The Eiger Redemption

The afternoon sun brushed the face of the Ogre, but held no warmth for the man clinging there.

Scott Mueller inched his way across the rocky face, a spider hanging by a slender thread on a precipitous wall. The wall in question was the North Face of the Eiger, one of Switzerland's most notorious climbs. This is insane, he thought, not for the first time. Not daring to look down, Scott clipped onto the fixed rope left behind by previous climbers, took a deep breath, and started across the Hinterstoisser Traverse, named for the man who pioneered this section in 1936, making the rest of this route possible, and who subsequently perished, swept from the face by an avalanche in this very spot. It was not just by morbid humor that the Eiger's Nordwand—North Wall—had been nicknamed Mordwand, the Wall of Death.

It was that thought that brought to mind Scott's last attempt to climb this wall, a year ago last week. He had been climbing with his father . . .

* * *

"Dad! Lookout!"

A rockfall scudded past, dislodging a piton. There was a sickening thud of rock on helmet, and Hans Mueller swung out from the face.

Scott took up the slack, summoning everything he had into the effort.

His father crashed against the cliff hard, several feet down, but alive.

"Are you okay?"

A moment's hesitation, a second too long for comfort, then, "I think so."

Once Scott had his father secure, he scanned ahead. Fortunately, they had made it around the bend and the end of the traverse was in sight . . .

* * *

A loud clattering from above brought Scott's attention back to the present. He flattened himself against the wall with a sick feeling of déjà vu. He winced as a stone glanced off the back of his left hand. In a few seconds it was over, and Scott was studying the blood oozing from his hand with a woozy feeling of detachment. After a moment, he looked up and counted his blessings. Nevertheless, he was a man on a mission, and quickly continued on. Reaching the end of the forty-yard traverse, he clambered up to the safety of the ledge known as the Swallow's Nest.

Taking a much-needed break, he bandaged his hand, and remembered . . .

* * *

The approach, up from the railway station and hotel at Kleine Scheidegg, had started as a pleasant stroll through verdant meadows sprinkled with asters and edelweiss. Up the rocky lower slopes, past the First Pillar, the route had been no more than hard hiking, until the first real obstacle, the Difficult Crack. At first living up to its name, the narrow slot eased up near the top of its pitch, with a short series of ledges and snow patches leading to the Hinterstoisser Traverse. Now at the Swallow's Nest, they were still relatively low on the Wall itself.

"How is your leg?" asked Scott, eyeing the nasty gash on his father's calf. "You think you can still climb?"

Hans shook his head. "It is my shoulder I am worried about. I wrenched it hard. If I cannot pull on the ropes, I cannot climb." He cast his gaze upward and sighed. "From here, we can still retreat. But beyond the First Icefield, the Eiger is a one-way mountain. You make it all the way, and come down the West Flank. There are only two other ways off the North Wall. One, if you are very lucky, is a helicopter rescue. The other . . ." He didn't need to say more.

"But what about Mom? We're doing this for her."

"What is more important right now is getting off this mountain in one piece. Enough of this foolishness. It is time to go home."