the mountain during the winter months. Some would talk about frost wolves, stalking prey on the slopes, but they were always considered the lesser of evils. The worst was a singular beast that only roamed once the first new snow had fallen. From the time the winter chill took over the mountain, to the first melt in spring, the mountain became its domain. Every year, with the first blizzard of winter we would hear the howling and know it was time to stop climbing. They called it Mirka, the wild man of the mountain, an omen of death.

     It was for this reason, and not the weather, that at the first sign of snow, our village would stop guiding expeditions. We put out notices, closed the shops, and waited for the spring to come. But, despite all the warnings, some would still try.” Lopsang shook his head slowly, and Nick could sense a great weight within him.

“When my brother and I were children, there was a Norwegian climbing team determined to summit before the winter snows came. It was already September, and most crews and given up and gone home. They went to every door in the village, offering money, fame, you name it, but every family gave the same answer: ‘No expeditions until the spring.’

     Just as they were about to give up hope and leave the village, one man stepped forward and was foolish enough to offer his services.”

     “Your brother?” asked James.

     Lopsang shook his head again. “My father. He never paid much heed to the tales of the beast, and wrote them off as ghost stories, told only to frighten children and caution foreigners. Besides, the first snows had not yet fallen, and he was convinced he could get the team to the top before the weather turned.”

     “I’m guessing they offered a lot of coin too,” said Nick, thinking that anyone who paid to go up the mountain was insane. Why not holiday on a beach somewhere? Who in their right mind would come to this frigid wasteland, and then pay to go closer to danger? The whole idea of mountain climbing seemed asinine to him, and he resolved that once he had found the yeti, he would never do it again.

     “Yes, lots of coin.” Lopsang sighed as he said it. “We were not a rich family, and any chance at prosperity in our village was to be treasured, not ignored. Of course, there was an exception to this rule for fall expeditions, but my father didn’t see the difference. Prosperity was prosperity.”

     Not a bad motto, thought Nick. As the story wound on, he found himself identifying with Lopsang’s father. However, judging by Lopsang’s grim tone, he guessed that his hubris had not served him well.

     “They packed up for what was to be the most ambitious summit attempt in years. The shaman had said that the snows were no more than a few weeks away, and so my father set out to reach the summit in a week.”

     “A week?” blurted James. “What about altitude acclimatization?”

     Look who’s suddenly the expert, thought Nick, feeling the burn in his own lungs from lack of oxygen.

     “You’re right,” said Lopsang with a small smile to James. “There are several stages of altitude acclimatization that one has to go through on the mountain. It usually takes weeks to summit, but the well trained, or the foolhardy,” he motioned to Nick, grinning a little, “can do it much quicker.

     My father had previously made the trip from base camp to the summit in only 10 hours, just short of the village record. The Norwegians were also one of the best mountain climbing teams we had ever seen. They came fully prepared for harsh conditions, and had summited some of the world’s highest peaks already. Overall, the bid seemed safe as long as they were able to maintain their timetable.

     They set out early in the morning. One of the village elders had turned up and begged my father not to go, but he waved him off. He told them that they would have a good laugh about the ‘omens’ when he returned. With that, they started up the mountain. I remember watching in the darkness just before sunrise as their lights moved slowly up the slopes. There was something about the air that day, a chill that ran heavier than usual, and bit straight to the core.  

     To ease our worries, my brother and I made trips to the highest temple and spun prayer wheels for their safety three times a day. For the first two days, it appeared to be working, the skies were clear and the wind was low. On the third day, we woke to find dark storm clouds blotting out the horizon. Two hours after first light, the worst blizzard in twenty years stole upon the mountain and blotted everything from view.

     That night, the howling of the wind was different. The very walls shook around our heads. No one in the village slept. All I could do, was look up at the fearsome white clouds billowing around the mountain and pray. Around midnight, we started to hear screaming, distant first, but then coming right into the village itself. Everyone ran into the streets, wanting to help, but by the time we got there, it was far too late.

     As I opened the door to the raging blizzard, I saw the silhouette of a man. I approached him, and saw the pale face of my father. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the frigid cold, and his face was as white as the snow around him. Half of his arm had been torn away, and he bore three gashes across his chest.” Lopsang drew his fingers across his breast, showing where the cuts had been.

     “Even as he stumbled through the main door, mortally wounded, his eyes were wide with fear. I had never seen my father look at anything like that. His parka was soaked red, and dripped onto the floorboards, staining them. Not two steps after entering the house, he collapsed. His breathing was shallow, and he could say no words.

     All I could do was sit, and watch as life left him in those last few moments. His body tensed and seized, as if he were still trying to run away. Even in his final moments, he kept looking toward the mountain with horror. When he closed his eyes for the last time, his face relaxed, and a great relief spread over him. In that final sleep, he could escape whatever had hunted him on the mountain. The man who had never feared anything, was once more at peace.”

     The three of them sat in silence for a minute, listening to the flapping of the tent canvas in the gentle wind that blew. Nick had found a profound respect for Lopsang, and a great fear of what they had come on the mountain to hunt. We may have made a terrible mistake. He tried not to show his misgivings, but the fear was plain on James’s face as well. The danger they were facing was real, and the odds of facing it and coming out alive seemed to grow slimmer by the minute.

     When Lopsang spoke again, it was with a measured calm, and a deep sadness. “The other members of the village said the wolves of winter had come early, and the team had not been properly equipped. At the time, it made sense. My father never put much stock in the stories of creatures on the mountain. The expedition had carried no weapons with them, and were not prepared for that outcome. Eventually everyone repeated the story, and for the longest time, I believed it. It wasn’t until two weeks ago that I changed my mind.”

     “That’s when you wrote to us,” said Nick, understanding more and more.

     Lopsang nodded. “My brother didn’t even want to summit. A small group of travelers came into town looking to go to base camp, no higher. It was to be a scouting expedition to get the lay of the land for the following spring. Said they wanted to see the mountain for themselves and ‘feel the chill’. No other Sherpa would take them, remembering the fate of my father, but over the years, my brother had also come to believe the story of winter wolves. He trained day and night so that he would not meet the same fate, and felt he was prepared.

     He agreed to take them, but vowed that it would be a quick expedition, and they would go heavily armed, just in case. They would make the trip to base camp, stay there for one night, and then come immediately back down. They left before first light, just as my father had, and did not return. Three days passed, and that’s when I wrote to you.”

     “Why did you come to us for help? Surely with your powers surely you could have done more,” said Nick, genuinely confused. This guy could probably take a few winter wolves apart with his mind. All we had were a few thermite bullets and a lot of misplaced confidence.

     “The nature of my powers makes me unable to affect the beast,” he said simply. “It is not of this world just as a part of me is. We sort of cancel each other out,” he said, shrugging, knowing that it wasn’t the best explanation. He hesitated, and then said, “And I couldn’t afford Manchester. You were the next best.”

     This was added as an afterthought, but it stung Nick. “How flattering.”

     Lopsang continued, giving Nick a sorry look, “I knew what we were dealing with wasn’t wolves, and so I baited you with a much smaller case.” He almost seemed sheepish.

     Clever bastard. Nick would never have come if he knew the true stakes. What anger he held toward Lopsang for tricking him was replaced quickly by the admiration of his abilities as a con artist.

     “In the end, it worked didn’t it?”

     “I suppose it did. A few days ago you would have never got me to talk about the yeti with a straight face, but here I am, believing in myths I have long thought to be folly, and hunting a monster that will likely kill me. It all worked out.” He tried to take a swig from the flask, but realized it had been emptied over the course of their talk. Thinking about the insurmountable odds and the dwindling alcohol supply made his head hurt. It was all so foolish, and yet, something pushed him forward, toward the danger, further into the unknown. “I suppose there could be worse company for a suicide mission.” He grinned at the two of them.

     After Lopsang’s story, none of them had anything to say, they all just sat, watching Manchester’s camp until one by one, sleep crept upon them. Nick crawled into the canvas tent and lay back in his sleeping bag. Above him, the wind whipped at the tent canvas, giving rise to a loud flapping noise, but even so, he found himself drifting off. The exhaustion of the day had taken its toll, and soon, the cold mountain was a fuzzy memory, and he was asleep.