The pak army's encounter with a yeti.
A true story In the words of Captain Ahmad of 11FF (Infantry division):
"We were stationed at one of the lofty peaks in the treacherous Siachen sector, situated near the Line of Control (LOC). Below us sprawled a vast glacier, which demanded our daily patrols. This place, though hostile due to the presence of the Indians, primarily unnerved us with its relentless weather and isolating ambiance. The eerie silence, broken only by the howling wind, stretched as far as the eye could behold – a vast expanse of white glacier and scattered mountains, with sparse vegetation here and there. Devoid of any signs of life, except for the fellow humans I knew, this desolate stillness would often send shivers down our spines. On occasion, we would perceive movement in the distant glacier, but it would typically prove to be naught but illusions, conjured by our weary eyes. At least, we hoped so.
Yet, when the dense fog descended upon us, lingering for weeks on end, a disconcerting sense of unease would settle upon us. Speaking of it even now makes me feel a profound discomfort. I can still recall the uncanny sensation of being watched, as the fog enveloped us in its impenetrable embrace. Its thickness allowed for only a faint glimpse of the person beside you, and every sound, no matter how faint, kept us on constant edge.
One evening, during the height of these dense spells, I found myself seated alone outside my igloo, taking solace in a cigarette. Suddenly, from a distance, a resounding scream, more akin to a fearsome roar, reverberated through the glacier. A chilling coldness permeated my being, compelling me to extinguish my cigarette hastily and seek refuge within the igloo. Gripping my trusty G3 rifle, I aimed it towards the glacier, my heart pounding in my chest. Inside, I reached for the radio, contacting the other soldiers to inquire if they, too, had heard the thunderous roar. Alas, the winds, combined with the constant chatter, drowned out any potential sound that could have reached their ears. I urged them to remain alert, keeping their weapons close at hand. Within the confines of the igloo, I roused the other officer who accompanied me, sharing the unprecedented occurrence. To my dismay, he dismissed my concerns, refusing to believe my account.
The following morning, at precisely 0900 hours, the fog had slightly diminished, allowing for a semblance of visibility. Determined to investigate, I gathered a search party and ventured into the heart of the glacier. Approximately a mile from our base, we stumbled upon a trail of footprints – unmistakably non-human in appearance. Each step spanned a distance of 3 to 4 feet, indicating a colossal creature that must have measured at least 8 to 9 feet in height. Retrieving my binoculars, I scanned the nearby tree lines and crevices, straining my eyes against the lingering fog. Amidst the hazy veil, I discerned a furry silhouette standing amidst the trees. Its reddish or brownish hue starkly contrasted against the surrounding whiteness. Whether it had noticed my presence remained uncertain, but it swiftly vanished from sight before I could report my findings. By that point, fear and weariness had consumed me, and I began to question my own sanity. Tales of individuals succumbing to madness and hallucinations in these mountainous realms plagued my thoughts, instilling a deeper terror than the enigmatic figure lurking in our midst. Lamentably, lacking a camera at the time, I ordered the troops to retreat. I relayed the day's events to the other officer, who, still skeptical, agreed to join me on the morrow to examine the footprints.
We had a local soldier with us, hailing from Siachen, who had heard tales of the strange noises and the mysterious footprints. He sought me out in my igloo, suggesting that we may have encountered a Yeti. At the time, I remained unfamiliar with such a creature, and the notion seemed far-fetched. However, during my subsequent leave, I embarked upon a quest for knowledge, delving into research that shed light on the existence of the Yeti in the remote heights of Pakistan. Although believed to be extinct, the encounters I had experienced left me questioning this assumption.
Alas, the capricious weather turned harsh, preventing us from venturing outside for the following week. By the time conditions improved, the footprints had vanished, leaving no trace. For months thereafter, whenever the fog rolled in, a sense of caution and hypervigilance would seize hold of me. I would take refuge indoors, firmly convinced that someone or something lurked in the shadows, watching our every move.
Six months later, I received my posting to Sialkot, bidding farewell to that foreboding place.However, the memories of that fateful night and the haunting sensation of being watched still cling to me. The winter fog in my current surroundings serves as a chilling reminder, rekindling those dormant feelings. The scream echoes in my sleep, and I awaken drenched in sweat, gripped by the lingering fear that someone, or something, is still watching me."