My story is about a pilot stranded alone in the frozen Mongolian tundra

————

I’m gonna die. My plane is on fire and I’m about to crash into the frozen Mongolian

tundra. I look for somewhere to put my one-engine plane down. There’s a small patch of flat

snow ahead, I’m going to shoot for it. The fire spreads and it’s about to engulf me. I bring the

plane down as it starts to shake violently. Here I go, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, my plane smashes into the

ground, I’m hurled through the cabin, my head violently crashes into the control panel. Finally,

the plane comes to a stop. The left sleeve of my winter coat is on fire. I’m able to push the door

open and dive into the shallow snow. Pushing my burning arm into the freezing ground, I

extinguish the fire before I’m barbecued.

The whole plane burns. Pain shoots down my left arm, the fire-resistant coat failing the

manufacturer’s promise. I get up. My breaths are fast and short. I hurry to the back of the plane,

open the rear hatch and pull out the large, suitcase-sized survival pack. I run like a cheetah,

barely escaping the flames as they finally engulf the whole plane. I work maniacally to pull my 

searing arm out of the jacket, rip open the survival pack, and grab the first-aid kit. I find the burn

gel and slather it over my arm.

I need to find shelter before the sun goes down. If not, I’ll freeze and become a

permanent part of this frozen tundra. I take my binoculars out of the survival pack and scan the

empty wilderness for safety. The landscape is peppered with large grey rocks every few hundred

yards. I see two giant boulders jutting out of the ground, about 150 yards away, touching each

other at the top. Once there, I can use my satellite phone to call for help.

I grab my survival pack and what has become the most important package that I’ll never

deliver, a twenty-pound bag of beef jerky. I throw it over my right shoulder and begin my trek.

The wind is ferocious and burns my cheeks as I slowly make my way to shelter, my arm still in

pain.

I arrive at my temporary home. The two giant boulders touch each other at the top,

creating a perfect cave that will protect me from the brutal wind and nightly subzero

temperatures. It’s six feet from the dirt floor to the apex of the two rocks. It’s about twenty feet

deep with the boulders coming to a closure at the rear, keeping any person or creature from

entering. The mouth of the cave has an opening that is about fifteen feet wide.

I enter my new home and take out my thermal sleeping bag. I take the six bullets out of

my pack and load the six-shooter that postal crews are given for protection against any beasts,

human or furry. I apply more gel to my arm and climb into my bag. As I take out my satellite

phone to call for rescue, a deep feeling of dread overcomes me. The phone has been destroyed in the crash. My hopes for an easy rescue have vanished. I’m stranded, dejected, exhausted; I need

sleep.

Day 1

I’m awake. I turn over and freeze with fear; there is some sort of furry animal about the

size of a large house cat sleeping on the other side of the cave. I might end up as its brunch. My

hand shakes as I slowly reach for the gun. I’ve never killed anything before. I aim the six-shooter

and wait. It’s still sleeping. It’s a Pallas cat. I’ve heard about these small endangered wildcats,

but I have never seen one in the flesh or should I say fur. It has a silvery, grayish coat, like the

rocky landscape into which it blends, with black strips flowing downwards from its eyes. It has a

huge white undercoat protecting his little belly. He has short, little funny-looking legs.

I’m not a cat person, but he does look really cute. I had a lot of buddies back in the

States who adored their cats, but I never understood how a man could love a cat. 

The cat awakens. He turns his fluffy head to me. I see his stunning golden eyes and his

adorable yet grumpy expression, and his small flat ears that rest on his skull. He has a gorgeous, long, plush coat and a long bushy tail with black rings on its end.

With his large, dark, round pupils, he stares right through me. I’m in awe. Suddenly he

starts to chatter his teeth at me while quivering his upper lip, looking like I just ran off with his

daughter. I lay flat, playing dead. My heart races. I’m sweating like crazy, literally scared stiff.

He looks hungry. I slowly grab the big bag of beef jerky from my pack, open it, and

throw a handful to him in the hope that this gesture will make up for squatting in his home, or

litter box. Hopefully he won’t rip out my throat like some landlords back in the States. Or at least

he’ll see it as rent. He looks at the jerky with interest and smells it. The cat looks back at me to

ensure this is not a trick. Satisfied that it is not a ruse, he begins to devour the jerky like a guest

at someone’s Thanksgiving dinner.

I apply more gel to my arm. It still stings but it’s getting better. All of a sudden, the cat

darts out of the cave. I take the mini survival stove out of my pack. I put some snow into the

stove to produce water. It is the essence of life, my most important commodity, without which I

would certainly perish. Luckily, the stove runs on anything that will burn. I put some twigs in the

stove’s heating compartment and ignite it with my lighter. I’ll repeat this every day to make the

delicious, sustaining H2O.

I try to think of a way to be rescued. I go out, grab a large stick, and write S.O.S. in giant

letters in the snow. I go to the plane and do the same, hoping a rescue or another postal plane will see it. Every day, I will check it to make sure the snow hasn’t covered it up. It’s 1:00 now, the most likely time a postal plane will fly over this region. I grab my flare gun and shoot one of the ten flares into the air. I will pick a different direction each day and walk for two hours, using the binoculars to see if I can find any signs of civilization.

Four hours later, I’m back at the cave as the sun goes down. My trip was fruitless.

However, I did find a large tree with most of its branches lying in the snow. I picked up as many

branches as I could, and now I have the ingredients for a fire. I gather some rocks from around

the cave and make a fire pit between the cats resting area and mine. Perhaps this will give me

more protection from him if he decides to evict me. I put the branches in and use my lighter to

start a fire. The heat will keep me warm during the cold Mongolian nights.

I see something slinking toward the cave. Like a ghost the cat suddenly appears at the

cave’s entrance. He growls as he stares frightfully at the fire. I hope he’ll allow me to remain his

tenant. He slowly crawls into the cave, keeping one eye fixed upon me and the other on the

menacing fire. He has a cute little snow beard and mustache, making him appear as the

grandfather of the cat who left this morning. Once he reaches his spot, he lays down. Maybe I

should pay him more rent. I throw him more beef jerky and grab a handful for myself. He digs

into it right away. After dinner the cat stares at the fire, enjoying its warmth. Amazingly, he

begins to crawl slowly towards the fire while keeping both eyes fixed on me. He stops, stretches

his body out, and basks in the warm glow. Well, now I’ve paid him rent and utilities.

Day 4

I’ve repeated my routine every day, and still no hope of rescue. The cat seems to be

tolerating me, and I’ve decided to name my roommate Pal. I can only imagine what name he’s 

given me. Yesterday I fed him less jerky, as I realized I’ll need the food to keep from starving to

death. If I am absolutely desperate for food, there’s always my inn keeper at his bed and

breakfast. The thought horrifies me.

I hear a strange noise and I jump out of the cave. It’s Pal, barking as he runs. I see a large

object flying towards me. Please God, let it be a plane! I realize it’s just a very large bird with

wings spanning at least five feet. It’s sweeping down towards me. Then I realize what it’s really

after – Pal. The bird is a raptor and sees Pal as its dinner. Pal is racing, running for his life,

toward me. He’s trying to get to the cave as fast as he can. The eagle is about to grab Pal with its ugly, long, stretched-out claws. I grab my gun, aim and fire hitting the bird in the chest, it falls

motionless to the ground. Five bullets left.

After a short while, Pal starts to leave the cave, crawling toward the carcass of the dead

bird. I don’t understand what he is doing. He smells the eagle. Then I get it. It could be breakfast

lunch and dinner for the next few days. He bites into the bloody flesh, unmercifully tearing out

the feathers and skin. I see him thrust his mouth into the meat and begin chewing. One he’s

finished with his meal, he starts back toward the cave. As he approaches I see his bloody face

and he appears to be carrying something in his mouth. It’s a piece of meat – leftovers he

undoubtedly wants to save for later.

Pal approaches the cave and then slowly crawls towards me. He’s about three feet away

and we’re both staring intensely at one another. We have never been this close before. He drops

the piece of meat in front of me and then backs away to his spot. I’m absolutely amazed. He’s

feeding me. My Pal is my pal. I can’t believe it! This wild cat has actually developed feelings 

towards me; or, maybe he is just trying to pay me back for the jerky I gave him because he just

didn’t like being in debt. He’s staring at me as if I’m insulting him by not eating his gift. When

in Rome…or in this case, Mongolia. I pick up the bloody, squishy, grey matter and take a tiny

bite. It’s more disgusting than I could have ever imagined. I pack the rest in snow at the back of

the cave. I’ll cook it on a fire and see if it tastes any less repulsive.

Day 8

I wake up hungry and bite into the tasteless jerky that I hate, but has kept me alive.

There’s only one day’s supply left, and I’m petrified of the hunger that awaits me. On the other

hand, the jerky has frozen my bowels and I haven’t taken a shit in six days. Any more jerky, and

my backed-up colon might explode; a sad way to die.

Day 18

No food for eight days, and I’m almost out of wood to cook food and melt snow. The

hunger is so great I can’t stand it anymore. I reach for the gun. I have to kill him, I must eat. I

look at him. Pal is staring me in the eyes. Those wondrous yellow marbles looking into my soul.

I can’t shoot. He’s my friend who saved my life. I drop the gun and begin to cry.

I can barely sit up. The pain in my belly cries out for food. I’m so tired. Then in the

corner of my eye I see a table. It’s Thanksgiving: I see turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and

biscuits. The food is there for me to take. I reach for it, and everything goes black.

I awaken. There is a disgusting, furry, red slime on my face. It’s an animal –

motionless, delicious. I grab it and thrust it into my mouth. I use all my strength to bite into the 

half-eaten, life-saving rodent. I see a shape standing above me. It’s Pal, blood dripping from his

face. He’s brought me back from the dead. I sit up and gobble down more food. I turn to Pal.

“Thank you for saving me,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome,” someone says. I hurriedly look around the cave to see who has

entered. There’s no one there except me and Pal. Am I hallucinating? I still feel woozy and I’m

not thinking straight.

“Hello!” I yell.

“Yeah,” someone or something yells back.

“Where are you?”

“Right here in front of you,” the voice says. I gaze around the cave, and the sound seems

to be coming from Pal.

“Pal, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me. We’re roomies,” he says. I can’t believe it. Is my mind playing tricks

on me, or is Pal talking? I stare at the cat’s mouth.

“How are you able to talk?”

“I don’t know. How are you able to talk?” he replies. I’m looking right at his mouth while

I hear the words. His mouth doesn’t move.

“But…you’re a Pallas cat, you can’t talk,” I insist.

“Well, I am talking,” says Pal. Here I sit, having a conversation with a wild cat. Most

people would say I’ve gone crazy, and they may be right, but at least I’m not alone. I have Pal.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I ask him.

“You never talked to me before,” Pal replies.

“But we could have been talking all this time. Why didn’t you tell me you could speak?”

“Not naturally blabby, I guess,” he says with a smirk on his face, which, when I think

about it, is always there.

Many who have been stranded have experienced mental breakdowns and hallucinations

due to isolation. God, I’m glad that isn’t happening to me, because now I have my feline

roommate to talk to. I fall asleep.

I get up from my slumber, and I hear a voice.

“Hello, sleepy head!” It’s the cat.

“You can talk! I thought that was a dream,” I say.

“At least it’s not a nightmare,” says Pal.

“I don’t know about that,” I reply.

Day 20

Still puzzled yet thrilled Pal can talk, I set out to check on my message scrawled in the

snow. I’m looking at my snow-written cry for help. The S.O.S. has been covered up. I rewrite the

message with my boots. Next, I will rewrite my message at the crash site. When I arrive the

plane stands burnt, like my outlook. I climb up into the plane and scan for anything remaining

that could help me. The cockpit is completely scorched. I check the back of the plane and gaze

upon the two prettiest, giant bags of mail I’ve ever seen. Now I have fuel to burn. While this is

against my oath as a postal pilot, I need the mail more than its intended recipients. I hoist each

bag over a shoulder and begin home with my newly found treasure. Upon returning home I start

a postal fire and heat up some life-saving water on the mini stove. Pal and I gather around its

warmth like two best friends on a camping trip. We eat in silence for a long time.

“Are you okay?” the cat asks.

“How do you think I am? I have no food, and I’m terrified I’m going to starve to death

with my rotting corpse decaying in this cave.”

“Don’t think like that. It’s not going to happen, “ he says.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because I’m taking care of you,” Pal says. “I just fed you a couple of days ago,” he

reminds me.

“Ha! You’re taking care of me? I’ve been protecting and feeding you,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I don’t know if that jerky qualifies as food,” muses the cat.

“You didn’t seem to mind it – you ate enough of it!” I say. I can’t believe it. I’m stranded

in the middle of Mongolia, barely surviving, as I argue with a cat.

“I’m going to bed now,” Pal says. “You should too.” He’s right.

I awaken from a deep sleep to a loud chattering sound. I look up. It’s Pal. He’s sounding

the alarm as three wolves approach the cave. They’re about fifteen yards away, and I can hear

their growling through the wind. I look out of the cave and see their huge jaws dripping with

drool. I’m terrified. I grab the gun. They’re probably looking for food. Pal is holding his own,

but the wolves are slowly inching toward us. I aim at the closest wolf and shoot twice. The

wolves yowl and jump into the snow-blown wilderness. I leave the cave and search the landscape

with binoculars, looking for the three vicious creatures. There is no sign of them. I must have

missed. Two bullets left and one for the unthinkable. I start a new fire and the two of us huddle

around and bask in its warmth. Thank God for Pal. If it wasn’t for his warning me, our next

home would have been inside their stomachs.

Day 21

It is morning and I awaken visibly distressed.

“You’re going to be okay,” Pal says.

“I’m not! I may never be rescued. I won’t ever meet a woman, have children, accomplish

my goals!” My muscles clench as my anxiety heightens.

“You’re much too negative,” Pal explains. “You need to change your way of looking at

life.”

“Easy for you to say. You live here. For me, this is a major problem!”

“There are no problems, just situations,” Pal says calmly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s okay to be afraid. But you have to see your fear and control it. Don’t let it control

you. Then you can work to change your situation,” he says.

“Um, okay, whatever you say,” I tell him, not totally understanding what the cat is trying

to convey. The cat. I’m taking advice from a cat!

“Wake up,” says Pal.

“I am awake,” I tell him.

Day 23

My buddy leaves off to hunt. I cook more of the meat he gave me.

Pal returns without any quarry to find me in a state of despair.

“You all right?” asks the cat. “Don’t worry you’re my sidekick. I have to look after you,”

he says.

“I don’t think so! You’re just a cat. If anything, you’re my sidekick,” I say.

“Yeah, well this just a cat just saved your ass again,” Pal says. “How old are you,

anyway?” Pal asks me.

“I’m twenty-eight,” I say. “How old are you?”

“I’m an old soul of six years,” Pal tells me.

“That’s not old,” I say to him.

“Yeah, well, because of all the animals that hunt us in this GREAT environment that we

live in and lack of food, we only live on average, eight years,” Pal says. “Seventy percent of our

kittens die before the age of one. I guess I was lucky,” he says mournfully.

“That’s really sad. I’m sorry,” I say. My heart sinks as I contemplate my friend’s short

and brutal life. We both stare sadly and silently into the fire for what seems like eternity. Neither

of us knows what to say.

“It’s brutal out there,” I say, finally. “The wind was so strong, it burned.”

“How do you think I feel? I have to live here,” says the cat.

“Yeah, but you have that plush, long, winter coat. Right now, I would love to grab and

cuddle you.”

“Yeah, try it, and you’ll lose an eyeball – or two,” says Pal. We both go to sleep.

Day 25

“We’re almost out of food,” I say to the cat. There is only a little of Pal’s last kill

left.

“I know,” he says. “I’ll go out today and see if I can find dinner for us.”

“Good! I don’t want to starve. I don’t want to lose my mind again.”

“Who said you ever found it?” Pal asks.

“Ha, ha.”

“Wake up,” Pal says. As he leaves for the hunt.

Pal is definitely different from most cats. He is pudgy with short legs. It’s amazing he

catches anything. It’s been two hours, and I’ve been looking out for Pal. I see something – it’s

hard to make out – it’s Pal, and he’s running at full speed with something in his mouth. He looks

terrified. He is being chased by what looks like a red fox. I get up, grab the gun and I run out into

the snow as fast as I can toward them. I’m closing in. Soon, I’ll be in firing range. Pal’s carrying

our dinner, but the fox wants Pal for his. The fox lunges at Pal, grabbing his back. I hear him

screaming as he tries to claw the fox in self-defense. I’m close enough, but what if I hit Pal by

mistake? The fox is ripping into Pal’s beautiful coat. I have no choice and I fire twice, hitting the

fox in the side. He falls dead as Pal quickly gets out from underneath him. We head back to the

cave. One bullet left for the unthinkable.

“Pal, are you okay?”

“Of course I’m not okay!” says Pal. “I was almost eaten by a fox while hunting for your

dinner!”

“Our dinner, and I just saved your life,” I say. “A thank you would be nice.”

“Okay, you did have my back,” he concedes. “Thank you. But what took you so long?”

“Hey, I went as fast as I could and I hit the fox, when I might have easily shot you,” I say

to him.

“Are you sure you hit the right target?” asks Pal.

“Very funny.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time your species has killed mine,” he says.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Here in Mongolia, this country that you admire so much, it’s legal to kill me and my

kind,” says Pal.

“That’s outrageous! You’re an endangered species. Why would anyone want to kill

Pallas cats?”

“Your people hunt us for our body parts, which you use for your magical medicine,

which magically never works, and for food, and for our beautiful coats,” he says.

“They’re not my people,” I tell him.

“They’re humans, just the same as you,” says Pal.

“You have to admit, your long, furry, warm coat is very tempting.”

“I guess so, but hey, it’s still no reason to kill me,” says Pal.

“I don’t know. If it were between freezing to death or making a winter coat out of you, I

might choose to drape myself in your magnificent, lush fur,” I say.

“Try it, and you might find yourself my after-dinner snack,” he replies.

“Come on, let’s go home and have some of that totally repulsive dinner you caught,” I

say to Pal.

We head back to the cave with the two dead voles Pal still has in his mouth. We take the

fox home. It will be leftovers for some time. I bet it tastes like chicken. I wonder, if everything

tastes like chicken, what does chicken really taste like?

When we return home, I bury the fox in the back of the cave under a pile of snow, safely

out of reach from any hungry scavengers. I lay in my sleeping bag. Hopefully, the horrors will

not invade my sleep.

“Wake up,” Pal says again, bewilderingly.

Day 27

A winter storm has arrived. Pal and I bundle up in the cave. He has his long, soft, bushy

tail wrapped around his face for warmth. I wish I had a tail.

“Why haven’t I ever heard of a Pallas cat before?” I ask him.

“Because everybody knows about our big cousins: tigers, lions, and leopards. They get all

the attention, protection, and selection. No one pays attention to the thirty-some species of us

small wildcats. People don’t respect or protect us. They just reject us,” says the Cat in the Hat.

“Well, when I get out of here, I’m going to let people know about you and how hard you

have it.”

“Just don’t have them bring us any more of that beef jerky of yours. I think my brothers

and sisters would rather starve instead,” he says.

“We need to find more food,” I say to Pal.

“You mean I need to find more food for us,” Pal replies.

“What’s the difference? If we don’t eat, we’ll both starve,” I say.

Pal decides to venture out into the cold to find us dinner. I venture out to write S.O.S.

again. He comes back with a two voles, one for each of us. I’m excited to dig into the rodents,

which, after I think about It is pretty sad.

We return to the cave together. I look at Pal and begin laughing. He looks like Santa

Claus with snow and ice covering his whole face. My, he has a pudgy body! If only I had a

camera.

“What are you laughing at?” asks Saint Nick. I can hardly speak through my cackling.

“You should see yourself! Your beard is covered in snow. You look like a snowman – or

I mean, snowcat.”

“Very funny, Robinson Crusoe,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You need a mirror. Your face is covered in snowy hair.! I might have mistaken you for a

Yeti,” Pal says. I feel my face, shocked to realize that the snotty cat is right.

“We both look ridiculous. But at least we can feast,” I say.

“Damn straight,” says Pal.

Day 30

I’ve been here a month now. All my attempts to be rescued have been fruitless. I ran out

of flares weeks ago. I dutifully draw my SOS in the snow every day, but I’ve stopped my treks to

look for civilization. There’s no one out there. I’m afraid I’ll die out here in the frozen

wilderness. But at least I won’t die alone. I won’t freeze to death or starve. I’ll die on my own

terms. The unthinkable is starting to become thinkable. I’m going to sleep. Maybe I’ll find refuge

in my dreams.

I wake screaming, covered in sweat, hyperventilating.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Pal asks. I’m barely able to speak.

“I had a nightmare,” I explain. “Rescuers showed up at the cave and found my frozen

body. I could see myself like a horrific ice sculpture. They pulled my body out and I could hear

the ice crack as I became unglued from the cave floor. Then I was back in the States and saw my

own funeral, my mom and dad crying uncontrollably. My mind is racing. I can’t stop feeling the

horror of my death, how everything is about to end, how I will become nothing, lose everything I

was and everything I’ll ever be.”

“You’ve got to survive the fight in your head,” says Pal, “or you’ll never survive being

stranded. Wake up!” he tells me. “You have to get out of your head. You know the future doesn’t

exist. There is only the present. You have to be here now, or you’ll drive yourself insane. It’s

time to wake up,” he says.

I take a breath, calming myself down. Taking Pal’s words to heart, I realize the cat is

right. To survive, I must live in the now, not in the future. I begin to breathe deeply, relaxing my

muscles. I’m calming down. I’m still afraid, but not terrified. I see my friend. I feel the cold

snow on my hands. I smell the tundra as the wind blows it into my nose. I hear the silence of the

cave. And I am here now. I am awake.

“Pal, I feel better – normal, calm. It’s like I’ve come out of a fog,” I say. “Pal, are you all

right?”

Pal looks at me but is mute.

“Pal, say something!” The cat stares and growls at me.

He does not speak to me again.

I hear what sounds like a helicopter its one I’ve flown before. I leave the cave, waving

frantically. The pilot sees me. He is going to put down right near the cave. I look and see the

Mongolian pilot get out of the plane with a big, greeting smile on his face. He sees Pal and takes

out his rifle. My heart sinks. I know what he is about to do. I pull out my revolver with the one

bullet left. I shoot. Pal runs. The pilot falls dead. Now I understand how a man can love a cat.

Time to fly home.

By Brad Kollus

From: United States