make it to the ruins where the Death Worm is said to reside. The area is abandoned now but was once a thriving Buddhist community destroyed under Communist rule. Today it is merely an open expanse framed by a few crumbled buildings and a steep rise in the distance. A frozen river bisects the plains, and a few small yurts will serve as our accommodations for the night.
The investigation that follows is one of the hardest and most miserable in Destination Truth history. After all, this is a newly formed team with little experience operating a unique set of equipment. Everything is trial and error. Mostly error. Plus, the conditions are so bitterly cold that even the most basic tasks seem to take forever. As with most of our investigations, a base camp is established; it serves as our surveillance hub. From this central point, cameras are strung out into the field to observe the perimeter and detect motion. Sweep teams are dispatched with powerful night-vision scopes and high-tech thermal imagers to conduct a more focused search.
On this particular night, nothing wants to work. The video cables are nearly frozen solid, the thermal imager is uncooperative, and our many batteries are quickly sapped by the cold, causing one piece of equipment after another to shut down. The good news is that the team is up to the challenge, and we do our best to get the job done.
We cover every inch of the site, sending teams along and across the frozen river and through every derelict block of buildings. We take soil samples, send cameras down holes, and carefully look for material evidence. We find little to support a case for the creature. By now it’s clear to me that the story of the Death Worm is simply an heirloom, a legend carefully handed down like a grandfather’s pocket watch. By two a.m. our last battery freezes to death, and the rest of us aren’t far behind. Our tech manager performs solemn funerals for several hypothermic pieces of gear; it’s time to call it quits.
We retreat into the three yurts, which are alarmingly cold. Brad invites me over to his tent, where Casey has found a few bottles of the local “Chingis Vodka,” but I’m too tired to celebrate. Plus, the thought of driving all the way back to Ulaanbaator with a hangover seems like a fate worse than death.
The central stove in my yurt is stoked with a few scraps of wood, but most of the fuel comes in the form of hardened cow shit. The dung burns but doesn’t give off much heat, which is why it’s so damned freezing in here. I load the patties into the furnace and choose a cot along the wall. Along with a few thin blankets, I find a discolored old sleeping bag labeled “Navajo Basic.” I shiver inside of its paltry lining, realizing that what I really need is an “Eskimo Deluxe.” Our medic and my current roommate, Ray, is snoring, and next door I can hear Brad, Casey, and Araceli laughing and drinking. It’s a good sign. This night would have broken some people. I stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to the crackling stove and watching the firelight dance off the slanted wooden beams. Eventually I drift off to sleep, only to be startled awake hours later by the firm grasp of cold. I shuffle over to the stove, which is dead. The entire bucket of dung has vanished. A smile crosses my face as I realize that Brad and Casey must have robbed me in the night. I consider returning the favor as I step out into the darkness, but seeing as their chimney is almost out of smoke, there’s probably not much left to steal.
Outside, the land is still and endless. I can see the stars wheeling and a thick band of the Milky Way gashing across the dome of sky. This one moment justifies all that has come before.
The reward for the effort required to reach the ends of the earth is often the simple satisfaction of being there by yourself. People seldom travel beyond civilization. It’s a pity, since being alone in these barren destinations makes us feel our
The investigation that follows is one of the hardest and most miserable in Destination Truth history. After all, this is a newly formed team with little experience operating a unique set of equipment. Everything is trial and error. Mostly error. Plus, the conditions are so bitterly cold that even the most basic tasks seem to take forever. As with most of our investigations, a base camp is established; it serves as our surveillance hub. From this central point, cameras are strung out into the field to observe the perimeter and detect motion. Sweep teams are dispatched with powerful night-vision scopes and high-tech thermal imagers to conduct a more focused search.
On this particular night, nothing wants to work. The video cables are nearly frozen solid, the thermal imager is uncooperative, and our many batteries are quickly sapped by the cold, causing one piece of equipment after another to shut down. The good news is that the team is up to the challenge, and we do our best to get the job done.
We cover every inch of the site, sending teams along and across the frozen river and through every derelict block of buildings. We take soil samples, send cameras down holes, and carefully look for material evidence. We find little to support a case for the creature. By now it’s clear to me that the story of the Death Worm is simply an heirloom, a legend carefully handed down like a grandfather’s pocket watch. By two a.m. our last battery freezes to death, and the rest of us aren’t far behind. Our tech manager performs solemn funerals for several hypothermic pieces of gear; it’s time to call it quits.
We retreat into the three yurts, which are alarmingly cold. Brad invites me over to his tent, where Casey has found a few bottles of the local “Chingis Vodka,” but I’m too tired to celebrate. Plus, the thought of driving all the way back to Ulaanbaator with a hangover seems like a fate worse than death.
The central stove in my yurt is stoked with a few scraps of wood, but most of the fuel comes in the form of hardened cow shit. The dung burns but doesn’t give off much heat, which is why it’s so damned freezing in here. I load the patties into the furnace and choose a cot along the wall. Along with a few thin blankets, I find a discolored old sleeping bag labeled “Navajo Basic.” I shiver inside of its paltry lining, realizing that what I really need is an “Eskimo Deluxe.” Our medic and my current roommate, Ray, is snoring, and next door I can hear Brad, Casey, and Araceli laughing and drinking. It’s a good sign. This night would have broken some people. I stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to the crackling stove and watching the firelight dance off the slanted wooden beams. Eventually I drift off to sleep, only to be startled awake hours later by the firm grasp of cold. I shuffle over to the stove, which is dead. The entire bucket of dung has vanished. A smile crosses my face as I realize that Brad and Casey must have robbed me in the night. I consider returning the favor as I step out into the darkness, but seeing as their chimney is almost out of smoke, there’s probably not much left to steal.
Outside, the land is still and endless. I can see the stars wheeling and a thick band of the Milky Way gashing across the dome of sky. This one moment justifies all that has come before.
The reward for the effort required to reach the ends of the earth is often the simple satisfaction of being there by yourself. People seldom travel beyond civilization. It’s a pity, since being alone in these barren destinations makes us feel our
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