Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (17 page)

Daylight. I slowly come to life in the cocoon of my sleeping bag, and it takes me a few minutes to process just how freezing I am. I push my head up through the opening and into the blinding light of this makeshift bedroom. I’m on the second floor of what the Nepalese call a “teahouse.” I call it a frigging meat locker. The building has no heat, and the thin plyboard walls do little by way of insulation. The two windows are without curtains, and since neither one will latch, cold air is leaking in all around me. A bare lightbulb on a wire swings above in the breeze. I’m sleeping in most of my clothes, so getting dressed only involves slipping into my hiking boots, which is at least convenient, I suppose.

I make my way outside, where it’s colder, if that’s even possible. I rush along the cobbled path, teeth chattering, to the dining room, which I’m hoping has a hot stove. I stumble through the door to find most of our porters and Sherpas huddled around in a circle, gambling. In retrospect, maybe we shouldn’t have taught them how to shoot dice and play Threes. I throw a few rupees into the pot and rattle the freezing dice in my hands. A cherubic young Nepalese girl hands me a mug of milk-tea, a piping hot combination of black tea, yak milk, and butter. It’s an acquired taste but fills me up quickly, banishing the cold. I lose my money to one of the Sherpas, which makes them all squeal with delight. Before long, the rest of the crew arrives, and we look over the contours of the trail map while devouring plates of fried eggs. After breakfast, we say good-bye to our generous hosts. The sun is now over the ridge and warming up the trail as we walk uphill toward a cerulean blue sky.

The hike starts off gentle but quickly turns steep, causing our group to schism into two packs. I struggle to stay in the lead group with Dawa, our main Sherpa. Our camera operator, Erica, who hails from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, flat-out runs up the hill. And surprisingly, our audio guy, Ponch, who isn’t exactly a picture of health, is in the lead as well. Brad, Casey, T-Bone, and Araceli filter toward the back, huffing in the thin air. At one point, during a break, Brad tries to stand up too quickly and nearly topples over.

Suddenly, at the top of a high ridge, we all stop in our tracks. Everest. Its rocky peak sits heavy and silent, lording over an impossibly endless range of mountainous subjects. We stand around in reverent silence as though we’ve suddenly been granted an audience with Vito Corleone. Here, amidst such epic peaks and troughs, the yeti seems a plausible resident.

By the time we reach the village of Namche, everyone is pretty well gassed. Brad, Araceli, and T-Bone look like they might actually drop. Despite our collective exhaustion, the beauty of Namche is hard to ignore. It’s a horseshoe-shaped trading post on an 11,000-foot hill surrounded by 20,000-foot peaks on either side. In the center of the enclave is a sprawling bazaar where Nepalese traders offer lovingly made crafts and clothes to anyone hearty enough to make the journey. Merchants from Tibet trek for over a week through treacherous passes to reach the market. It’s a serene melting pot of cultures, and we drift through the emporium like a breeze. We eventually land on the icy steps of our lodge, where thin-looking walls promise even colder accommodations than the night before—although I’m encouraged by the sight of some sort of water heater in my makeshift bathroom.

After checking in, we interview locals who live on the outskirts of Namche, listening intently to their stories of the yeti while cozily sipping tea. The accounts vary only slightly, with most residents claiming to have seen the yeti’s handiwork (downed trees, mauled livestock) rather than the beast itself. Those who do claim to have spied the Snowman with their own eyes offer tantalizing descriptions of a massive bipedal primate that stands more than eight feet tall. The stories rouse my imagination, and on our way back to the lodge I find myself anxiously hurrying along the dark trail, glancing over my shoulder as I go.

Morning again. It hits me like a brick to the face, and I’m shaking so badly from the cold that I can hardly see straight. I rush to the bathroom, where I crank the hot water on full blast in both the primitive shower and sink, causing clouds of steam to fill the entire room. Soon it’s misty and warm, and I can hardly see. I imagine that I’m in the Amazon, my fantasy broken only by the snow-covered vista outside my window. At breakfast I keep my head down and innocently sip my tea as the rest of the crew bitches about the lack of hot water in the complex. Whoops.

We hike on for a few hours to the tidy village of Khumjung, tucked in a valley. The lack of wind here makes the temperature feel a bit warmer, and people mill about in the bright sunshine. As we stroll into town, children run past us and into the dusty field of the Khumjung School, founded by Sir Edmund Hillary.

We approach the Khumjung monastery to view the rumored yeti remains. I’ve been assured by my contacts back in Kathmandu that I won’t have any problem filming here, which is why I’m more than a little surprised to see an elderly monk burst through the doors and hurl a rock at my face. So much for the virtues of peace. Luckily, Buddhist monks throw like little girls, and I’m able to dodge the projectile. The residents of the monastery are, in fact, quite sensitive to outsiders, and it takes an hour of discussion to reach détente and broker a friendly arrangement that allows us inside.

Long after sunset, we’re welcomed in to examine the remains. The interior of the temple is dark and empty. The walls are painted with colorful but peeling pigments, and a central Buddha statue majestically overlooks the scene. We’re led to a rather unceremonious metal cabinet, which the monk unlocks and opens. Inside is a glass case containing a large brown scalp. Even though I’m skeptical about its authenticity, I have to admit, it looks really convincing. We want a sample—a single hair for DNA analysis. The monk is resolutely opposed. He explains that, years ago, the monks gave strands of the hair to curious trekkers who traveled to the monastery, and as a result, the scalp grew patchy, a baldness brought on by decades of follicular deforestation. Realizing that their generosity was destroying the precious artifact, they now seek to preserve the scalp for the next generation. The monk gives us an earnest look. “If we continue to give away hairs, soon there would be no hairs to give.” He’s like a cross between Yoda and a fortune cookie, and it’s tough to argue with him.

Brad presses him for the sample, though, noting that if the hair fibers yield results, it would prove the scalp is real. “The scalp
is
real,” the monk counters. “We can see it. We can touch it. That is enough. We need no validation.” It’s a sobering point of view. Our Western propensity for cynicism and mistrust is of little interest here. At these heights, fact and belief are merged together, and truth is something to be attained, not challenged, the quest for empirical evidence supplanted by the quest for enlightenment.

With the remains at Pangboche stolen and the scalp at Khumjung safely locked away, we’re going to have to find our own specimen. Having reached the altitude band where the creature would most likely live, we set out at dusk to cover as much ground as possible. Even though our array of night-vision equipment allows us to see across huge distances, the terrain here is challenging and slows us down considerably. We scour the forests, slipping down embankments and crossing icy streams before cautiously exploring a set of caves (yetis may or may not be real, but bears sure as shit are). Our efforts prove fruitless, and by dawn we’re exhausted and turning to Popsicles.

After another day of hiking and searching, it’s beginning to feel like we’re looking for that proverbial needle. Since everyone is licked, we decide to let some of the team stay back and keep warm by a stove in the village. After shoveling down a few bowls of hot soup, a skeleton crew comprised of myself, Araceli, Erica, Ponch, and a few Sherpa escorts sets out for another night investigation. We happen upon a tributary of the large river that bisects this valley and dedicate the beginning of our search to the forested side of the stream. Other than hearing a few twigs snap in the darkness, we don’t come up with much. We cross the water to the rockier side of the bank. I peer through the darkness but don’t see anything of interest. Hell, I can barely see the members of my own team. As I shine my flashlight under a few huge boulders, I hear one of our Sherpas excitedly call out, “Josh, Josh!”

I spin around, my eyes focusing on his headlamp a few hundred feet behind me. By the time I get to him, he’s crouching down, shining his light on the ground. I’m speechless. More specifically, I’m in shock.

I radio to Brad, Casey, and the rest of the team back at the village, my voice shaking as I yell out instructions. “Grab the casting powder! We found a giant footprint!”

The print is about seventeen inches long, with five digits and a generally anthropomorphic shape. Also, there’s a partial second footprint in front of the first, which is intersected by a rock, preserving only the back half of the foot. In addition, a poorly preserved print sits behind both of these, in the softer sand. My mind is racing, trying to explain away these gigantic impressions.

The rest of the team arrives and races down the embankment to our position. I direct their eyes along the ground with my flashlight beam, shining it onto the prints. Everyone is agape. “Are you kidding me?!” Brad exclaims.

We’re now at a fever pitch of excitement. Our Sherpa is beside himself, and the team immediately erupts in discussion over the print. The investigation turns into an excavation; we spread out case after case of gear on the nearby rocks and erect light panels around the site.

The process of casting and extracting both the full and partial prints takes some time but goes smoothly. My discovery in Malaysia has provided me with some experience in this arena, after all. While the plaster is hardening, the team scours the rest of the ridge for additional prints, hair samples, feces, or material remains, but we find nothing. Carefully, we deliver the castings to our camp where we get warm and get fed.

In the morning, we determine that hiking the prints back down to Lukla is too risky. After all, this is what we came for, and one fall could shatter our evidence into a million pieces. We fire up the satellite phone and call in a chopper to shuttle us down to the airstrip. The helicopter arrives, and we wave the pilot onto the ridge. With no helipad here, he simply sets down in a cabbage patch, allowing us to pile in. As we lift off, the pilot dons an oxygen mask and takes us up to over 17,000 feet. My head spins in the thin air, and we bank down along the river toward lower altitudes.

We have to wait until morning for the next flight out of Lukla, so we do the only sensible thing and celebrate in a village bar. Countless bottles of Everest brand beer are cracked open, and we shoot dice on a tattered pool table and drunkenly sing along to Dire Straits and CCR, which blasts through an old stereo. In the corner, a crudely wrapped package conceals a set of yeti footprints. It’s a hell of a party that goes until the wee hours of the night. Finally, the crew begins to peel off, weaving through the cobblestone streets to a nearby lodge. Following behind, Brad and I stagger into the now opaque evening, wisely entrusting the prints to a sober Sherpa just before the two of us fall into a gutter.

At first light, we all trudge over to the airstrip and sit on the tarmac, waiting for the plane’s arrival. We’re all brutally hungover; Erica gets up at one point and literally barfs
on
the runway, which is sort of impressive. We meet the plane and wait to board while about ten cases of Everest beer are offloaded, pleased with ourselves at the inventory that needs to be replenished. As we climb up the aircraft’s stairs, the Yeti Air footprint logo on the tail of our plane catches my eye; a fat grin erupts on my face.

The plane lands, and a car brings us to the Hotel Yak & Yeti, where journalists have gathered. It seems the news of our discovery has traveled on the coconut wire down to the capital. Cameras snap furiously as we’re ushered into a conference room for an impromptu press conference. I even notice reporters from Al Jazeera and Reuters. We answer questions, produce the prints, and spend the afternoon conducting interviews for international media outlets. It’s surreal.

By the next morning we’re on the cover of every paper in Nepal, and CBS and CNN have both run stories on us in the States. I’m woefully misquoted in a local newspaper as saying, “The Snowman is no longer legend for us,” a statement that makes me sound like a total nut job. I celebrate my newfound celebrity status by treating myself to a cheap haircut at the hands of an old Indian barber who also trims my eyebrows and throws in a neck massage. Not bad for three bucks.

In the evening we proceed to the famous Rum Doodle restaurant, an obligatory stop for those climbing Everest. A long-standing tradition here demands that teams sign their names on paper cutouts shaped like yeti prints, which are then pinned to the walls. Every square inch of the restaurant is covered in footprints, memorializing thousands of climbers, including the members of the famed Krakauer expedition chronicled in
Into Thin Air
. We’re quickly recognized from all the press coverage and are invited to add our names to the venerated walls. If any of you are in Kathmandu, you can find our signatures fastened to the ceiling above the bar.

Back in the States, the castings are subject to a battery of analysis. We take them to Dr. Jeffrey Meldrum of Idaho State University, a respected professor of anatomy and anthropology. He’s also a renowned footprint specialist and manages a collection of more than two hundred mystery primate impressions. Meldrum digitizes our evidence using a three-dimensional laser scanner. The results are intriguing. Based on the size and contour of the two prints, the computer confirms a match. In other words, they are anatomically consistent and, considering the depth of the impression, suggest a 300- to 400-pound culprit.

I’ve been asked a lot whether I think the footprints could have been manufactured. The short answer is: yes. Anything is possible. Having said that, I think it’s very unlikely. After all, we were hiking through extreme and remote wilderness on an improvised route known to no one, not even ourselves. We were wandering. Also, the prints are matching, which means that someone would have had to be carrying two detailed molds or models, possess intimate knowledge of primate anatomy, and accurately calculate stride and weight. So. Pretty doubtful. At no point during my trip did someone say, “Oh, have you met Dawa? He’s a Sherpa now, but he was a special-effects artist on
Planet of the Apes
. He lives right over there by that river.”