On the hunt for Bigfoot

Legend has it the Himalayas is the stomping ground of the yeti, writes Ben Stubbs.

Campfire tales in Nepal don't warn of psychotic lumberjacks or headless horsemen trying to abduct you in the night, they focus on the yeti; that shaggy beast living in a cave that is supposed to resemble Harry from Harry And The Hendersons.

Camping deep in the Himalayas, I'm aware of every oddity swirling in the sleet as I reluctantly head to the toilets in the middle of the night. I feel like a six-year-old, thanks to the warnings thrown around each evening by my Nepali guide Satish. Swaying trees become approaching mountain men, the shuffle of a yak must be a tiptoeing predator and the shadows behind me are terrifying.

Stories have circulated through the valleys of Nepal for hundreds of years about the abominable snowman that lurks in the grottos of the Sagamartha National Park. As we trek along the ridges towards Gokyo Ri and the Tibetan border I learn that even Sir Edmund Hillary had his suspicions, leading expeditions looking for evidence to analyse after finding "yeti hair" on one of his mountain ascents.

Continuing our trek under the inky shadows of Ama Dablam I'm told that this is no imaginary indulgence either. Many Nepalis speak of the young herder and his animals that were killed in the fields of Macherma by a shaggy beast in the 1800s. Next to our yak-dung fire that evening we also talk to a Nepali mountain climber who says his sister was attacked by the yeti one night 30 years ago and she still gets spooked when it is mentioned. Unsure if they are secretly having a laugh at me or not, Satish assures me that tomorrow he'll have proof.

We arrive in Khumjung on a sunny afternoon and decide to pay our respects at the mud-brick monastery on the edge of town.

For a "donation" the resident monk is willing to unlock the secret of this frosty mountain town. I hand over a sweaty wad of rupees and he opens a lime-green cabinet. Inside is a yeti scalp, given to them by a neighbouring monastery as a gift.

The limp-looking toupee looks closer to something from Bert Newton's closet rather than confirmation of a marauding mountain beast, but the plaque warns visitors of the mountain yeti's temper and gives information on the three species that they have identified: the Drema; the Chuti, which preys on goats; and the 2.4-metre Mitre, which has a taste for trekkers.

Satish smiles as I read of the "proof", his raised eyebrows echoing the "I told you so" I know he wants to say.

As darkness descends once again behind the folds of crackling ice on the mountains above, I politely refuse a cup of tea with dinner when the kettle is brought around and only take the slightest sip from my water bottle.

The yeti may be no more real than Chewbacca or the famous drop bear, but it still makes me hesitate every time I need to wander off to the loo in the Himalayas.