IN THE AFTERNOON, after the boy's body had been taken away, we went to one of the Stolbist's older cabins. These buildings were built into the Stolbys themselves, wooden structures wrapping around rock walls, quartz syenite protruding into the rooms. Some of them, perched on the apex of a rock prow, you had to climb to; this one was on a steep hillside, nestled deeply into a cluster of car-sized blocks.

We sat around a long, rectangular table, drinking steaming bowls of onion soup and sipping vodka. Was that it? Was the trip over? I wondered whether my eyes looked as empty and worn-out as Burcham and Brittany's.

Around us, the Stolbists were talking in Russian, their voices almost toneless. I guessed their conversation was about the boy's death. A light rain began to fall as the day neared an end. The smell of wood burning in the stove filled the small cabin. The vodka and soup slowly warmed our chilled spirits. A Stolbist raised his glass and said in a flat voice, "Stolby."
"Stolby," everyone in the room responded. There was no cheering sound to the toast, just a slow, deep-set affirmation.
Within the hour Valeri and Oleg were making our plans for the next day's climbing.

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