Lore - REMASTERED – Episode 38: The Mountain

Episode Date: November 14, 2022

Bundle up, because we’re returning to the frigid mountain crime scene that has baffled historians for decades: Dyatlov Pass. This remastered classic episode features brand new narration and production, plus a never-before heard bonus story. Researched, written, and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with additional help from GennaRose Nethercott and Harry Marks. ———————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com Access premium content! ©2022 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.   To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here.

In February of 2010, restoration specialists were trying to preserve the hut used by Ernest Shackleton and his team during their Nimrod expedition a century ago, when they found something beneath the floorboards. Keep in mind, Shackleton is something of a legend. Ernest in Ireland in 1874, raised in London, and exploring arctic regions by his 25th birthday, this man was about as tough as they come. He was a naval officer, a real-life explorer, a best-selling author, and even had the honor of being knighted by a king.

I can't think of anyone more interesting to invite to a party. So when restoration began on the Nimrod base camp hut in 2010, there was a sense of awe. It was the structure that had once played host to impossible dreams and a spirit that few today are willing to embrace. That little hut was a refuge against a hostile environment, and it was also apparently the hiding place for a treasure, buried by Shackleton himself. It wasn't gold or silver, though. It wasn't a relic or some lost piece of history.

No, beneath those bare floorboards, restorationists found something else. Three cases of Scottish whiskey. And this whiskey, trapped in the permafrost for a century, was insanely valuable. Not just because of its age, and not just because of the opportunity it offered to explore a rare lost blend of scotch. This whiskey was valuable, you see, because it offered the chance to taste the liquid that fueled a legend. We are obsessed with those who venture out into the wild.

We resonate with those who risk their lives. And while those successful ones often live on as legends in their own right, it's the ones that fail that often stick with us the longest. For some people, nothing is more frightening than when the natural world reaches out and crushes our best laid plans. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. In Sir John Franklin set sail from England in 1845, it was his fourth expedition into the Arctic Circle.

For years, nations had been looking for the mythical Northwest Passage, a route from the Atlantic to the Pacific that didn't require sailing south to the tip of South America before heading back north. Franklin and his team were never seen again. In some ways, it shouldn't have surprised anyone. After all, the expedition set sail in two ships, one named the Terror and the other named after the Greek god of darkness and chaos, Erebus. They were practically begging for tragedy.

It wasn't until a decade later when another explorer, John Ray, learned of the expedition's fate. Trapped in the ice, the crew had made their escape on foot. The cold and lack of food was their undoing. And some believe the party succumbed to cannibalism before the last of them perished. Nevertheless, Franklin and his crew have gone down in history as heroes. History has long had a love affair with tragedy. Maybe it's the haunting nature of those lost expeditions and journeys gone wrong that seem

to elevate them in popular culture. Maybe it's our obsession with anything that has a passing resemblance to an Indiana Jones movie. Or maybe it's just the simple fact that there are so many of them to talk about. Norwegian explorer Rold Amundsen was the expedition leader for the team that beat Robert Scott to the South Pole in 1911. He and his team returned from their journey as heroes. And while he participated in more adventures, it was the South Pole that earned him his

reputation. Nearly two decades later, in 1928, an expedition to the North Pole crashed on the ice and vanished. Amundsen, 55 years old at the time, climbed into a rescue plane and headed north to find them. Apparently, you can take the explorer out of the wild, but you can't take the wild out of the explorer. Amundsen was never seen again. Percy Fawcett was an explorer and archaeologist from England who spent much of his professional

life in the jungles of Brazil in South America. He'd performed tasks for the Royal Geographical Society and served as a member of the British Secret Service for a time. Fawcett even formed a close friendship with popular author H. Ryder Haggard, who wrote the equivalent of Indiana Jones novels for the late 19th century reader. And if you've ever seen or read the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, the character of Alan Kordermain was a Haggard creation. Maybe it was that friendship that filled Fawcett's head with visions of cities of gold and adventure.

In 1925, he managed to raise enough funds to set off for Brazil with his oldest son Jack and one of Jack's close friends. Together, they planned to locate a lost city that Fawcett had named Z. It was supposed to be the real-life location of the legendary city of Eldorado. There are a lot of theories about what happened. Some say the explorer and his partners were all killed by natives of the region. Others say that they set up a commune in the jungle and lived out the rest of their lives there.

There are even stories that say the end was much less exciting, that Fawcett and the others just walked into the jungle and vanished. Even today, there are those that are still looking for the truth. In 1804, Alexander Hamilton entered a duel with United States Vice President Aaron Burr. Hamilton's aim was off, but Burr's wasn't. As a result, Hamilton died from his wounds the following day. Burr lived a long life after the duel, but suffered through the mysterious disappearance of his daughter Theodosia.

In 1812, she boarded a ship that was meant to carry her away from South Carolina, where her husband was governor, to see her father up in New York. An incredibly fast schooner known as the Patriots left the Georgetown harbor in December of that year and was never seen again. One of the risks that travelers take upon themselves is that they might never reach their destination. Whether the journey is one of exploration, personal travel, or recreation, there is always the chance for failure.

And the farther from civilization, the worse those chances become. Which is why, when a group of hikers marched off into the Ural Mountains in 1959, the odds were decidedly, then tragically, stacked against them. If ever there was a textbook example of whiteout conditions, the night of February 2, 1959 would have been it. The team of ten were huddled together inside their tents against the wind and snow and freezing rain. I realize it would be odd to refer to a blizzard as hell, but just because it lacked flames

and heat didn't mean it wasn't a place of suffering. The trip hadn't started out like that though. They had intended it to be a pleasant expedition into the mountains. No glorious mission or treasure to seek, this was meant to be a recreational trip. That's not how it ended though. Then again, life rarely turns out the way we imagine it would, does it? The team was comprised of nine college students from Ural Polytechnical Institute, all of whom were led by their instructor Igor.

The journey had actually begun on January 27th, a week prior, in the northern Russian village of Viviaget, east of the Ural Mountains. They had been transported there by truck, along with their camping equipment and supplies, because the small village was the most northern settlement in the region. Beyond those borders, they would enter into the wild, a literal no man's land. This was a region of Russia that had once been called home by the indigenous people known as the Mansya, sometimes called the Vogels. Centuries ago, they ruled the northern lands, even fighting against the Russians until they

were all finally assimilated in the 13th century. Today, most Mansya live in Moscow or other large cities, and there are very few who remain in their northern homelands. And these travelers were well prepared. Aside from the expected camping supplies that you might expect, they also set up a communication plan. It was a there and back again journey, with the goal of reaching Mount Ortotun within a week and then returning to Viviaget by February 12th.

If they fail to check in, Igor had told friends, start to worry. It was going to be a dangerous expedition, without a doubt. The terrain was hostile and there was no support network north of the village. Still, the trip began smoothly enough, and the team made good progress. They headed east, and when they reached the foot of the mountains, they stopped and set aside a supply of food for their return trip. That was January 31st. The next day, they started their climb.

But weather in the mountains wasn't helping them out. It was clear early on that the trip was going to take a lot longer than they had expected, but that didn't stop them. Instead, they hiked slow and steady into the wind and snow, aiming north for Mount Ortotun. By the end of the day on February 2nd, Igor and the others realized they were more than a mile off course. Somehow, thanks in part to the disorienting blizzard, they had drifted west and found themselves on the northern slope of the mountain known as Kolat Siikal.

The smart decision would have been to hike north less than a mile and set up camp in the line of trees below, but they had worked hard to reach such a high altitude, and it would be exhausting to have to climb back up the next day. So the team decided to ride out the storm where they stood, exposed to the wind on the bare mountain, with temperatures as low as negative 25 degrees Fahrenheit, it was going to be a long, cruel night. It must have been frustrating for them. On a clear day, they would have been able to see their goal of Mount Ortotun from where

they stood. They knew it, too. They were so close, and yet it must have felt like they were miles away. Instead of feeling like they had accomplished something, they were left making the most of their mistakes. They set up their single tent, unpacked, ate a meal, and then settled in for the night. We know all of this because it's documented in their journals. We have the notes about their travel decisions, the weather reports, and the challenges they

faced. We even have photos of the team setting up camp right there on the snow-covered side of the mountain. After that, though, the records of the team led by Igor Dyatlov are silent. We have no more words from the team members, no more reports, and no way to speak to them about what happened to all of them. All we have left now are their corpses. Let me be upfront here.

We don't know what happened to the hikers. Well, that's not entirely true. We know they died, but we don't know how their deaths were brought about. What we do know is that the details that were uncovered by a later investigation seemed to point towards something odd, something that doesn't seem to fit the preconceived notions of hiking accidents. In the end, though, all we're left with are assumptions, unprovable theories, and a feeling of dread.

A dread because the obvious explanation isn't something that leaves people with warm, fuzzy feelings. The night of February 2 had been cold and snowy, but when the search party finally located the hikers' camp on February 26, they found the scene of a disaster, not a storm. The tent was covered in snow, something one might expect, but it was also empty. There was also evidence that had been torn in half from the outside. Scattered in the snow around the remains of the tent, the search party found the items that had belonged to the hikers, items that included clothing and warm shoes, which went

a long way toward explaining why so many of the footprints that could be seen exiting the area of the tent had been made by bare, or at least shoeless, feet. The prints all led down the slope of a mountain toward the line of trees that should have been the team's campsite for the night, had they made the right decision. The investigators followed along in that direction with hopes of finding the missing hikers. When they reached the trees below, though, what they discovered only added to the mystery. The first two bodies they uncovered were located at the outer edge of the forest. Both were clothed in nothing more than their underwear.

They discovered signs of a campfire there, hinting that they had perhaps walked down the mountainside in search of better shelter from the storm. But other clues didn't support this. Branches in a nearby tree had been broken and snapped off as high as five meters above the snow. Either someone had tried to climb them, or something else had broken them. Some have suggested that something very tall had chased the hikers into the trees, breaking off limbs as it entered or exited the woods.

Three more bodies were found buried in the snow on the slope between the torrentent and the broken trees. The five hikers were all said to have died of hypothermia, according to later medical examinations. But what had happened to the rest of the party? In the end, it would take another two months of searching the pass to find the remaining four. On May 4th of 1959, a full three months after the blizzard that ended their journey, they

were located in a ravine just 250 feet from the camp. But their discovery introduced far more questions than answers. You see, these four were better clothed than their friends, but they hadn't died of hypothermia. Although what killed them remains a mystery to this day, the evidence points towards something unusual. One of the hikers was said to have been missing her tongue. Some historians have suggested that she had simply bit it off in a moment of panic, but that wouldn't explain why her eyes were also missing.

Many others had suffered major skull trauma and their chests had been crushed. The medical examiner who studied the bodies said that the level of force required to create such injuries was on the same level as a high-speed automobile accident. Some experts have suggested an avalanche or perhaps a deadly fall, but there was no evidence of either at the site of the bodies. That same medical examiner also ruled out the theory of an attack from nearby Mancea people. According to him, the injuries could not have been caused by other humans, because the force

of the blows had simply been too strong. In other words, these injuries that the hikers suffered were unexplainable, inhuman, and mysterious. These are, of course, all the ingredients a story needs to truly become legendary. Today, the region is referred to as Dyatlov Pass, and it's the unknown element of the tragedy there that has pushed the events deep into the mind of popular culture. This story has a way of leaving many of us feel haunted, haunted because it could very well happen to us. We can plan for things we understand.

We can find safety in them. The unknown, though, can leave us as vulnerable as hikers in a blizzard, exposed and unprepared. Our obsession with lost parties and expeditions, with people who wander off and disappear, is as strong today as it's ever been. Movies, novels, television shows, and comics have all spent time and effort to recapture the mystery and thrill of the dangerous unknown. Our world seems to be full of it. Loosens have a way of making people feel uneasy.

We want answers, because answers make us feel safe. But we also want the thrill of a good mystery. We hate not knowing, and yet we also love the idea of the unknown. Ironic, I know. But true. Decades later, we still have far more questions than answers. We don't know what frightened the hikers enough to cause some of them to flee undressed from their tent in a sub-zero blizzard.

We don't know what caused the severe trauma to their heads and chests. We don't know, well, what we don't know vastly outnumbers what we do, and most people don't like that. Maybe something deeper was going on, though. There are those who believe the Russian government knows the truth. You see, after the investigation was completed in May of 1959, all of the related documents were packaged up and shipped to a classified archive. When they were finally released four decades later, many of these reports were incomplete,

with pages or paragraphs missing. And one last thought. As I mentioned before, the hikers were deep in Mancia territory when the tragedy happened. The lazy explanation early on was to blame the indigenous people of the area for the deaths of the hikers. It's been a common crutch for many lost expeditions. Civilized people wander too far into unexplored, untamed wilderness, and they are killed by native tribesmen who feel threatened by the newcomers.

There was, of course, no evidence of an attack. No clues pointed toward a group of outsiders. Though footprints were found that didn't belong to the hikers, and none of the injuries could be explained away with a theory like that. But in the end, the answers might very well be found among the Mancia after all. Interestingly, the Mancia name for Mount Ortohten, the mountain they had been hiking toward but never reached, is translated, Don't Go There. Were the Mancia hiding a warning in plain sight all along?

Did they know of some reason why travel to that mountain might not be the safest idea? It's hard to say for sure. And what about Kholit Siakal, where the hikers camped and died that final night? That's a Mancia name as well, given to the mountain many centuries, perhaps even millennia ago. And it literally means the mountain of the dead. The story of the events that took place all those years ago in the Dyatlov Pass have haunted historians ever since, and I'm guessing you can understand why.

And explorers have continued to study the evidence, including my friend Josh Gates, who took his expedition unknown film crew there in 2019 for two episodes of his seventh season. If you want to know just how cold and unforgiving that region is, I highly recommend watching. But those frozen mountains of Russia aren't the only place where the unusual has collided with the chilling. My team and I have pulled together one more adventure to take you on, and if you stick around through this brief sponsor break, I'll tell you all about it. Mountains are majestic, lining the horizon and beckoning us with snow-capped peaks and

promises of glory. British climber George Mallory certainly understood that allure. When asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, he said, because it's there. A flippant answer, sure, but he followed through, perhaps even becoming the first person ever to summit, though no one knows that for certain. Why don't we know? You think the first mountaineer to reach the top of the world's tallest mountain would be shouting his victory far and wide once he returned to camp.

But that's the thing. He never came back. Mallory died up there on June 9th of 1924, incapacitated by a leg injury following a fall. Rather, that's what we think happened. His body was never found, until 75 years after his disappearance. In 1999, another mountaineer discovered Mallory's remains, preserved by the extreme cold. You see, on Mount Everest, the dead have a way of coming back, and not necessarily in

the ways you might think. Mount Everest is a beast of a mountain, measuring or whopping 29,000 feet tall, five and a half miles above sea level, located in the Himalayas. But for those skilled and lucky enough to make it, they have to push through the final 3,000 feet, an area known as the Death Zone. It's an appropriate name for a place with only one-third the amount of oxygen as what exists at sea level. The barometric pressure also makes everything, including people, feel 10 times heavier than

they actually are. Others who ascend that far usually don't stay longer than 48 hours, lest they want to experience organ failure first-hand. And if they do die up there, which happens often, the bodies are left behind due to the difficulty in reaching them. Lapka Sherpa, who holds the women's world record for the most ever summits, says she witnessed seven dead bodies lining her path to the top in 2018. She even saw one whose hair was blowing in the wind.

Since the first British expeditions in 1922, 311 people have died climbing Mount Everest. That comes out to one in 20 people, perishing before they ever reach the summit, and 200 of those bodies are still up there. And dead bodies are only part of the equation, because climbers have witnessed something else awaiting them on the mountain. Ghosts Pemba Dorje, a Sherpa who was believed to have made the fastest ascent in May of 2004 in just over eight hours, said he experienced something supernatural while he was up there.

He said, I saw some spirits in the form of black shadows coming towards me, stretching their hands and begging for something to eat. Scottish climber Dougal Hastin and his friend British schoolteacher Doug Scott experienced something similar in 1975. They had reached the summit later in the day than they had hoped and wound up spending the night in the death zone on their descent. Two big problems were ahead of them.

One, they had run out of food, and two, their oxygen supply was running low. The two men dug themselves a snow hole to sleep in and prayed that they hadn't just dug their own grave. As they huddled together there, they felt a strong presence of someone or something in there with them, like another climber had scooted in beside them. A warm sensation washed over the men, something akin to body heat, as a voice talked to them throughout the night. It comforted them and told them how to survive, which they did.

The next day, Hastin and Scott descended safely with one heck of a story to tell, and on top of it all, theirs had been the first expedition to climb Everest via an uncharted path. Their experience with friendly ghosts was not the only one. In 1933, Frank Smith was on his way down through the death zone when he noticed he had company. A phantom climber had appeared beside him. Smith broke his mint cake in half and offered it to the ghost, who must not have been very hungry. He vanished into thin air.

Sometime later, Smith spotted two dark balloon-like entities hovering above him. Their appearances were not humanoid like the other one before. He described them as having what looked like squat, underdeveloped wings, whilst the other had a beak-like protuberance like the spout of a tea kettle. They distinctly pulsated. Naturally, Smith's first assumption was that he had been hallucinating. He even tested his mind by turning away and then back to the various valleys and peaks, which he was still able to identify by name.

His mental faculties had not disappeared, nor had the hovering masses. A mist eventually rolled in, obscuring them from view, after which they finally left. Had all these people really encountered paranormal entities on their expeditions, or was it something else? Psychologists believe that extreme mental and physical stress can be responsible for these FOPs, or feelings of presence on the mountain. Scientists have also placed the blame on the lack of oxygen at high altitudes, which can cause altitude sickness and swelling of the brain.

Other explanations include a lack of sleep due to the extreme cold, as well as snow blindness that can cause hallucinations. But if you ask any of the Sherpas, like Dorje, they'll tell you science has nothing to do with it. The spirits of dead climbers are real, and they will never know peace until their bodies are finally retrieved and put to rest. Sherpas see the Himalayas as both the embodiment and the realm of the gods, a sacred place where the worlds of the living and the dead converge, and where climbers can get a peek at their futures, if they're not careful.

So it goes without saying. If you ever have the chance to go there, please watch your step. This episode of Lore was researched, written, and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with additional help from Jenna Rose Nethercotts and Harry Marks, and music by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast, though. There's a book series available in bookstores and online, and two seasons of the television show on Amazon Prime Video. Check them both out if you want more lore in your life.

I also make and executive produce a whole bunch of other podcasts, all of which I think you'd enjoy. My production company, Grim and Mild, specializes in shows that sit at the intersection of the dark and the historical. You can learn more about all of our shows and everything else going on over in one central place, grimandmild.com. And you can also follow this show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button.

And when you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.