City of the Yeti Read online

  Dorje paused, as if to emphasize the peacefulness of our surroundings.

  “Here, the soldier-monk had flashbacks of his journey. Eventually, he pieced everything together into one remarkable conclusion: he had lived with the Yeti. And though his memory of their appearance remained cloudy, he tried to sketch them; it was a healing process for him. Later, he stopped visiting the cave, and focused on his work at the monastery.”

  “He drew them?” I asked, scarcely breathing.

  Dorje pointed to a nearby wall, which we illuminated. Pictures had been painted on the smooth, nearly vertical surface. Dad and Uncle Colin looked at each other, winced, and wandered off to a distant corner. No doubt they were tired of hearing stories about mythical creatures.

  I walked up to the wall, my heart thumping. Three sets of paintings were visible, each depicting a different scene, with humanoid figures drawn as dark silhouettes. It reminded me of prehistoric cave art from the Stone Age. The images had faded badly, probably from the humidity, and I strained to see anything meaningful. In one set, the figures seemed to ride horses; in another they gathered around some structure like a castle; and in the last they appeared to hunt large animals. Sadly, further details were lacking. But even more disappointing – this explained the rumor of Lama Dorje having “seen” the Yeti; he’d simply viewed a bunch of nineteenth-century cave paintings.

  Looking back at Dorje, I asked, “Were you at the monastery when the soldier-monk drew all this?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Whatever happened to him? Is he still alive?”

  Dorje didn’t answer, but strolled over to stand beside me at the paintings. After a minute of silence, he said, “You are the first person to visit us with questions about the Yeti, and you come in the form of an innocent boy. Your belief that they are more than monsters struck a chord in me today, since those were my sentiments exactly when I joined the monastery – in 1885. You see; I am the soldier-monk.”

  Narayan’s jaw was still hanging after he interpreted. But I wasn’t really surprised. It all made sense: the lama’s detailed account, his effortless navigation of the cave, and his desire to pass on knowledge to someone he deemed worthy. I nodded with understanding, and my optimism for finding the Yeti returned in the blink of an eye.

  We gazed at the artwork together, and then I looked at him. My face must have begged for an explanation, since he responded in a sad voice. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember much. I thought a visit to this room might jar my memory, but it hasn’t. All I know is that, after finishing these images, I felt at peace to pursue Buddhism. I settled at the monastery, and turned it into a better place than it was before. That is the legacy I prefer, not vague accounts of seeing the Yeti.”

  My brain was exploding. Here I stood, deep inside a mountain in central Nepal, next to a man who had lived with the Yeti, and I still had no firm answers. It couldn’t end like this. There must be something I could learn. Leaning closer to the pictures, I looked for anything unusual. Then I saw it. In each group of figures, one individual was much shorter than the rest. Could that be Dorje, standing among a taller species?

  He started to turn away, but I gently took his arm. “Please, wait. Could these pictures show you with the Yeti?”

  He studied them closely, as if for the first time. “It’s possible, but all this is unfamiliar now. That soldier-monk no longer exists. Again, I’m very sorry. Believe me, I would share everything if I could.”

  Dorje went to rest on a boulder. Fatigue had finally caught up with him after the long hike in. I continued standing at the wall, trying to memorize the scenes, and wishing I’d brought some paper to sketch on.

  Dad returned and rested his hand on my shoulder. “This Yeti business is really important to you, isn’t it?” The question was his way of apologizing for walking away. I nodded, but didn’t share the lama’s comments.

  “Well,” he said, “we’re in a strange land, where people interpret their experiences much differently than we would. There could be a simple explanation for the soldier-monk’s absence. Maybe he stayed with native sheepherders in the mountains. I’m hoping a similar thing happened to your grandfather.”

  “Yes, but it’s strange how Dorje can’t remember anything.”

  “Maybe he had an accident on the way home – hit his head or something.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, unconvinced. This theme of people not remembering was a big piece of the puzzle. The shop owner in Lucknow had mentioned it, too.

  Then, I had an idea: go for what can be remembered. I sat beside Dorje, with Narayan nearby to interpret. “Lama Dorje, do you recall your route when you left that day, many years ago?”

  He pondered the question. “There was a small village called Ghandruk. I stayed at a local monastery for one night, to adjust to the thinner air. The last thing I remember is riding away through a rhododendron forest.”

  The apprentice walked up. He had been waiting patiently, almost forgotten by everyone. “I think it’s time we get Lama Dorje home, where he can rest properly.”

  We retraced our steps through the cave without incident. Upon reaching the entrance, I approached the lama and stated, “I will find the Yeti, somehow.”

  In response, he revealed a necklace hidden beneath his robes. Tied to the end was a rectangular stone about three inches long, with a complex inscription:

  To my surprise, he took it off from his neck and handed it to me. “I will never need this, but perhaps you might.”

  I declined his offer out of politeness, but he insisted. With the stone in my hand, I asked, “What’s it for? What does it mean?”

  “That is for you to discover. The necklace was on me when I returned from the mountains; I don’t know its origin. Good luck in your search.”

  I pressed my palms together and bowed to show my appreciation, since that seemed to be the custom. Everyone else thanked the monks for their hospitality, and Dad gave a small donation to the monastery.

  On our way back to the truck, I showed the stone to Narayan. “Does this make any sense to you?” I asked.

  “I think it’s Sanskrit – a very old language; like India’s version of Latin, used mainly by Hindu and Buddhist scholars. Sorry, I can’t read this. Seems like the monks should be able to translate it.”

  I wanted to run back into the monastery, but it was late and we had to leave. As our truck pulled out, Dad turned to me. “That village Lama Dorje mentioned is actually a place I was considering for our trip. I think we should go there.”

  He got no argument from me.

  Chapter Six

  Dad shouted, “Saddle up!” as everyone gathered at the stables north of Pokhara. Each person was assigned a horse, with smaller breeds chosen for Rachel and myself. Our group included Narayan, Uncle Colin, Rachel, Mom, Dad, and me. Laxmi had left for Kathmandu due to an urgent family matter. Supplies were chosen sparingly, but Rachel and I insisted on bringing our small Ganesh statues.

  The ranch owner, a Tibetan man with a weathered face, cast side-glances at us, no doubt wondering whether this family of foreigners had any experience with horses at all. Narayan negotiated with him for a while, and then returned. “The owner has decided to be our guide. I don’t think he trusts us with the horses! Anyway, the plan is simple. We ride each day through local valleys, and then sleep each night in a village. The whole trip should take about a week. Around here it’s considered a fairly routine trek.”

  As we mounted the horses, the guide grumbled something in a sandpaper voice. Narayan interpreted, “It’s been a very wet year, and several bridges are washed out, so we’ll have to use a few detours. Also, late-season storms can blow through without warning.”

  After riding for a couple of hours, we entered a large, scenic valley formed by steep slopes blanketed with dark green forests. The lower hillsides had been terraced and
planted with grains such as millet and rice. In the background, like a huge painting in the sky, soared the white-capped, fog-drenched peaks, completely out of reach.

  The foothills were more populated than I’d expected. Every few miles we entered a small village with houses built from cemented stones. Most homes flew tall prayer flags made of colorful fabrics. Our guide described the different ethnic groups living here, each with its own language. I worried that, with so many humans around, there would be little chance of finding a Yeti. Still, this was probably the closest I’d ever get to their legendary habitat.

  On the narrow dirt roads between villages, we passed horses and yaks toting crops and other goods. Some people carried a large wicker basket on their back, supported by a rope that wrapped around their forehead, which required very strong neck muscles. Besides jackets, most wore a round, woven cap to stay warm in the cool temperatures and constant breeze. I was glad we’d brought heavy coats for the trip.

  Every few miles we came across a small shrine surrounded by mani stones – slabs of rock painted or carved with Nepalese and Tibetan symbols. Our guide explained that these represented a Buddhist mantra, like a prayer or hymn. I examined the scripts closely. None of the characters matched the symbols on Dorje’s necklace, which I now wore under my shirt.

  The bridges spanning mountain streams were nothing more than a row of wooden planks laid on a frame of skinny tree trunks, all suspended a few feet above cold, rushing water. Uncle Colin commented, “I’m surprised any of these bridges survived the last monsoon season.”

  On our third day, we arrived in Ghandruk, a cluster of drab buildings clinging to a steep hillside. We were getting saddle sores, so a tour of the town was a welcome break from riding. The elevation must have been well over a mile, since I had to stop and catch my breath after any walking. Dad and Narayan quizzed the locals about seeing an older British man, but uncovered no leads.

  We first visited an ancient monastery, probably the same one mentioned by Dorje. The foyer displayed a statue of a female Buddha, which delighted Rachel. A monk explained, “This is Kwan Yin, a beautiful Indian princess who chose enlightenment over a life of luxury, similar to Prince Siddhartha. According to legend, she was ready to enter Heaven, but heard the cries of those still struggling to achieve enlightenment. She returned to Earth and vowed to help anyone who suffered.”

  After he finished, I asked, “Could you tell us about the Yeti?” It seemed like a straightforward question for this part of the world. But after hearing the translation of my words, the man glanced nervously at his fellow monks, as if I’d raised a forbidden topic. In fact, they all fell silent, and slowly filed out of the room.

  The next morning, our group gathered outside and studied the skyline. Thick, dark clouds were building behind the mountains ahead. “What do you think?” Dad asked. “Should we turn back?”

  The guide talked with some residents standing nearby, and Narayan interpreted, “The locals say the storm will bypass this area. Also, our guide says there’s a nice meadow we should visit, just above town.”

  “Well then, let’s push on a few more miles,” Dad said.

  My skin tingled when the trail entered a thick rhododendron forest. We were retracing the soldier-monk’s journey! A maze of twisted, scraggly trunks supported a lush canopy of violet-tinged treetops. No other village lay ahead, making us the sole travelers. The valley soon became narrower, with rocky bluffs on either side blocking the sun.

  At one point, I caught a glimpse of furry creatures stirring in a row of bushes near the trail. I stopped my horse, dismounted, and approached cautiously.

  Narayan – closest to me – rode over and said, “Hold on, Danny!” He jumped down, removed his knife, and led the way, poised for defense. After he yanked the thick branches aside, the creatures were revealed: wild goats pawing at roots. Narayan laughed. “Just as I suspected, and quite common in these woods.” The goats glanced up casually, and then resumed their work.

  Beyond the forest, the valley broadened into a large alpine meadow, full of tall grasses and wildflowers. We snacked on dried fruit and meat jerky, while the horses had their fill of tasty plants. In the distance I saw a river with a low, wooden bridge. “Where does that go?” I asked the guide.

  “The bridge leads to an uninhabited valley, parallel to this one,” he answered. “Only hunters ever go there.”

  Rachel and I asked Dad if we could ride around the meadow to gather flowers. He approved, but cautioned us to stay within sight, since the storm clouds were moving closer. The largest blossoms grew along the river, so that’s where we started. I hopped down from my horse to pick samples, and when I remounted, Rachel was gone. She had crossed the bridge on horseback to reach a flowerbed on the other side. I called out her name, but she ignored me, so I decided to follow.

  The bridge looked very old, and my horse was skittish about stepping onto the cracked lumber, which groaned under our weight. The water below – deep and fast moving – churned madly around large, jagged boulders.

  When I finally reached Rachel, I was angry. “Hurry up! We’re too far away.”

  “Hold on! These flowers are hard to break off.” I dismounted again and went to help her.

  Moments later, a shadow covered us. We looked up and saw Uncle Colin on his horse. Apparently he’d been sent to find us, and he wasn’t happy. “What are you two doing here? You should never cross these old bridges without asking!”

  “We’re almost done,” Rachel replied in a gruff tone.

  I spotted Narayan riding in the meadow, and yelled across the water, “Hey, we need your knife to cut these flowers!” He waved and approached the bridge. Suddenly it occurred to me that this span was getting a lot of heavy traffic today, possibly the first traffic since the monsoon season had ended.

  Then the unthinkable happened. With several loud snaps, the central section of the bridge broke apart, dumping Narayan and his horse into the raging water. We watched in disbelief as the bobbing heads of man and beast struggled against the current, which quickly carried them away. Uncle Colin dismounted and ran to the river’s edge, yelling Narayan’s name at the top of his lungs.

  It was impossible to chase after Narayan on foot because the riverbank on our side turned into a vertical rock wall. I could only guess Uncle Colin’s feelings; after all the wartime battles they had survived together, he was helpless to rescue his friend now.

  Downstream, the river bent sharply and disappeared from view. Fortunately, just before that point, Narayan was able to grab an overhanging branch and pull himself out. The horse slammed against a large boulder, slowing its progress and allowing it to jump onto shore. Narayan stood shivering on the opposite bank and signaled that he wasn’t hurt. Everyone hollered with relief.

  New sounds drew our attention back to the bridge, where more timber was ripped away by the powerful torrent. The gap now measured at least ten feet across. Uncle Colin, Rachel, and I were cut off from the meadow, and from Ghandruk. My parents finally galloped up to the river’s edge and stared across in horror.

  The guide arrived last, stopping beside Dad and pointing downstream. No one understood the man, but Uncle Colin took a guess, and shouted to my parents over the water’s roar, “Our guide thinks there’s another place to cross – downstream!”

  In all the confusion, no one had checked the sky, which was now darker. I felt sprinkles on my face, and these soon turned to rain. A storm was approaching with frightening speed.

  Uncle Colin yelled to my parents again, “You can’t stay here! Go to Ghandruk and wait for us! I’ll find a way back!” Dad’s face was a mixture of anguish and desperation. The two men locked eyes, and then Dad nodded, showing complete trust in his brother.

  But Mom screamed, “No, I won’t leave them!” She steered her horse toward the water, but it refused to enter. Dad rushed over on foot and snatched the reins, pull
ed her down, and then threw his arms around her. She buried her face on his chest and sobbed.

  Rachel and I trembled after seeing our parents so upset. Uncle Colin turned to us, knelt down, and put a steady hand on each of our shoulders. “Now look. Don’t worry. I’m here. And right now we’re safe. It’s just going to take some extra riding, that’s all. We’ll start out tomorrow. I have a compass and a tent, and we have enough food and water for a couple of days.”

  The rain grew heavier. I saw an overhang in a nearby cliff, just large enough to cover the horses, so we all galloped over. Glancing back at the river, I refused to believe that the family separation would last long. Under the shelter, we gathered dry branches from a back wall, and Uncle Colin started a fire. Rachel and I changed into dry clothing, and everyone huddled together inside the tent.

  “This is all my fault,” Rachel said, looking down and breaking small twigs with her hands. “I shouldn’t have crossed in the first place. Narayan might have died.”

  “Rachel,” I replied, “I’m the one who asked Narayan to cross.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Uncle Colin said firmly. “Everyone is still alive.”

  I was sorry Narayan had fallen in, but also relieved that the bridge hadn’t collapsed under Rachel or Uncle Colin or me. It was a strange mix of feelings. We hardly slept that night as wind pounded the tent, and the horses whinnied while stomping their legs.

  In the morning, the sky was partly cloudy and the wind had subsided. After eating some snacks, we rode off into a rugged valley that stretched westward, just as the guide had described. However, by late afternoon, we’d found no safe place to cross the river. The water level had risen dramatically during the overnight deluge.

  As the sun disappeared behind rugged hills, I noticed a cave opening, which promised more protection than any overhang. A small spring nearby provided drinking water. With the horses tied up, and a fire going inside the cave, we settled down for a second night of unplanned camping. Uncle Colin did his best to keep our spirits up by sharing stories about his childhood in England. His voice was calm, but his face revealed more concern than I’d ever seen. Exhausted, we fell asleep quickly, each person curled up in a sleeping bag.