It is not the secrets that we should fear
but rather, that which is known

The savage cold
the howling wind and blinding snow
the unforgiving heart of Mother Russia's Winter
this is what we endure
lest we shall never be called the best

Today we have drifted slightly off course
and must pitch our tent on this mountain side
so as not to surrender valuable distance
in the tent we warm ourselves
with our bodies and small heater
we tell stories of our childhood, our families
and our sweethearts
these are the moments most cherished
moments that we take home with us
that remain forever

Just as the swirling winds are about to send us to dream,
flashes of light, the scream of some unholy machine
and the shadows of terror thrash about like demons from our worst nightmares
someone grabs the ax and begins to rip the tent
from the inside out and we run for our lives
barefoot and frightened beyond all comprehension,
beyond all logic
we run as fast we can into bitter cold and biting wind

Four were ravaged while the others were separated
and they watched us until we froze,
too panic stricken to move toward the tent where warmth awaited
perhaps the thought of an even more unbearable death
kept us there
where we were found

this is our story
known as Dyatlov Pass,
named after our leader
and harboring nine souls
who never crossed
the mountain of the dead
February 2nd, 1959

It is not the secrets that we should fear
but rather, that which is known