Surviving Saribung

When the guy Mckenna was dating (if spending years hunting and fishing expeditions in northern Wisconsin and Canada could be called “dating”), replaced her with a wilderness expert from Australia, she found herself at a loss on how to respond.

“Thanks for letting Logan take your place” is what Karl had said. Lately, he had been getting annoying with the internet’s latest advice of saying “thank you” instead of “sorry.”

Worst of all, he thought she wasn’t 'knowledgeable" enough to guide their expedition to Nepal.

Sabotage wasn’t her style, so planting a bomb or cutting a hole in a backpack weren’t feasible options. Instead, with practiced precision, she checked all their equipment, ensured their flasks were full, zippers zipped and pouches stuffed with energy bars.

The Saribung Pass loomed ahead for the team, a 19,000-foot rocky climb filled with steep dropoffs, ice fields, and hidden crevices.

“Don’t mind me,” she murmured as she brushed past Karl and Logan, who were deep in conversation about routes and the effects of high altitude. Karl offered a nod, just barely acknowledging her, before turning back to Logan, an Australian with sun-bleached hair and a smug grin. Apparently he had something she lacked—TV appeal, or maybe the right accent.

Tents are not made for dramatic exits and she fumbled with the zipper on her way out. Logan muttered something about “Sheilas”. Mckenna’s face flushed. In her imagination, she gave him the middle finger, but Karl’s big race was hours away, and she didn’t want to distract him.

Outside, Greg, a production assistant, waved her over. “Mckenna, we need you to sign the equipment checklist.” For big productions, insurance companies demand all the I’s dotted, and T’s crossed on absolutely everything. She scrawled her name on the bottom, a reminder of her new role—no longer Karl’s partner in the wild, but a glorified personal assistant.

An hour later, at the starting line in Lo-Manthang, a small crowd buzzed with energy. Twenty teams jostled impatiently behind a colorful starting ribbon, with inflatable balloons swaying in the Himalayan wind. The contestants were each weighed down by the 50-pound backpacks needed for the 180-mile self supported race through Nepal’s Mustang Valley.

Karl caught her eye and flashed his always heart-melting smile. “Thanks for being here for me”

“No problem, Karl,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pang in her heart.

He nodded, hesitating, as if searching for something more to say. “We need you to step out of the camera shot.”

Mckenna moved back and the cameras zoomed in. The host quizzed Karl and Logan about their preparations. Karl didn't mention her—not her years of guiding them through blizzards, nor the itineraries she’d meticulously prepared, nor the bush meals she made.

A siren blared, and the contestants ran off, their feet kicking up dust from the gravel road. The contestants disappeared into the distance, leaving Mckenna on a quiet road outside a remote village in the middle of nowhere. A bitter, earthy tang of a yak dung fire wafted from nearby house, mingling with the crisp Himalayan air. A wind arose, and cold stung Mckenna’s cheeks. She wondered what the race was for—people travelling here, simply to struggle to survive in a place others called home.

Greg sidled up, sipping from an oversized mug of coffee. “Is Karl gonna be okay out there?”

“You have any concerns?” she asked, squinting.

“The Nepali guides say Logan talks in circles. Doesn’t seem to know much.”

Mckenna laughed. “Well, the route around Saribung is a circle.”

As the contestants were off slogging up 2,000 meters of elevation and traversing 30 kilometers of jagged ridge line , Mckenna and the crew leisurely sipped coffee and tea in Lo-Manthang, before piling into a pickup truck bound for the Gandaki Valley checkpoint. The runners would arrive after dark for their debriefings, and the cameras would capture their triumphs and setbacks.

***

Karl and Logan were the first to jog into Gandaki, tired but triumphant. Mckenna whooped so loudly that the cameras swung toward her, catching her moment of enthusiasm.

The host thrust a microphone at Karl. “What’s it feel like to finish day one in first place?”

“Amazing,” Karl grinned, chest heaving.

“The next few days, you’ll be off-road, camping out on the range, just you and the camera crew. Stakes are higher. Ready for that?”

“That’s where I'll rely on Logan,” Karl said, clapping his partner’s shoulder.

Mckenna couldn’t help but feel a flash of panic. The Mustang Valley wasn’t Upper Michigan—it was in the Himalayas. Freak snowstorms, flash floods, even snow leopard attacks weren’t out of the question. She felt a protective urge flare. She had to know if Logan was as good as he claimed.

“Logan, can I have a word?” she asked, pulling him aside.

“Of course, sweetheart.” His tone dripped with condescension.

“If you lose the matches I packed, how will you start a fire?”

“With a bit of Australian magic.” He winked.

“Wildlife in Mustang Valley. You prepared?”

“Totally covered.”

She watched as Logan did something utterly unexpected. He opened a flap in his backpack, and showed her a gun. A pistol, it looked like an antique, perhaps Russian. She caught a faint rusty smell of machine oil. It was probably bought in an illegal market in Katmandu and smuggled up here.

She backed off in shock. “You’re insane,” she said flatly.

“Totally,” he grinned, unfazed, bluffing as usual.

Karl, oblivious, smiled at them both. “Glad you’re catching up. Maybe someday you can learn to be a survival expert like Logan.” No hint he saw through Logan’s act.

She decided to forget what she saw as it broke every rule of adventure racing.

At that very moment, she made her decision.

She had spent years waiting for Karl to see her as more than a camping buddy or a summer fling, hoping for a proposal, or at least a romantic gesture. She’d given up hoping long ago, but this trip overseas hurt more than she expected.

She plastered on a smile. “You’re the best, Karl. You’re gonna win this thing.”

“We totally are!” he said, slinging an arm around Logan.

Behind them, a producer nudged Karl and Logan, whispering, “Play up the team work, boys. The audience loves it.”

For ‘narrative purposes’ the producers would most likely not show her face, just show her decapitated body moving bags around in the B roll, between Karl and Logan’s epic adventures.

The New Zealand team arrived at the checkpoint. One of them nodded at her. “Karl’s gear girl is here,” he said, as if she were an accessory.

After dinner, at the makeshift camp in Gandaki, the temperature began to plummet, and the winds howled through the valley. Mckenna looked at Karl and Logan, and shrugged. “I don’t belong here.”

Karl’s expression softened, sheepish, seeming to not know what to say. Logan, piped up. “No worries, sweetheart. I’ve got this covered.”

“Thanks for keeping yourself safe down at base camp, Mckenna,” Karl added.

She recalled dragging a hypothermic hiker to safety in a Canadian blizzard. She’d faced black bears in Wisconsin, navigated whiteouts, built fires in soaking rain. And now, Karl thought she was safer at base camp.

“If the tigers are like black bears in Wisconsin…” she said, feeling strange telling a lie.

Logan laughed. “No worries, mate, I’ve got this.” He patted his backpack, oblivious to the fact that there were no tigers in Nepal.

She wished them good luck, and caught a jeep back to Lo-Manthang’s sole luxury hotel, the production company’s base of operations. She flipped on the livestream, her heart heavy but resolute. The headline flashed: Freak blizzard conditions envelop Saribung Pass.

“They’re big boys,” she muttered. “They’ll survive.”

The next morning interview reels showed a confident Karl boasting about blasting through the ice, next to a shivering Logan. Karl patted his back, and they trudged off into the snow flurries, heading toward Saribung.

***

At 3 a.m., Greg pounded on her hotel door, jolting her from a warm, dreamless sleep. “We have a problem,” he said, breathless.

“What is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

He explained: Karl had been attacked by a yak in his tent. Logan, the “expert,” had left food inside, a rookie mistake that drew the 3,000-pound beast. Then, Logan fired his pirated pistol, grazing the yak. The shot did nothing to hurt the yak, but enraged its owner, who now threatened to sue the production company in village court. The gun was also a flagrant breach of the competition's rules and their mandate to host a race in Nepal.

“How’s Karl?”

“Karl’s been bitten on the leg and can’t run,” Greg said. “Logan’s having a nervous breakdown. Keeps mumbling about tigers. And says he’s never left Sydney before this and needs a heli-rescue.”

Mckenna snorted. “Tigers? In Mustang?”

The race director, pacing nearby, muttered about “reputational damage”, until his eyes landed on Mckenna. He whispered to Greg, then came to talk to her. “We have a proposal.”

“I’m listening.”

“You are on Karl’s team. I’ve seen you do more work than any of the men here, would you like to pick up where Karl left off?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What about the rules?”

“And who do you think makes the rules?”

They wanted her to salvage Team Blue’s (Karl’s team) shot at victory. A solo woman in a field of men, staging a comeback on a global livestream.

The “narrative” was irresistible—an underdog hero rising out of the B-roll.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m in.”

***

Days later, Mckenna crossed the finish line in second place, her pack heavy but her steps sure. The cameras swarmed, the host’s voice booming: “Mckenna, a northern Wisconsin native, has staged an incredible comeback for Team Blue!” The livestream chat exploded with praise, turning her into an overnight realty TV meme.

Karl, bandaged but smiling, approached her at the wrap party. “Thanks for letting me join you next season,” he said, his old charm surfacing.

Mckenna nodded coolly. “Thanks for offering to join, Karl. It gives me another option to consider,” she paused, letting the words sink in, “but, sorry.”