Dead Mountain: The Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident (2 page)

The sun is dropping. The searchers don’t have much time before they must turn around and rejoin the rest of the team at base camp. Weather conditions are volatile in the northern Urals—snow can fly in fast and thick without warning, and hurricane-force winds
are a persistent menace. Though the morning had given them clear skies, threatening clouds have since collected, and the wind is already whipping snow from the ground in prelude to a storm. It looks as if it may be another day lost. But then, through the disorienting blur, the men spy something that is neither rock nor tree—a dark, gray shape. As they draw closer, they find a flapping tent. Though its twin poles stand obediently in the wind, a section of the tarpaulin has surrendered under the weight of recent snows.

Conflicting thoughts of relief and horror flood the searchers’ minds as they approach. They shout for their friends, but there is no reply. They pass an ice ax sticking out of the snow. Then a half-buried flashlight left in the on position, its battery spent. One of the men moves toward the partially snowbound entrance. The tent is a thick, canvas fortress, outfitted with a triple barrier of fabric and fasteners designed to keep out wind and cold. As the young man begins to clear away the snow, his companion looks for a faster way inside. He picks up the ice ax and, in several swift motions, brings it down on the canvas, fashioning his own entrance.

The men enter the buckled tent, their eyes immediately darting over its contents. As is typical of camping in this climate, an insulating layer of empty backpacks, padded coats and blankets lines the floor and periphery. At the south end of the tent’s roughly 80 square feet are several pairs of ski boots. Six more pairs sit along another wall. Near the entrance lie a wood ax and saw. Most everything else has been stowed away in packs, but a few personal objects are visible: a camera, a can of money, a diary. The men share a wave of relief as they realize there are no bodies. But there is something curious about the place, the way everything is arranged—the ski boots standing in disciplined formation, the bags of bread and cereal positioned sensibly in one corner. The stove is in the center of the tent, not yet assembled, and an open flask of cocoa sits frozen nearby as if waiting to be reheated. There is also a cloth napkin bearing neat slices of ham. The entire arrangement gives the
distinct impression of someone having tidied very recently, and, if not for the collapsed tarpaulin, one might expect a lively band of campers to return at any moment, kindling bundled in their arms.

The men step back into the snow to consider their discovery. They give in to a moment of cautious celebration, comforted in the idea that their comrades have not perished, but are out there somewhere, perhaps in a snow cave. As the two scan the immediate landscape, not once does it cross their minds that a forsaken camp is cause for anything but hope. Yet they cannot begin to fathom the conditions that must have compelled their friends—all nine of them—to abandon their only shelter and vanish into the stark cruelty of the Russian wilderness.

1

2012

IT IS NEARLY TWENTY BELOW ZERO AS I CRUNCH THROUGH
knee-deep snow in the direction of Dyatlov Pass. It’s the middle of winter and I have been trekking with my Russian companions through the northern Ural Mountains for over eight hours and I’m anxious to reach our destination, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to put one foot in front of the other. Visibility is low, and the horizon is lost in a milky-white veil of sky and ground. Only the occasional dwarf pine, pushing through the snow’s crust, reminds me that there is dormant life beneath my feet. The knee-high boots I am wearing—an “Arctic Pro” model I purchased on the Internet two months ago—are supposed to be shielding my feet from the most glacial temperatures. Yet at the moment the inner toes of my right foot are frozen together, and I am already having dark visions of amputation. I don’t complain, of course. The last time I expressed any hint of dissatisfaction, my guide Vladimir leaned over and said, “
This is Siberia
.” I later learn this isn’t technically Siberia, only the gateway. The real Siberia, which stretches to the east all the way to the Pacific Ocean, begins on the other side of the Ural Mountains. But then “Siberia,” historically, has been less a geographical designation than a state of mind, a looming threat—the frozen hell on earth to which czarist and Communist Russias sent their political undesirables. By this definition, Siberia is not so much a place as it is a hardship to endure, and perhaps that’s what Vladimir means when he says that we are in Siberia. I trudge on.

I have taken two extended trips to Russia, traveled over 15,000 miles, left my infant son and his mother and drained all of my savings in order to be here. And now we are less than a mile away from our terminus: Holatchahl (sometimes transliterated as “Kholat-Syakhyl”), a name that means “Dead Mountain” in Mansi, the indigenous language of the region. The 1959 tragedy on Holatchahl’s eastern slope has since become so famous that the area is officially referred to as Dyatlov Pass, in honor of the leader of the hiking group that perished there. This last leg of our journey will not be easy: The mountain is extremely remote, the cold punishing and my companions tell me I am the first American to attempt this route in wintertime. At the moment I don’t find this distinction particularly inspiring or comforting. I force my attention away from my frozen toes and to our single objective: Find the location of the tent where nine hikers met their end over half a century ago.

Just over two years ago I would never have imagined myself here. Two years ago I had never heard the name
Dyatlov
or the incident synonymous with it. I stumbled upon the case quite by accident, while doing research for a scripted film project I was developing in Idaho—one that had nothing to do with hikers or Russia. My interest in the half-century-old mystery started out innocently enough, at a level one might have for a particularly compelling Web site to which one returns compulsively. In fact, I did scour the Internet for every stray detail, quickly exhausting all the obvious online sources, both reliable and sketchy. My attraction to the Dyatlov case turned fanatical and all-consuming, and I became desperate for more information.

The bare facts were these: In the early winter months of 1959, a group of students and recent graduates from the Ural Polytechnic Institute (now Ural State Technical University) departed from the city of Sverdlovsk (as Yekaterinburg was known during the Soviet era) on an expedition to Otorten Mountain in the northern Urals.
All members of the group were experienced in lengthy ski tours and mountain expeditions, but, given the time of year, their route was estimated to be of the highest difficulty—a designation of Grade III. Ten days into the trip, on the first of February, the hikers set up camp for the night on the eastern slope of Holatchahl mountain. That evening, an unknown incident sent the hikers fleeing from their tent into the darkness and piercing cold. Nearly three weeks later, after the group failed to return home, government authorities dispatched a search and rescue team. The team discovered the tent, but found no initial sign of the hikers. Their bodies were eventually found roughly a mile away from their campsite, in separate locations, half-dressed in subzero temperatures. Some were found facedown in the snow; others in fetal position; and some in a ravine clutching one another. Nearly all were without their shoes.

After the bodies were transported back to civilization, the forensic analysis proved baffling. While six of the nine had perished of hypothermia, the remaining three had died from brutal injuries, including a skull fracture. According to the case files, one of the victims was missing her tongue. And when the victims’ clothing was tested for contaminants, a radiologist determined certain articles to contain abnormal levels of radiation.

After the close of the investigation, the authorities barred access to Holatchahl mountain and the surrounding area for three years. The lead investigator, Lev Ivanov, wrote in his final report that the hikers had died as a result of “an unknown compelling force,” a euphemism that, despite the best efforts of modern science and technological advances, still defines the case fifty-plus years later.

With no eyewitnesses and over a half century of extensive yet inconclusive investigations, the Dyatlov hiking tragedy continues to elude explanation. Numerous books have been published in Russia on the subject, varying in quality and level of research, and with most of the authors refuting the others’ claims. I was surprised
to learn that none of these Russian authors had ever been to the site of the tragedy in the winter. Speculation in these books and elsewhere ranged from the mundane to the crackpot: avalanche, windstorm, murder, radiation exposure, escaped-prisoner attack, death by shock wave or explosion, death by nuclear waste, UFOs, aliens, a vicious bear attack and a freak winter tornado. There is even a theory that the hikers drank a potent moonshine, resulting in their instant blindness. In the last two decades, some authors have suggested that the hikers had witnessed a top-secret missile launch—a periodic occurrence in the Urals at the height of the Cold War—and had been killed for it. Even self-proclaimed skeptics, who attempt to cut through the intrigue in order to posit scientific explanations, are spun into a web of conspiracy theories and disinformation.

One heartbreaking fact, however, remained clear to me: Nine young people died under inexplicable circumstances, and many of their family members have since passed away without ever knowing what happened to their loved ones. Would the remaining survivors go to their graves with the same unanswered questions?

In my work as a documentary filmmaker, my job has been to uncover the facts of a story and piece them together in a compelling fashion for an audience. Whatever external events might draw me to a story, I am interested in people with consuming passions. And in examining the fates of passionate characters, I am often pulled back in time to explore the history behind their personal victories and tragedies. Whether I was stepping into the psyche of the first blind Ironman triathletes in
Victory Over Darkness
, or untangling the fate of late photojournalist Dan Eldon for my short documentary
Dan Eldon Lives Forever
, I was ultimately looking to solve a human puzzle.

I had certainly found a puzzle in the Dyatlov incident, but my fascination with the case went beyond a desire to find a solution. The Dyatlov hikers, when not in school, had been exploring
loosely charted territory in an age before Internet and GPS. The setting—the Soviet Union at the height of the Cold War—could not have been further from that of my own upbringing, but there was a purity to the hikers’ travels that resonated with me.

I grew up in the 1970s and ’80s on the central Gulf Coast of Florida, the land of limitless sunshine. I had been born to teenage parents and there was a free, easygoing quality to my entire childhood. When I wasn’t in school, you could find me fishing or surfing in the warm coastal waters. In the summer of 1987, when I was fifteen, I took a trip with my father to the surfers’ playground of Costa Rica. It was my first trip out of the country, and at a time when tourists were not yet flocking to Central America. The resources available to off-the-grid travelers were limited, and my dad and I had to rely on mail-order maps to direct us to the country’s best surf beaches. When the maps arrived, I’d spread them out on the kitchen table and study the curves of the coastline and the comically specific instructions that hinted at adventure: “Pay off the locals with
colones
to access this gate” or “look for huge tree near river mouth to find wave.”

As soon as we stepped off the plane in San José, with only our maps and a single Spanish phrase book to guide us, we were weightless, living moment to moment. In the following days, we rode flawless waves on secluded beaches, camped out under tranquil moonlight, survived insect infestations, and shared our space with howler monkeys, crocodiles and boa constrictors. Our far-flung adventures created a sense of camaraderie and shared heroism between my dad and me. Though I would hardly compare tropical Central America with subarctic Russia, memories of that time lent to my appreciation of why these young Soviets had repeatedly risked the dangers of the Ural wilderness in exchange for the fellowship that outdoor travel brings.

There was, of course, the central mystery of the case, with its bewildering set of clues. Why would nine experienced outdoorsmen
and -women rush out of their tent, insufficiently clothed, in twenty-five-degrees-below-zero conditions and walk a mile toward certain death? One or two of them might have made the unfathomable mistake of leaving the safety of camp, but all nine? I could find no other case in which the bodies of missing hikers were found, and yet after a criminal investigation and forensic examinations, there was no explanation given for the events leading to their deaths. And while there are cases throughout history of single hikers or mountaineering groups disappearing without a trace, in those instances, the cause of death is quite clear—either they had encountered an avalanche or had fallen into a crevasse. I wondered how, in our globalized world of instant access to an unprecedented amount of data, and our sophisticated means of pooling our efforts, a case like this could remain so stubbornly unsolved.