The perspective Diemberger gives on the 1986 K2 disaster is somewhat limited, since he focuses on a first-person narrative without much context or analysis. But it is a gripping story. While it doesn't quite explain why Diemberger climbs, it certainly shows his obsession.

> The black barrel incubating our beer is a source of great interest to the whole village. Time and again someone will come, talk about the weather, K2 and the route – and then, casting an innocent glance in the direction of the barrel, enquire on the state of the brew. Willi Bauer insists on regular tastings to monitor its progress, so that we assume he must have been a food chemist in some other incarnation. Finally, our beer is ready and turns out to be a foaming, overwhelming success. From as far away as Chogolisa, people arrive to talk about the weather … A good thing Julie brought along a second beer kit

> With [the porter] Musheraf it was rather more difficult: he had an incredible talent for invention when it came to explanations of what had become of our ski-sticks: they fell into crevasses, into mountain streams, they rolled down the steep slopes – but he was such a fantastic man, so full of energy for our climbs, and again and again would generously bring us fresh apples from his village which was three days’ walk away. He obviously had a good number of friends with fruit trees – all of whom had an insatiable need for ski-sticks! In the end we came to a mutual and good-natured understanding, overlooking his little foibles by regarding them rather as a ‘ski-stick tax’. Musheraf turned a little red in the face when I told him that I should hang on to one stick at least for the journey back.

> Bloody hell! I think. That’s all we need! Night! At 8,400 metres! We’ve had a fall, we’re sitting on the highest balcony of the world, we’re longing for any kind of shelter, and now … this. Julie has put the battery in again, closes the case and switches on. Nothing. A wave of utter frustration overcomes me, robbing me suddenly of good sense. I tear the lamp from Julie’s hands and hurl it into the night. Even as I do so, I am bitterly shaken by my outburst. ‘Hell!’ I mumble into my beard, shocked at the consequences of my sudden temper. This must be the altitude. Julie doesn’t say a word, but it is obvious that we should have kept trying longer. Now, we’re very definitely without any light. ( )