The Smoking Chimney
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Help can come from the strangest of places.
_____________________________________________________________________
My friends have been congratulating me again but I still don’t know the answer.
Many years ago, when I was younger and fitter, a group of climbers, myself included, planned an expedition. Tumlingtar in Eastern Nepal is the nearest village to Makalu, the fifth highest mountain in the world. The journey to base camp is a nine-day trek through a wilderness that is exciting and humbling. Strangely enough, few people have seen this remote area of the world. Our guide spoke sufficient English and each night described another part of the climb. His decision was that we would ascend the west face, this being the easier route. After our 120km trek I admitted to myself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Base camp was established and everyone had an early night. The next day we would begin our ascent of 5,300m alongside the Barun Glacier. We breakfasted early and prepared for a long, hard climb. In a turquoise sky, the sun shone brightly. Our guide warned us regularly not to remove our sunglasses, as snow blindness would result. I was number four in the team of eight and, roped together, we began. It was not hard but one had to be careful. That day, we accomplished the 400 metres to camp one. During the following two days, we established camps two and three well above the snow line.
Whilst pitching my tent, I missed my footing and stumbled, twisting my knee. A hurried examination showed that it would be foolish to carry on. Forlorn, I made the decision to wait until the others returned and then, with their assistance, make the descent. Day four became a nightmare of gale force winds and stinging snow that lasted over ten hours. The storm in time relented, leaving a blanket of crisp white snow as far as the eye could see.
The loneliness of being in a tent at 6,900m was mind numbing so I kitted up to go for a quick look around. On leaving the tent, the only disturbances in the snow were the footprints of the others moving up and away towards the summit. I could not climb but there appeared to be an area where at least I could hobble without much difficulty.
The views were stunning but the thin air muddled my thoughts. Without warning, the ground gave way and I found myself up to my chest in snow. It was not that I was afraid but there was another problem, my feet were dangling in empty space. I dared not move but I could not remain where I was. Slowly, I removed the ice axe from the top of my pack, along with fifty metres of rope. Joining one to the other, I fashioned a grappling hook of sorts. Remaining as still as I could, I turned my head left and right, looking for anywhere that might secure a good hold. My eyes fixed on an outcrop some twenty metres away, which normally I would have been able to reach with a single throw. After several attempts my ice pick held. I hauled on the rope, knowing full well the snow bridge could collapse. With the line secured to my rucksack, I dragged myself forward. The nightmare began when along with tons of snow, I tumbled into the abyss.
With a jolt, I stopped, suspended at the end of a fifty metre rope. Dazed, I hung there as the snow and ice struck. Slowly my wits returned and I realised my goggles had gone. In the blinding whiteness, I established that I was about five metres from the bottom of a funnel. Without warning, my makeshift hook lost its hold and I fell into the fresh snow which softened my landing. With a deafening roar the avalanche began. Can you imagine what it’s like being on an out-of-control bob sleigh, shooting into the open sky then somersaulting backwards? Helter skelter or roller coaster, these were tame in comparison. I was going to die.
Bewildered, I lay there and stared at my right leg. Agonising pain erupted if I moved. Several mind-blowing attempts later I straightened it. I glanced at my watch; ten past eleven. For the moment I could see but knew that in a few hours snow blindness would take its effect. I began, as best I could, to build a windbreak.
Night came and the temperature dropped rapidly. I snuggled down in my half igloo-come-snow-hole, stared up into the clear night sky and waited. Even with a broken leg, I slept. When I awoke, there was no feeling in my right leg. What did it matter? I would soon be unconscious and become a monument to the stupidity of man. Suffering from frostbite, exhausted both physically and mentally, I resigned myself to my fate.
The sun was high in the sky when I heard someone shouting. My almost blind eyes could barely pick out the outline of a man; a strange bright aura seemed to surround him. Where had he come from? How had he found me? He kept shouting and pulling me. I didn’t understand a word he said.
I screamed back, “My right leg is broken.”
He must have understood for he turned and bent over me, his bare hands gripping each leg in turn. He muttered something and then strapped my ice axe along the length of my right leg.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” I asked as he dragged me upright.
Blind, crippled and suffering with severe pain, I was led by this man, to god-knows where. I felt like laughing, not the funny ha ha kind but hysterical mad laughter, nothing made any sense. How long he carried, hauled and screamed at me I don’t know and in reality I no longer cared but after what seemed an eternity he stopped. Total blackness surrounded me; there was neither snow nor wind. Shadows created by the flames from a fire danced in front of me. As the blaze intensified so did the heat, bringing warmth and pain to my body. Slowly my eyes made out the main features of my surroundings – we were in a cave, dry and warm. My hopes restored, I now believed in miracles. Whoever he was, his shadow towered above me.
He grunted, turned and disappeared.
I marked the passing hours by placing stones in rows on the floor; four days elapsed. Feeding the fire with the ample supply of wood, I lay there dozing at times but not daring to sleep, drinking ice-cold water and wondering. My team would have noticed my absence but how would they find me in this place? Worn out, I fell asleep, to be woken by garbled voices. They jabbered excitedly as they lifted me onto a stretcher. A smiling face peered into my eyes. I felt the sharp prick of a needle.
Several weeks later, I was discharged from hospital minus all the toes on my right foot. I’m still amazed that I am alive. The doctors told me that my refuge was a rock chimney used by mountaineers as a natural shelter.
A herdsman searching for his missing animals noticed the smoke from my fire billowing into the clear blue sky.
When I told all and sundry about my rescuer, they said I was mad. According to the villagers, people rarely ventured into that forbidding area after the first snowfall. Someone helped me. Who? Will I ever know the answer to my question?
Swearwords: None.
Description: Help can come from the strangest of places.
_____________________________________________________________________
My friends have been congratulating me again but I still don’t know the answer.
Many years ago, when I was younger and fitter, a group of climbers, myself included, planned an expedition. Tumlingtar in Eastern Nepal is the nearest village to Makalu, the fifth highest mountain in the world. The journey to base camp is a nine-day trek through a wilderness that is exciting and humbling. Strangely enough, few people have seen this remote area of the world. Our guide spoke sufficient English and each night described another part of the climb. His decision was that we would ascend the west face, this being the easier route. After our 120km trek I admitted to myself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Base camp was established and everyone had an early night. The next day we would begin our ascent of 5,300m alongside the Barun Glacier. We breakfasted early and prepared for a long, hard climb. In a turquoise sky, the sun shone brightly. Our guide warned us regularly not to remove our sunglasses, as snow blindness would result. I was number four in the team of eight and, roped together, we began. It was not hard but one had to be careful. That day, we accomplished the 400 metres to camp one. During the following two days, we established camps two and three well above the snow line.
Whilst pitching my tent, I missed my footing and stumbled, twisting my knee. A hurried examination showed that it would be foolish to carry on. Forlorn, I made the decision to wait until the others returned and then, with their assistance, make the descent. Day four became a nightmare of gale force winds and stinging snow that lasted over ten hours. The storm in time relented, leaving a blanket of crisp white snow as far as the eye could see.
The loneliness of being in a tent at 6,900m was mind numbing so I kitted up to go for a quick look around. On leaving the tent, the only disturbances in the snow were the footprints of the others moving up and away towards the summit. I could not climb but there appeared to be an area where at least I could hobble without much difficulty.
The views were stunning but the thin air muddled my thoughts. Without warning, the ground gave way and I found myself up to my chest in snow. It was not that I was afraid but there was another problem, my feet were dangling in empty space. I dared not move but I could not remain where I was. Slowly, I removed the ice axe from the top of my pack, along with fifty metres of rope. Joining one to the other, I fashioned a grappling hook of sorts. Remaining as still as I could, I turned my head left and right, looking for anywhere that might secure a good hold. My eyes fixed on an outcrop some twenty metres away, which normally I would have been able to reach with a single throw. After several attempts my ice pick held. I hauled on the rope, knowing full well the snow bridge could collapse. With the line secured to my rucksack, I dragged myself forward. The nightmare began when along with tons of snow, I tumbled into the abyss.
With a jolt, I stopped, suspended at the end of a fifty metre rope. Dazed, I hung there as the snow and ice struck. Slowly my wits returned and I realised my goggles had gone. In the blinding whiteness, I established that I was about five metres from the bottom of a funnel. Without warning, my makeshift hook lost its hold and I fell into the fresh snow which softened my landing. With a deafening roar the avalanche began. Can you imagine what it’s like being on an out-of-control bob sleigh, shooting into the open sky then somersaulting backwards? Helter skelter or roller coaster, these were tame in comparison. I was going to die.
Bewildered, I lay there and stared at my right leg. Agonising pain erupted if I moved. Several mind-blowing attempts later I straightened it. I glanced at my watch; ten past eleven. For the moment I could see but knew that in a few hours snow blindness would take its effect. I began, as best I could, to build a windbreak.
Night came and the temperature dropped rapidly. I snuggled down in my half igloo-come-snow-hole, stared up into the clear night sky and waited. Even with a broken leg, I slept. When I awoke, there was no feeling in my right leg. What did it matter? I would soon be unconscious and become a monument to the stupidity of man. Suffering from frostbite, exhausted both physically and mentally, I resigned myself to my fate.
The sun was high in the sky when I heard someone shouting. My almost blind eyes could barely pick out the outline of a man; a strange bright aura seemed to surround him. Where had he come from? How had he found me? He kept shouting and pulling me. I didn’t understand a word he said.
I screamed back, “My right leg is broken.”
He must have understood for he turned and bent over me, his bare hands gripping each leg in turn. He muttered something and then strapped my ice axe along the length of my right leg.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” I asked as he dragged me upright.
Blind, crippled and suffering with severe pain, I was led by this man, to god-knows where. I felt like laughing, not the funny ha ha kind but hysterical mad laughter, nothing made any sense. How long he carried, hauled and screamed at me I don’t know and in reality I no longer cared but after what seemed an eternity he stopped. Total blackness surrounded me; there was neither snow nor wind. Shadows created by the flames from a fire danced in front of me. As the blaze intensified so did the heat, bringing warmth and pain to my body. Slowly my eyes made out the main features of my surroundings – we were in a cave, dry and warm. My hopes restored, I now believed in miracles. Whoever he was, his shadow towered above me.
He grunted, turned and disappeared.
I marked the passing hours by placing stones in rows on the floor; four days elapsed. Feeding the fire with the ample supply of wood, I lay there dozing at times but not daring to sleep, drinking ice-cold water and wondering. My team would have noticed my absence but how would they find me in this place? Worn out, I fell asleep, to be woken by garbled voices. They jabbered excitedly as they lifted me onto a stretcher. A smiling face peered into my eyes. I felt the sharp prick of a needle.
Several weeks later, I was discharged from hospital minus all the toes on my right foot. I’m still amazed that I am alive. The doctors told me that my refuge was a rock chimney used by mountaineers as a natural shelter.
A herdsman searching for his missing animals noticed the smoke from my fire billowing into the clear blue sky.
When I told all and sundry about my rescuer, they said I was mad. According to the villagers, people rarely ventured into that forbidding area after the first snowfall. Someone helped me. Who? Will I ever know the answer to my question?
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.