The Snowman of the Himalayas
Deep in the frozen heart of the Himalayas, where the sun rarely touched the ground and silence stretched for miles, a mystery as old as time awaited discovery. It was here, on a remote expedition to the uncharted slopes of Mount Shanta Parbat, that five explorers ventured into the unknown.
The team was led by Arjun Mehra, a seasoned mountaineer, accompanied by his friend and anthropologist, Aarav Joshi. Joining them were Maya, a wildlife photographer, Sameer, a geologist, and Tenzing, a local Sherpa who knew the mountain's moods better than anyone.
Aarav wasn’t there just for the climb—he had spent years studying local legends. Villagers in the lower valleys spoke in hushed tones of the Him-Manav—the Snowman. Said to be a protector of the mountains, the creature was rarely seen but often felt: in howling winds, in vanishing livestock, and in strange tracks left in fresh snow.
The expedition began smoothly. For five days, they ascended steep ridges and crossed icy crevasses. On the sixth morning, Maya spotted something strange: a single line of massive footprints leading across the snowfield. Each print was over 18 inches long, spaced far apart as though made by something with enormous strides.
Tenzing went pale. "We must not follow," he warned. "This is no ordinary path."
But curiosity overcame fear. They followed the prints until they vanished into a rocky outcrop. That night, the wind screamed louder than ever, rattling their tents and stealing sleep from their eyes. In the morning, Sameer was gone. No signs of struggle, no footprints except one—enormous, leading away from camp.
The remaining four were shaken. Arjun wanted to descend. But Aarav, driven by a need to uncover the truth, convinced them to search a little longer.
Two days later, deep in a glacial ravine, they found it.
Standing at the edge of a frozen lake was a figure like none they’d imagined. Towering and broad, it was covered in thick, grey-white fur. Its arms hung low, its posture calm yet powerful. Its face was eerily human, with deep-set amber eyes that glowed faintly in the twilight.
The snowman.
It watched them silently. Maya raised her camera but couldn’t press the shutter. The moment felt sacred, like disturbing it would unravel something ancient.
Aarav slowly stepped forward, heart pounding. He whispered, "We mean no harm."
The creature tilted its head. Then, to their amazement, it slowly knelt and placed something in the snow—Sameer’s watch. Intact. Clean.
No blood. No damage.
It stood again and turned, vanishing into the mountain’s folds as quietly as it had appeared.
The team returned home changed. Aarav documented everything, but few believed him. The photos were called hoaxes. The footprints? Explained away as glacier distortion.
But Tenzing knew. Maya knew. And Aarav, above all, knew what they’d seen.
The Snowman of the Himalayas was not a beast. It was ancient. Wise. Possibly the last of its kind. It had taken Sameer—perhaps to protect itself, perhaps to warn. But it returned his belongings as if to say, We are not so different.
Years later, Aarav would return alone to the mountain. Not with ropes or cameras, but with offerings—gifts of peace. He never spoke of what happened afterward.
Only that, in the highest silence of the Himalayas, the Snowman still walks.
