CHAPTER NINETEEN

Coming Home

Vince and I with our celebratory aprons constructed of prayer cards, tinsel, and money. We had been given many flowers, leis, and bouquets. The Pakistanis love fresh flowers and they often give them as gifts to one another. STEVE HOUSE COLLECTION

Rupal Valley, Pakistan: September 10, 2005

AFTER TWO DAYS VINCE AND I – and 30 men carrying our expedition equipment – walk out of base camp. We hike in T-shirts and jeans; neither of us carries a pack. Following a narrow stream, I traverse the meadow, round the rocky terminus of a glacier, and cross a small log bridge. On the far side of the bridge I sit down, exhausted by the 20-minute walk.

Fida, our base camp cook and my companion on three expeditions, comes up and sets down his towering pack. He takes out a box of cookies and breaks the seal with his teeth. I greedily eat a stack of cookies and wash them down with Fida’s water. We start walking again.

We catch Vince on the far side of the next meadow. Halfway up a short hill he sits on a boulder.

“Tired?” I ask as I slowly climb towards him.

“I can’t believe how tired I am.”

“Fida’s got some cookies. I had to stop right back there.” I keep walking as Fida leans his pack against a boulder and hands Vince the remaining cookies. Fida unscrews the cap on his bottle while Vince devours cookies, two at a time.

At the top of the hill I cross the rocky surface of a dying glacier and pause at the top of the descent on the far side.

Fida approaches. “Cookie sir?”

“Yes, please Fida. Very tired.”

“I know sir.” He smiles. “Very tired is good sir.”

I descend into a shallow canyon that leads into a small village. A collection of mortarless stone huts without so much as a chimney, let alone electricity or indoor plumbing.

“Congratulation.” A gray-bearded man appears suddenly in a doorway. I stop and look at him.

“For what?” I ask.

“For cross the Nanga Parbat.” He gives me a look, as if it should be obvious.

“For cross the Nanga Parbat?” I repeat, but do not understand. “Cross the Nanga Parbat? Oh, summit.” But how could he know about our climb? We have been down only two days. Word must spread quickly among these herders. “Thank you. You have a very nice mountain here. A very beautiful valley.” I turn to walk away.

“Allah ak bar. Thank you. We watch you every night.”

I halt, and look at him. “What? No. Watch us?”

Mischievously he looks up at me from underneath bushy eyebrows sprouted with gray. He steps back and disappears into the dark house. Moments later he steps through the threshold with an old pair of binoculars.

“For looking goat,” he says and then points up to the Rupal Face, which is now wrapped thickly in cloud. “Every night. We see light.” He touches his own forehead, then points at mine.

“Ahhh. Okay.” They saw our headlamps each night.

“All valley,” he says spreading his hands to encompass the five villages scattered up the Rupal Valley, “watch you go summit. Then we no see. Long time no see. Very worry. Down coming in nighttime. Very dangerous. I watch, my own eye.” Excitedly he points to the binoculars again and then gestures towards the upper wall. “Then next day. You coming very fast down.” A tone of admiration seeps into his voice. “We make fire so you find valley. We make big fire so you come this village. We kill goat. Much drumming. All boys dancing.” He demonstrates a jig in front of his house.

“Ahh. The drumming! That was you? Thank you. Thank you. Vince… we, we could hear the drumming,” I say, afraid that the next step will be an offer of tea, which it is very rude not to accept.

“Every village drumming,” he says, spreading his arms and looking down the valley to the other villages that we can see by the faint clouds of smoke.

“Every village drumming? Wow. That is wonderful. Thank you. I must go. Jeep come today.” I try to take my leave.

“Today?” He suddenly looks concerned. “Hmm. Yes. You go. Aslam Alekum. Peace be with you.

“Alekum salam,” And peace be with you, I intone the traditional reply.

The afternoon sun burns through the clouds and the heat slows us even further. Fida runs between Vince and me. Again and again he catches me on the brink of exhaustion and fuels me with cookies and water. At the last hill I grind slowly upward, taking small steps and zigzagging back and forth in the trail to find the subtlest angle of ascent. Vince stands with Fida amid a small group of porters at the top of the hill.

I crest the hill, sit and lean against a large boulder. I look down at the village 100 yards below hoping to spy our jeeps. If the jeeps are there, we can make Chilas tonight. Chilas is the first town with a real hotel: hot showers, running water, tables and chairs, and proper beds. Not to mention baked nan bread and fresh fruits and vegetables.

I see a couple hundred people, sitting in a large group just outside the village. But there are no jeeps. The American embassy in Islamabad had warned Americans against traveling in this area. They advised “American citizens to avoid all gatherings,” and had cited “recent Taliban activities in the Rupal Valley.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“For you sir,” answers Fida, looking unconcerned.

“For us?” I look at Vince.

“Mmmhmm,” Fida replies, arms crossed and leaning on a separate boulder across the trail.

My skepticism returns. “Ah, shit.”

“For you to cross the Nanga Parbat,” Fida says. “Not shit.” As I lift my gaze from my friend’s kind eyes and look down at the crowd, it dawns on me that this is a welcoming party. The people are all standing now and look like they’re organizing themselves into two lines along the trail into town. I quickly recount my recent encounter to Vince.

“Really? So you think this is a good thing.” Vince’s arms drop and his hands go to his pockets.

“Yeah. I think it is. But I don’t have much energy for it right now,” I reply.

“Yes sir. For you. You very famous men now,” Fida says, spreading his arms and looking at us. “This, very poor place. They like you make big climb. Good for village. All poor village. Some have no school. No electric. Water very bad.”

“Ahh. Okay. P.R. I get it. Come on, let’s go. The sooner we get through this, the sooner we get to that hotel,” I say as I get up.

We descend the wide trail through thick trees and round a corner by the tall white brick wall of the girls’ school and walk into the open meadow. Thirty or 40 men, dressed in fine, clean clothes flank the trail. One is wearing a tan sports coat, another a nice Norwegian sweater; the others wear traditional vests and flat hats rolled up at the edges. All wear shoes. They hold banners unfurled behind them and strung across our path.

I recognize the man in the sports coat: it’s Aslam, our liaison officer. And the one in the nice sweater is Ghulam, Fida’s assistant. They each hold a kind of ornamental apron that ties behind the neck and waist. They are adorned with bright red cards inscribed with Arabic script – Islamic prayers for prosperity – and printed with red, purple and yellow flowers, all trimmed with gold tinsel and 10 rupee notes.

A young boy runs forward and hands each of us a glass bottle stuffed with beautiful wildflowers. I walk toward the crowd. Vince follows closely behind. Aslam and Ghulam approach and lift the aprons; we pause as they drape them over our heads. I’m laughing now, and raise my camera to snap a picture of Vince grinning and showing off his new garb. The aprons are the ultimate in Islamic formal wear – I’ve seen them worn at large weddings. Vince still wears the gift I gave him at the beginning of the trip: a blue, flat-brimmed baseball cap inscribed with the slogan, Hang Loose. The contrast is striking.

I hesitate for a moment, and then Vince and I walk forward. The crowd begins to applaud as we pass under the first banner, which reads, “Congratulation to Summit Team. Mr. Steve and Vincent.” Several boys in school uniforms approach and hand us bouquets of flowers. One has sewn fresh flowers together in leis and we bow as he places them over our heads.

People are clapping for us as we walk past. Many hold signs. One reads, “We pray for long lives of USA expedition team.” It is signed Al Iqbal, public school of Tarshing. The school is one of five in the valley to which we donated 100 notebooks and 100 pencils on our way in to the climb. Several banners read, “Welcome to Summit Team.” We continue past the men. The only women are the teachers and students of the girls’ school. They hold their scarves tightly to their chins and watch us pass with big brown eyes.

We are led into the town’s central courtyard and the students all file in behind us. Chairs and tables have been set out. The white plastic tables are decorated with flowers stuck into bottles and laden with store-bought cookies and a selection of Western brand sodas. The children fan out and organize themselves around the grassy perimeter, squatting or sitting cross-legged. We are directed to two seats at the center, immediately across from an improvised podium adorned with a colorful tapestry.

Aslam sits next to me as a tall, thin man in a perfectly clean black shalwar qameez with overdone pleats walks to the podium. He starts talking in a loud voice, gesturing towards Vince and me, then at the audience around him that has grown silent.

Aslam leans over. “This is mayor of Tarshing. Now he saying what you do. How you first to climb Rupal Face alpine style.” He pauses, listening, “and how this is great thing for mountaineers, and great historic moment for their mountain.”

I twist my head sideways, and sure enough, Nanga Parbat has cleared, rising as a beautiful backdrop to this village. Puffy clouds building towards the summit in the afternoon heat make the mountain even more dramatic.

“He is telling how, as a boy, he was playing soccer with the team from Herrligkoffer,” continues Aslam. “And Reinhold and Gunther Messner were playing too. How they later went to the summit and after, Gunther died going down Diamir side of the mountain.”

The students initiated the big welcoming ceremony given to us in the village of Tarshing by lining the approach to the village with signs, banners, and loud applause. STEVE HOUSE

From behind me a boy taps on my shoulder and holds out two perspiring bottles of 7-Up. I take them, nod gratefully, and hand one to Vince. We suck them down quickly. The mayor continues talking, but Aslam seems to have tired of translating. Someone passes us two more bottles of soda and a plate of cookies.

Chamonix, France: September 16, 2005

A week later, I haul my three overstuffed duffel bags onto the platform of the train station in Chamonix, France.

“Steve!” I hear a familiar cry.

“Mom.” My mother comes up, her legs pumping fast, and gives me a big hug. “We’re so glad to have you back.”

My father saunters up, slipping his pipe into his pocket. “Congratulations,” he says, putting his arms around me.

“Thanks. That one meant a lot,” I say as I hug him back.

“I’m sure it did. We want to hear all about it.”

“You must be so tired!” Mom exclaims.

“Yeah. I’m pretty tired. Are you guys having fun?” I hoist a duffel onto my shoulders as Dad starts to lift another.

“Jeeesh. This is heavy!” he says.

“Seventy pounds. Let me take one handle and you take the other. Mom, can you get the pack. I’ll come back for the third bag. How’s your trip going?”

“Great. We went to Interlaken and Grindelwald, and absolutely loved Lauterbrunnen. But we can’t wait to go to Slovenia with you. That will be a real treat,” replies Mom.

“I’m looking forward to it, too. Marko called me while I was on the train. He’s very excited for us to come. And they’re planning some kind of party in Maribor, with my old alpine club. Ljubo and Dušan are both coming. I want you to meet them.”

Maribor, Slovenia: September 25, 2005

Ten days later I pilot the rental car up a familiar cobblestone country road that I last traveled on a bicycle 16 years ago. It winds past three ponds, over a short but steep little pass and down into a hidden valley. The light of the rising moon silhouettes the surrounding forest. I continue to the end of the road and pull into a cobble-paved parking area half filled with shiny Volkswagens, Citroens, Mercedes, a BMW and a red 1970’s era Alfa Romeo sport coupe.

“Wow. Things sure have changed in Slovenia since 1988,” I say looking over the cars and then taking in the surrounding buildings. “There used to be nothing here. Just a barn and some hayfields.”

An expansive red brick porch is lit with numerous large candles stuck on poles, in planters and on the tops of the tables. A tan stone building rises three stories; an orange glow shines out of the peaked windows, which hold pots of tired red geraniums waiting for the first frost. We step out of the car and walk towards the double wooden doors.

The doors swing into a large bar room. A middle-aged man with the first signs of gray in his beard looks up. “Štef!” Dušan cries, and rushes over.

“Dušan! Kak si?”

He shakes my hand, laughing, and pulls me into a hug. “Dobro. Dobro. And this is your mother and father. No?”

I step aside for my mother. “Hello Dušan. I’m Marti. So nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Don.” My dad briskly shakes Dušan’s hand.

“This is really wonderful! We are so happy you make visit to Slovenia. Come on, come on, have a drink. We are taking a very good Slovenian wine now.” He looks down the tile bar for the barkeeper. “Čuj! Ti! Daj tri kozarci za vino!”

The room slowly fills. Many of the faces are familiar, though much older now. I am older too, I think to myself, shaking the hand of another climber I knew many years ago. Dušan chats with my mother in the English he’s learned in his new job networking computers. Haltingly, but efficiently, he asks her all about her trip around Slovenia.

After dinner the president of the Planinsko Drustvo Kozjak, the Mountaineering Club Kozjak, a part of the Slovenian Alpine Association, takes the floor.

“Štef. Priti sem.” He calls me forward. “Many of you knew Štef as a young boy. Not quite a man yet, he came to this club in 1988, when Ljubo was president.”

“Oh. That was really a long time ago, before the mountains were so big!” someone quips from the back.

The president presses his hands down in the air in front of him to control the laughter. “In the time he was with us he made some good ascents and earned his alpinist diploma. He then enlisted on the expedition to Nanga Parbat led by Tone Golnar. As all of you know, Štef, and his partner Vince, made very great, very historic ascent only one month ago. And it is the great pride of this club that young Štef started here, with us.”

A few start in with applause and the whole room picks it up. A few raise their glasses boisterously to pour more drink down their throats. “Yeah! Štef!” someone hoots.

The president again spreads his hands to quiet the crowd and reaches into his back pocket, removing a small case. “And so it is a great honor for me tonight, to give Štef this pin.”

Our reception in Tarshing was entirely unexpected by us. We had no idea that our climb would be so celebrated by the local population. STEVE HOUSE

He opens the box and holds it up for all to see. A few start to applaud, this time he overrides them with a booming voice. “This gold pin is the symbol of the lifetime member of Planinsko Drustvo Kozjak, and Štef,” he turns towards me, “In honor of all your achievements, it is my great pleasure to make you the seventh lifetime member of our club.”

The crowd stands and applauds. Behind the bar someone bangs on a pot. I blush and stand still as the club president fastens the pin securely to my breast.

Ouray Ice Festival, Colorado: February 4, 2006

The last image, showing the very tip of Nanga Parbat’s summit emerging from the clouds, flashes on the screen. The standing room only crowd at the Ouray Ice Festival is silent.

“That’s our story,” I say into the microphone, glancing at Vince who doesn’t indicate that he has anything to add. “Thanks for allowing us to share it with you.” The crowd breaks into applause and I drop the microphone with relief.

It has been a hard few months since I came home from Slovenia. I lost 20 pounds on Nanga Parbat and starting to rock climb again has been painful in my weakened state. My girlfriend Jeanne and I had been soaring on the euphoria of our new romance prior to the expedition. Since coming back my constant irritability has led to frequent bickering.

Editors hounded me for an article and photos. With great effort I’d scratched out 4,000 mediocre words and reluctantly sent them to Alpinist magazine. I wrote a second, very factual, account for the European climbing magazines. I now found out just how many climbing magazines exist in Europe. It seemed every country had two and all of them wanted exclusive rights to the article and images. But none wanted to pay. Most offered less than $200 for both the writing and photography. Too tired to negotiate, I sent them what they wanted. The one bit of routine I had enjoyed was traveling to California to work with the product developers at Patagonia, where I’m always treated like family.

The audience in Ouray runs down the usual questions.

“How cold was it?” asks a man in a bright red down jacket.

“Well I don’t know, we didn’t have a thermometer, but I guess it was probably around zero on the summit.”

“What did you wear?” A woman holding a full pint of beer asks from the back.

“Long underwear, insulated soft shell pants, and insulated overpants. Same on the top, except add one layer.”

“How much did it cost?” asks a young kid wearing a Red Sox cap.

“$10,400 divided by four of us. There were two other friends of ours sharing our permit and base camp. They were attempting to climb the Schell route in alpine style. Oh, but that doesn’t include airfares.”

“What’s next?” asks a man whose long legs stretch into the aisle.

“Another beer for me. This glass had a hole in it.”

Among the 20 or 30 raised hands, I see a small woman in the back lift her hand tentatively. I try to pick the women. They often ask thoughtful questions; the men seem to focus on the somewhat banal technical details.

“Yes?” I say, looking at her. The woman looks surprised, pointing at herself. “Yes, you in the back.”

“How does it feel to have done this amazing climb?” she asks.

Now someone has my attention. “Good question.” I look at Vince in case he wants to take it. He gives me a “good luck buddy” glance, and I turn back to the audience. I know the answer to this one. “Honestly, it feels empty. I’ve been having a really hard time since we’ve been back. I think that this was such a huge goal for me, and such a long journey to get to the point where I could even consider climbing the Rupal Face, that instead of feeling relieved, or…” I pause, searching for the right word, “happy, I feel kind of, well, I feel lost.”

My mind skims back to the low point of the last few months, waking up in a Portland hotel room, face down on the bed with my clothes on, a pool of drying vomit on the bedcover. The girl I’d met at the 7-11 store was gone. An empty bottle of whisky lay on its side; the floor was littered with empty beer cans. My wallet had been flung into their midst. I rolled onto the floor and picked it up. All my cash, the remainder of the five hundred dollars I had made for that night’s slideshow, was gone.

“Steve,” comes a voice from the back row. Jeff Lowe, one of the most active and forward looking American alpinists to ever live, and the founder of this festival, stands up with difficulty. He leans on a cane, necessitated by his battle with multiple sclerosis. The room becomes quiet. “You shouldn’t feel bad. I know that climbing Nanga Parbat was guiding your compass. I’ve been there. I understand what you’re going through, or at least close to it. But you’ve done a great thing. And you’ve brought it back to share with all of us. And that’s wonderful.” The crowd applauds enthusiastically.

“Thank you Jeff. Thanks for your words.” But at heart, I feel no better.

Vince kicks in. “Yeah, thanks Jeff. That means a lot coming from you.”

In December we had received word of our nomination for the Piolet d’Or award. “When they gave the Piolet to the Russians last year, I was so disgusted,” I said to Vince on the phone. “I don’t want anything to do with that thing.”

“Well, they didn’t nominate any big siege-style expeditions this year,” he replied.

“That’s because none of them were successful.”

“Still. If we don’t go, we don’t have a voice.”

“Not going is telling them something, don’t you think,” I replied bitterly. In the end we decide to go and are leaving for France the next morning.

Grenoble, France: February 10, 2006

Vince and I stand together on the stage with a dozen other alpinists. I hold another block of crystal in my hands: this year’s People’s Choice award. Among the sprawling audience are both of my parents, my girlfriend Jeanne, Vince’s pregnant wife, his mother and her boyfriend.

“This is not an Olympic sport,” Stephen Venables, this year’s award chairman and British climbing legend concludes. “There is no scientific way of measuring the value of different ascents. And that is why alpinism is so much greater and more interesting than any Olympic event. All our nominees are winners.” He pauses as the audience of 1,500 applauds lightly.

“But in the end we were looking for an ascent that seemed to point to the future…a small team, working in harmony, using the absolute minimum to climb a beautiful, elegant line. The decision was nearly unanimous.” I exhale, waiting to see if we will be the first North Americans to win the Piolet d’Or.

“Steve House and Vince Anderson for the Central Pillar of the Rupal Face!” The crowd launches into loud applause and a hundred flashes explode to catch our expressions. Someone hands the prize to me, a replica of a 100-year-old wooden ice axe with a shiny plated-gold head. Emblazoned on the wooden shaft is “XV Piolet d’Or 2006.” I pass it to Vince and he takes one side and we each grip the polished wood of the shaft and hold it at waist level.