Wind, Snow and Stars

Those Who Stayed

Day had broken cold and brightest red, exceedingly cold even in the bent dawn light. It was a frigidness that sunlight failed to counter. It fell as a constant pain on every nerve of Igor Dyatlov's exposed skin as he snuck out of the dark, dilapidated cabin and into the morning light. The cabin was a shelter that his companions had followed him into so as to resist the paralyzing advances of the Siberian winter for that night.

Dyatlov left very little exposed to the frost, only his face came into contact with the elements, and this was enough to make him think even his chin may need be covered before the day's journey was through. Dyatlov walked around the side of the building. He desired the sun's radiance though it did nothing but comfort his soul. The snow crunched smoothly under his felt boots. He did not wish to be bothered as he lifted a finely rolled cigarette from his front pocket. It was a supply that was 'getting annoyingly low,' he thought to himself.

Something genial had shifted from its place in Dyatlov's heart. The stresses of organizing, motivating, and ushering these hikers from place to place had calcified the soft part of his soul that took pleasure from solace in the Urals. Now, the red orb threading rays beyond powdered pine trees was nothing more than an obstacle to be raced against for 'the peak'. Dyatlov convinced himself that he would take time to enjoy the views afforded by the trip only once his ass rested on top of Otorten. Until then, everything was work and everyone else wanted to goof off and horse around.

Only Igor considered the calculations of dried meat, pork, bacon, stale crackers, sugar, garlic, coffee and most irksome, the cigarettes. These supplies had limits and the trek was treacherous, so things must be done with measured thought.

Georgiy had caught Dyatlov with his supply of cigarettes once and has continued to ask for another ever since. Now they were running low. Zolo had his own stash and everyone admired Zolo, so no one dared bum them from him. The women felt no social leverage over him, so they did not caterwaul Zolo to death over the habit the way they would Dyatlov, if Georgiy was to slip up and give away his secret.

There was not a cloud in the sky. Smoke blustered away from Dyatlov's nostrils. He took another draw at the rolled paper, pulling the sizzling embers closer to his mittens. Another few puffs of smoke were divided evenly into three clouds for his amusement. When Dyatlov pulled another draft of air through his cigarette, a few particles of tobacco entered past his lips. It was unpleasant and Dyatlov spat them out immediately. There was crackle on the ground. His spit had frozen near his boot. He did it again to the same result and then again.

Noises inside told him to finish the smoke and return to shaping the campers up to the 'eight-minute breakdown of camp' rule. It was a rule he took much pleasure in ushering. If he did not hold the standards, 'the entire team would fall into disorder and jollity,' he thought.

"Ah, damn me. I cut my hand on a rusty nail last night," called one of the women. Dyatlov sighed. He was not looking forward to the cold and the climb anymore.

Inside, the campers were transforming out of cocoons of amicable warmth into the drafty chills of the dilapidated house with heavy sighs that hung as clouds of vapor in the gloom.

"Someone wake up Georgiy. He has fallen asleep again."

"I need some of the peroxide. I cut my hand."

"More dried meat for breakfast? Why, when we have a stove in this house, just there?"

"Do you still think you must leave today, Yuri?" Zina rolled over to say.

"I can't put you all in harm's way. I would cause the group to be slow in the ascent."

"It's a pity that nothing can be done about it, especially for me and Lyuda, though she would never tell you that of course," Zina pouted to Yuri.