ON THE 18TH OF MARCH, 1966, Dad called Mom from Kleine Scheidegg, the cluster of hotels at the base of the Eiger. The team's earlier optimism had been premature. They'd been forced down by bad weather and were now looking to ascend the fixed ropes yet again for a final push, after a month of battling the mountain. He told her how eager he was to finish the climb so that he could get back to us. Mom suggested giving it up, but Dad felt that this climb had taken up too much of his life and that it was time to complete the job. Besides, he was sure things would go smoothly from here.

Events on the face seemed to prove him right. The next day Layton led a delicate three-hour aid traverse across the base of the Central Pillar, and then Chris took over to lead an equally delicate pitch of nearly unprotected thin ice that kept threatening to break out from under his feet. He was 80 feet above a bad piton by the time he reached firm snow, risking a fall of 160 feet, assuming the piton held, and much worse if it didn't. It would be the only pitch on the entire route that Chris led (he was, after all, only supposed to take pictures), but in combination with Layton's traverse, it proved the key to unlocking the upper face. That day the Germans were foiled on their line and asked if they could join forces for the rest of the climb. Layton and one of the Germans climbed together the next day while Dad prepared supplies for the final effort.

On the 21st, Dad and Dougal climbed to Death Bivouac with their loads. The weather report was for three fair days, and things were finally looking good—very, very good. Dad and Dougal were sorting gear for the summit push when the afternoon radio forecast came in: "Regret to state that preliminary weather reports from Zurich and Geneva say that there is a cold front approaching. This should arrive sometime tomorrow night... Does not look good." Dad and Dougal swore violently, but there seemed to be no choice. The summit push was scrapped yet again.

The next morning, after Layton had descended to rest and conserve food and fuel during the expected storm, the midday weather forecast predicted a delay in the strongest cold front. Dad and Dougal decided to blast for the top after all; Layton would follow with the Germans, which he'd already agreed to do if necessary. There was talk of champagne on the summit.

Dougal and Dad exchanged huge grins. They were finally going for it. Dad paused for the final Death Bivouac cleanup while Dougal started up the fixed ropes. These were terrifying trips, spinning in space under overhangs, with a 4,000-foot drop to the foot of the wall, then another 4,000 vertical feet of steep valley to the village of Grindelwald. The ropes they were ascending were a mere seven millimeters thick, but at least those particular ropes had been there only a few days.

Dougal was fighting his way up the rope on the side of the Central Pillar when he saw Dad emerge on the Third Icefield, about to start up the steeper ropes. On the final overhang below the infamous avalanche corridor called the Spider, Dougal noticed the rope "going over a particularly bad spot," as Chris remembers him saying. My mother recalls Dougal telling her that he noticed a fray there, but he thought the rope would hold.

A few minutes later Dad clipped his jumars to the free-hanging rope leading to the Spider and started up. He was poised to be in the first team to complete the greatest route of his generation, the most sought-after climb in the Alps, the route he had been trying to knock off for three years. This rope was taking him to the Spider, and after that a single day of fast climbing would transform his all-consuming dream into the greatest satisfaction he'd ever known. He slid his jumars up the rope—left, right, left, right, gaining about a vertical foot with each step and fighting to keep from spinning. Then, just 50 feet from the top of the rope, the line above went slack. He hurtled downward, the Third Icefield rushing toward him.