“So, John Harlin, have you come to climb the Eiger?” The question rang out over the din of a German beer garden packed full of climbers taking shelter from the drizzle outside. I was climbing with Reinhard Karl in the Pfaltz, a collection of sandstone towers near the French border, and my name had apparently drifted from table to table until someone finally stood up to shout the question from the other side of the room. It felt like a blow to my gut. Climbing the Eiger was exactly what I had planned to do. My ego desperately wanted to call back, “Damn right I’m here to climb the Eiger.” It was clear that this person—and in my mind, all these people—were wondering, “Is he man enough to fill his father’s shoes, or is he not?” But all I could do was feel my face flush, look down into my beer, and mumble, “No.” (First paragraph of Chapter 15, The Eiger Obsession.)