A Note from the Author

On March 24, 2010, Bruce Miller and I began to climb the north face of Mount Temple, a 6,000-foot-high Canadian limestone wall often likened to the Eiger north wall. It was our first time climbing together since our attempt on the Rupal Face in 2004. Bivouacked for the first night on a comfortable ledge, I listened attentively to Bruce’s stories of his baby daughter’s growth and his stepson’s active life. I felt the bite of jealousy, which faded as I told him of my preparations for K2, the building weeks of climbing, lifting weights, running uphill. He admitted feeling a bit envious of my freedom to fully commit to climbing.

At that time I was the strongest and the best climber that I had ever been. I felt the weight of potential in every workout, every partnership, every climb. I was on the verge of a great realization – a realization that came suddenly, painfully, and quite unexpectedly.

I took the lead midmorning, impatient to climb the remaining pitches, to finish the route. I rushed up 100 easy feet of climbing, and then stood below thirty feet of steep rotten rock dissected by a thin crack: typical Canadian Rockies choss. Before starting I stamped a groove into a snow mushroom on the ridge, I guided the rope through it as I worked my way up. I dug some dirt from the crack and lodged a solid nut. As I climbed this crack choked with loose rocks, I continued to add small cams for protection.

With my feet planted on the vertical wall, I began clearing the snow off of a 45-degree slab of disintegrating rock above me. I tried to dig into the loose slope with my ice tool. Then I was off. Airborne. Flying backwards through space.

At first the sensation felt familiar, comfortable; like so many hundreds of falls I’d safely taken sport climbing. As I fell, I relaxed; a foothold had broken, not all that unexpected considering the bad rock quality. When my belay came tight to the gear, it started pinging out of the partially decomposed limestone.

One . . . two . . . the third cam almost held me, but as I started to slow, it too exploded out of the rock. The suddenly renewed free fall flipped me upside down and my right side crashed into something hard, something painful, and I bobbed at the end of the rope eighty feet lower than where I’d started. I was close to the sloping snow ledge where Bruce stood, a mere thirty feet away. The aluminum nut I’d jammed into the dirty crack had stopped me.

I hurt like I have never hurt before. I remember telling Bruce to get out the cell phone to call for help. He did not yet know how bad it was. I knew.

Over the next half hour I traversed that thirty feet while Bruce pulled me towards him. At the belay stance I lay face down in the snow and my right lung collapsed. I knew I had a flail chest. Later I would learn I had broken six ribs multiple times; two splintered into many pieces. I didn’t feel the two bleeding fractures in my pelvis or the seven smaller fractures in my spine. They didn’t matter because I could barely breathe. I inhaled in tiny, shallow, baby breaths.

Thoughts swirled through my head during the two-hour wait for the rescue helicopter. Final farewells were spoken, just in case.

I spent eight days in the critical care ward of the sprawling and busy Calgary hospital. A quick but excruciating flight in a medically equipped Learjet, and I upgraded to another, quieter, hospital bed in Bend, Oregon. Eventually, I traded the hospital room for a walker and my own room in the countryside. Cruelly, from my bed, I could see the rocks I once climbed. The pain in my body was strict and unrelenting. I couldn’t imagine climbing again. I put on a cheery face for guests, but when alone, I considered my options: return to school, find a job. . . . I was 39 years old, trained as a mountain guide, and every material thing, every meaningful relationship, was tied to climbing. I owed so much. I resolved to settle that balance when I healed.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pain relented.

As I reflect today, two years after this accident, I find that climbing – and the unrelenting drive to push myself, to feel more, to accomplish more, to try harder – is no longer the sole engine of my life.

Climbing showed me that I have the strength to realize my best in all of life’s challenges; it has made me a better man. Today’s motivation is to live simply, climb well, and continue to learn and grow, but above all I want to contribute positively to my world. I have rekindled an old effort to help students in Pakistan with the Baltistan Education Foundation (http://www.stevehouse.net/Site/Baltistan_Education_Foundation.html). And I’ve begun two new projects. Alpine Mentors was born to help train the next generation of young alpinists. International in scope, 2012 is our first year with four young climbers. You can learn more about this project and read our blog at www.alpinementors.org I am also working on another book. Training for Alpine Climbing will share what I have learned in the process of training for and executing the climbs described here in Beyond the Mountain.

The German-language edition of Beyond the Mountain helped me realize true love. Eva, an Austrian, read my book and wrote to me, asking for advice on training for a climb in Nepal. I replied. Her trip was life changing. Upon returning she wrote again, this time to tell me she had decided to leave her high-pressure job at an international bank and pursue a life more in-line with her personal values. I found that interesting and wrote back, telling her so.

This began a conversation, which led to a long visit, which led to a proposal on the 21,000-foot-high summit of Mera Peak in Nepal. Eva House and I are now married, and make our home in Colorado, though we return frequently to Austria.

Am I any closer to knowing what is beyond the next mountain? Most certainly: beyond it lies the man.

Steve House
Ridgway, Colorado
February 2012