Chapter Excerpt


Chapter One

JULY 1986: SOMEWHERE

IN TIBET

The waters of the Mekong River, swollen from the melting snow, had forced me deeper into one of the countless Tibetan valley rifts. There was no choice--I would have to fight my way through the churning waters. I found what looked to be the best spot and waded in. With every step the powerful current threatened to sweep my legs out from under me. After finding a firm foothold and shifting my weight to one leg, I would muster all my strength and lift the other leg. Progress was slow, but eventually I found myself standing in the middle of the raging waters, leaning on a branch braced against the current, trying not to panic. Turning back now was impossible.

    The opposite bank, a dark strip stretched between coniferous trees and glistening black rock, was only a stone's throw away. The frigid water was gray as fog, and the spray tasted of rock and dirty snow. I was glad I had kept my boots on. Seven of my toes had been amputated in 1970 after an expedition to Nanga Parbat, the eight-thousand-meter mountain in northern India, and the boots helped me get a stronger foothold between the stones.

    Positioning myself for my next step, fixing my eyes on a rock that lay on the opposite bank, I slid my right foot into a gap between two stones beneath the seething waters. The trick was to find my balance and then simply place my trust in the riverbed. I inched my way forward, upstream, diagonally against the current.

    The water was so cold that I could not feel my legs below my knees, but my face was covered with sweat. My arms were exhausted from gripping the branch and from flailing to keep my balance. Finally I reached the dark bank, exhausted but exhilarated.

    My exact location was difficult to pinpoint. I had come from Qamdo in eastern Tibet and was trying to make my way south to Nachu. I had crossed the valleys of some of Asia's greatest rivers: the Yangtze, the Mekong, and the Salween. The mountain ranges towering over the river valleys were so craggy and steep that people had managed to settle in only a few places. I often trekked for two days without encountering a single soul.

    Once you get off the roads in eastern Tibet the mountains become completely impregnable. With a yak caravan or with some sturdy Tibetan ponies you might manage to reach certain locations. Trekking alone and on foot meant sacrificing every comfort. I had a sleeping bag, a flashlight, some bacon and hard bread, a pocketknife, a waterproof cover, and a camera. But no tent. Whenever I couldn't make it to a village by sundown, I slept in the open, in a cave, or under a tree.

    Sitting on a dry rock above the riverbank, I took off my shoes, wrung out my socks, and slowly began to warm up a little. The bubbling water now sounded soothing. An incredibly dense forest lay before me. I would need to cross it by sundown, and the sun's rays were already slanting. After putting my wet socks and shoes back on, I heaved my rucksack back onto my shoulders. It seemed much heavier than it had when I crossed the surging glacial waters.

    I had not come to Tibet this time to climb a mountain or to cross a desert. Instead, I wanted to follow the route the Sherpa people had taken in their flight from the lands of Dege, across Qamdo, Alando, Lharigo, Lhasa, and Tingri, then all the way to the Khumbu territories--a migration that still echoed through many Sherpa legends though it had occurred centuries ago. By retracing the Sherpas' journey, I hoped to discover how closely the legend corresponded to reality.

    Dense rhododendron bushes and barberry thickets made progress almost impossible. The undergrowth was as impenetrable as a tropical rain forest. I tried to remember which direction the natives of the last village had told me to take. One yak herdsman had hinted that following the wrong riverbed could lead one into falling rocks and avalanches.

    The forest was silent--not even a breeze stirred the air. White tufts of cloud floated high above the slanting peaks of the conifer trees. In the sky above the gorge, which seemed close enough to touch, a few birds hovered, as if lost.

    A little daylight was still left and the weather was good, so I kept climbing. Trekking became easier the deeper I went into the forest. Rocks and tree trunks of centuries-old Himalayan cedars were less daunting than the hydrangeas, woody weeds, clematis, rhododendron, and maple thickets that clogged every trail near the river. I am usually not prone to fear, but on this day I was apprehensive about finding a trail, a clue, some reassurance. Whenever I had to climb a steep rock, I stopped, my arm propped on my knee, trying to catch my breath and calm my racing pulse. Looking down into the ravine reminded me that this was the edge of the world. I could only hope I was heading for the village of Tchagu.

    During all the weeks of trekking I had somehow managed to find paths and trails. Sometimes I tagged along with yak caravans. There had always been somebody to tell me what route to take when I set off alone for the next village. But the Alando region, where I had expected to find a settlement, was deserted--not a hut to be seen, not even the crumbling walls of abandoned homes or the remains of campfires, and therefore not a soul to tell me which way to go.

    I sat on a moss-covered rock, took a map out of my backpack, and looked at the tangle of red and blue lines between which were a mass of numbers and place names. Trying to pinpoint my exact position on the map was, however, hopeless. Get lost here and nobody will find you. I folded up the map and sat staring into the high mountain world from which I had come. I have been through this before, I told myself. There were times when I had trekked for sixteen hours straight with barely enough food to keep me going.

    The sun's rays no longer penetrated the tall trees; it had become so cold that the skin beneath my sweat-drenched shirt tightened. Deep in the ravine, the meltwater, which would soon reach its high point, flowed smoothly. I had to find a settlement by sundown, or at least reach the high pastures beyond the forest.

    The peaks in the east shimmered in the fading light of the evening sun. Dusk was spreading over the forest floor. Barely visible through the trees and the underbrush, I saw what looked like a mountain path not ten feet away from where I had been sitting. I began climbing faster, my pace almost mechanical, and emerged from the verdant undergrowth into a clearing. This was unquestionably a mountain path--the trail I had anxiously been searching for for so long. I followed it without hesitating, making my way up toward where I thought Tchagu must be. My exhilaration grew with every breath.

    Then, suddenly, silent as a ghost, something large and dark stepped into a space thirty feet ahead among the rhododendron bushes. A yak, I thought, becoming excited at the thought of meeting some Tibetans and getting a hot meal and a place to sleep that evening. But the thing stood still. Then, noiseless and light-footed, it raced across the forest floor, disappearing, reappearing, picking up speed. Neither branches nor ditches slowed its progress. This was not a yak.

    The fast-moving silhouette dashed behind a curtain of leaves and branches, only to step out into a clearing some ten yards away for a few seconds. It moved upright. It was as if my own shadow had been projected onto the thicket. For one heartbeat it stood motionless, then turned away and disappeared into the dusk. I had expected to hear it make some sound, but there was nothing. The forest remained silent: no stones rolled down the slope, no twigs snapped. I might have heard a few soft footfalls in the grayness of the underbrush.

    I stared, first amazed, then perplexed, at the spot where this apparition had stood. Why had I not taken a picture? I stood stock-still, listening to the silence, my senses as alert as those of an animal. Then I crept into the undergrowth from which the creature had emerged only to disappear again, noting everything that moved, every sound that rose above the murmur of the lightest breeze, every scent different from that of the forest floor. There in the black clay, I found a gigantic footprint. It was absolutely distinct. Even the toes were unmistakable. To see that the imprint was fresh I touched the soil next to it. It was fresh. I took a picture and checked the soil around it. My shoes didn't sink in nearly as deeply as had the creature's bare soles.

    Staring at the black clay, I suddenly remembered the famous photograph of a footprint Eric Shipton had taken in 1951 at the Melung Glacier, located between Tibet and Nepal. This photograph was commonly considered the best proof that the creature known as the yeti existed. Like all Himalaya climbers, I knew the yeti legends well enough. They are told throughout Sherpa country. But I would never have imagined that a real, living creature might be connected to this legend. I knew large parts of Tibet and the Himalayas pretty well, yet even in those remote places where we mountain climbers, with our modern equipment, can survive for months at a time, I had never seen anything resembling such a creature.

   The yeti legend drew strength from the drama of the Himalayan landscape--the peaks, glaciers, snowstorms, and howling winter nights. This was a place where storytelling came naturally--and the oral tradition was alive and well. How often in the kitchen tents of the base camps had the Sherpas told me of the yeti--of the girls it had abducted, of the yaks it had killed in a single blow, of the enormous footprints it had left behind in the snow. I had only half listened in the smoky gloom of the tent, crouching between the equipment and the boxes of supplies, as the Sherpas recounted tales of a dangerous giant, paying full attention only when one of them named real place names or spoke of someone who had actually either encountered a yeti or climbed in pursuit of one. But when I asked for specifics, fathers would turn into grandfathers, villages into regions, and definite facts into blurry maybes. My mind would turn to more concrete concerns.

    Yeti legends--spreading over the Himalayas and Tibet like the waters that rush down from the mountains in the summer--had trickled into every village, every household. The Sherpas may have brought the legends back with them from Nepal, Sikkim, and Solo Khumbu. Members of the first Western expeditions to the Himalayas had heard them, and they got picked up in newspapers and books. In less than a century, news of a mysterious creature had spread throughout the world. Today millions of people in the West have some notion of the yeti. For most, it embodies a longing for some mirror to our prehistoric past, a mirror into which we can look and shudder in awe and horror. Yeti stories inevitably boost sales of newspapers and tabloids.

    As I continued up the mountain path, looking for tracks, it suddenly struck me that no one on this trip had mentioned the yeti. No one had warned me--seriously or in jest--that something might be afoot in the ravines beneath the mountain peaks. Perhaps the yeti craze had never reached regions where words like Neanderthal or King Kong were utterly foreign.

    That evening I saw four more footprints. The animal was moving up the mountain and climbing farther up into the forest. If it was an animal. Had it been a bear, there would also have been imprints of its forepaws, and the tracks of snow leopards were, I knew, much smaller.

    The icy mountain wind blew harder, and the birdsongs high up in the trees became softer and more intermittent. Climbing faster, I could hear nothing but my breathing and the echo of my steps.

    The path up to the tree line was arduous, and I was worried that at any moment it would peter out. A gurgling noise came from farther up--whether it came from the ravine through which the river was tumbling or was produced by wind blowing through the treetops that towered into the night I could not tell. By now darkness had fallen. My plan had been to hike till sunset and then bivouac, but the idea of settling down among the roots of a giant cedar to wait for morning did not appeal.

    So I pushed on. Sometime between dusk and midnight I came out of the forest into a clearing. Bright moonlight filled the valley before me. Black mountains cast sharp shadows on the slopes. The snaky coils of the mountain trail, which ran over the rises and dips of the pasture, disappeared into the darkness of a moraine. Not a single hut was to be seen. No scent of animals in the air. No dots of light.

    Making my way through some ash-colored juniper bushes, I suddenly heard an eerie sound--a whistling noise, similar to the warning call mountain goats make. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the outline of an upright figure dart between the trees to the edge of the clearing, where low-growing thickets covered the steep slope. The figure hurried on, silent and hunched forward, disappearing behind a tree only to reappear again against the moonlight. It stopped for a moment and turned to look at me. Again I heard the whistle, more of an angry hiss, and for a heartbeat I saw eyes and teeth. The creature towered menacingly, its face a gray shadow, its body a black outline. Covered with hair, it stood upright on two short legs and had powerful arms that hung down almost to its knees. I guessed it to be over seven feet tall. Its body looked much heavier than that of a man of that size, but it moved with such agility and power toward the edge of the escarpment that I was both startled and relieved. Mostly I was stunned. No human would have been able to run like that in the middle of the night. It stopped again beyond the trees by the low-growing thickets, as if to catch its breath, and stood motionless in the moonlit night without looking back. I was too mesmerized to take my binoculars out of my backpack.

    The longer I stared at it, the more the figure seemed to change shape, but it was similar to whatever it was I had come across farther down the trail--that much I knew. A heavy stench hung in the air, and the creature's receding calls resounded within me. I heard it plunge into the thicket, saw it rush up the slope on all fours, higher and higher, deeper into the night and into the mountains, until it disappeared and all was still again.

    I stared into the depths of the night sky. My hands were shaking. The Sherpas used to say that whistling meant danger, and that to escape a yeti one should move downhill as quickly as possible. How could anyone run through the thickets and the underbrush as fast as that creature had? It had disappeared over the moonlight-flecked slopes without stumbling once, as if driven by some monstrous fury.

    The thought that my mysterious counterpart might reappear sent chills down my spine. Escaping by fleeing--up or down the mountainside--was clearly futile. I would have broken both legs and made myself into easier prey than I already was. I took out my flashlight and continued up the trail, stopping to listen and look behind me. I felt watched.

    The trail ended in a mountain torrent. I longed for a safe place to spend what remained of the night, but crossing the stream in the darkness was impossible. There was no bridge, and from what I could tell, the water would come at least up to my hips. I heard large stones rolling in the torrent and saw silvery white crests. Frost had covered the rocks on the banks of the glacial torrent. I knew the current would only ease in the late morning, before more ice began melting high in the glacier regions. That would be the best time to cross to the other side. I decided to return to the meadow.

    Lonely and dead tired, I looked for a place to camp and found some rocks that, over decades, the waters had piled into a natural dam. I didn't have much of a choice. A little farther down the valley I could see a riverbed and hear the water I had crossed late that afternoon.

    A metallic sheen lay on the rocks and weeds as I rolled out my thick foam-rubber mat. I constructed a little barrier of rocks between my campsite and the open meadow--a semblance of shelter--and slipped into my sleeping bag. My head propped against my half-empty backpack, I stared into the night sky. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined the outline of a monster glaring down at me, so I kept them open. The moonlight was visible only on the slopes higher up in a side valley.

    I heard the whistling call again. I jumped up. It could not have been the wind. The creature had come back. I peered down into the dark valley, then at the torrent across the slope. I could hear my heartbeat and the hissing and bubbling of the water--or was that the whistle? Had the call come from far away or nearby?

    I stuffed my sleeping bag into my backpack and set off up the mountain, following the path along the bank of the stream. Somewhere there had to be a crossing where even at night I could reach the other side.

    To my surprise and delight I did find a footbridge. I edged my way over the wooden planks high above the stream, then continued up the opposite slope, snaking my way over stones and boulders to a ridge from which I could see more mountain pastures--and also a few huts. They seemed abandoned; no lights burning anywhere. The village was surrounded by thornbushes and stone barriers and looked eerie and desolate. Piles of firewood stood like sentries in front of the houses. As I approached, I made as much noise as possible. I wanted to be heard. It is dangerous for a stranger to suddenly turn up in a mountain village in the dead of night. He might easily be mistaken for a thief. Tashi delek! I called out--first softly, then more loudly. Still nothing stirred. Again I called out Tashi delek , the Tibetan greeting. Again nothing. No sound, no light, no sign of life. Was this Tchagu?

    Still calling, I walked slowly along a narrow cattle path, peering between the piles of firewood into the forecourts and the low-lying huts behind them. Fear and fury made me call louder. Why did nobody answer?

    The only sign of life was the cold stench of horse manure, decay, and urine. Tchagu was no more than a line of derelict huts, a way station without hope--two dozen or so, all of them alike, each with a stone foundation and a wooden saddle roof. Between them darkness yawned. Narrow ladders propped up next to the low doors led to lofts that opened toward the path. The huts looked equally dilapidated. I had no choice but to choose one. Forgetting all my routine precautions, I entered a courtyard through an opening in a pile of firewood and looked for a dry place for the rest of the night.

    As I neared the door of the hut, a black mass with snarling teeth and four eyes came flying at me. I grabbed a branch out of the woodpile behind me and retreated back down the path. A Tibetan mastiff. Soon other dogs joined in. I had Tibetan mastiffs back home in Austria. Brown patches next to their eyes make it look as if they have four eyes. These dogs are big and they are dangerous.

    I swung the long, thick branch like a club, ready to bludgeon any slavering dog that got too close. I stood with my back to the stone barrier that separated the village from the fields behind it. The ferocious pack was closing in on me from all sides--first seven or eight, then more and more. They tumbled over each other, so that only their black muzzles were visible. I alternated between murmuring softly to them and shouting. Not one was smaller than a German shepherd. Whenever a dog came too near, I struck at it. By now the whole pack was snarling, howling, and barking so loudly that in desperation I also started yelling.

    The villagers had to wake up now, I thought. But no one came. I slowly crept back down the same path I had come, my back against the stone, looking left and right. The dogs followed me till I staggered out into an open meadow at the edge of the village. There the dogs' fury suddenly dissipated, and they trotted back to the huts, snarling, whining, snapping at each other.

    Where was I to go now? I didn't want to head back down into the valley. The scare this pack of half-starved dogs had given me paled in comparison to the horror of my earlier nocturnal encounter. That creature, whose lair was somewhere in these valleys, was ten times more powerful and massive than any dog. I could not make my way over the mountains in the dark, and I was also too exhausted to continue climbing. I had no choice but to slink quietly back to the huts--whose inhabitants had probably taken their yak herds up into the mountain pastures. Tchagu, the dog-ridden hole, was my only hope.

    I followed the cattle path back between the stone barrier and the woodpiles to the dwellings. I passed the holding pens without attracting the dogs, entered one of the courtyards through a low opening between piles of firewood, and walked toward the house: The door was padlocked. I decided to climb up the ladder to the open loft. Crouching between the floorboards and the shingles, I groped my way to a stone fireplace. Hunched over my backpack, I listened to the stillness of the night. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I stripped down to my underwear and crawled into my sleeping bag. A few minutes later, before my heartbeat and my breathing had even slowed, I fell asleep.

I sat up, torn from a deep, dreamless sleep. I thought I had heard voices. Bewildered, I peered out of the loft's triangular-shaped opening onto a ridge under the starry Himalayan sky. I had not been mistaken. I could hear steps, murmuring, and hissing. Someone was barking orders. A shower of stones came pelting onto the floorboards next to me.

Startled and still half in my sleeping bag, I crawled behind the fireplace for cover. Now there were more voices below and they grew louder. I couldn't stay hidden up in the loft. I had to come down before they dragged me out and beat me to death.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from My Quest for the Yeti by Reinhold Messner. Copyright © 1998 by S. Fischer Verlag, Frankfurt am Main.
Translation copyright © 2000 Peter Constantine. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.