Reinhold Don't Care What You Think (Cont.)

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Reinhold Don't Care What You Think (Cont.)

LOW, GRAY CLOUDS are spitting lightly on the Dolomites, and we're on the side of Monte Rite, a grassy, steeply sloped peak that houses the Messner Mountain Museum. It's evening, and though the man isn't giving interviews tonight, he has allowed a dozen local reporters to follow him around as he plays yak-wrangler, releasing a small herd of gnarly, chocolate-colored Tibetan yaks onto the property. The plan is to unload

"Starting to get old is perfect," says Messner. "I'm feeling the effect...but getting old means getting freer. I don't have to have success. I will again be my own ruler, like when I was a child."

the excitable beasts from a cattle trailer and then lead them down a steep trail to a meadow. There they'll stay and, Messner hopes, reproduce. Their offspring will be served up in Messner's Yak & Yeti Restaurant, located in the town of Sulden, about a three-hour drive from here.

All has been going smoothly until now, when the 300-pound horned beasts stop in their tracks and refuse to budge. They look like they might charge Messner, who is several yards down the trail, wearing a bright-purple windbreaker and carrying a walking stick. Sensing trouble, he turns and stretches his arms, cradling the staff in one hand. He makes loud, guttural grunts, sounding like a silverback gorilla.

"Heah, heah!" he says. "Heah! Heah!"

The noises seem to work: The yaks submit to this fearless cowpoke. The cameramen scramble to snap photos of the scene, and Messner, steely-eyed and determined, leads the animals downward until they stall again. So he repeats the performance.

This scene gives me another important glimpse into the Reinhold M.O.: When creatures don't bend to your will, herd them. I get a direct application of this style one day when Messner offers to take me on a short tour of the house.

"Come," he commands, as we leave an empty room off the castle's kitchen. We go outside, where a stream of tourists—the castle is open to the public for $7 a person when Messner isn't in full-time residence—is still making its way from the entrance through the grounds.

I follow Messner as he threads through a small crowd, becoming smothered in the joyful praise of autograph seekers. Leaving them behind, he leads me into a cold, dark room that is lined with postcards, books, and videotapes, all either about Messner or pasted with his noble, windblown likeness.

"You can buy some things here at the gift shop," he says quickly. "I think you will be liking it. Thank you for coming."

And with that, he's gone—he disappears inside his castle. Of course, I can't resist. I buy several postcards, and then I get ready to go back to my hotel in the valley below. Upon bidding farewell to the castle, this strange fortress, I'm surprised to find that the tour bus that brought me up the mountain earlier has stopped running for the day. So I have no choice but to trudge back to town down a steep, switchbacked road.

I don't mind. It's hot, but the scenery is beautiful, the massive peaks jutting out of the ground like giant molars, the lush green valleys crisscrossed with small farms. I've just rounded the first switchback when a tan Opel, spitting up dust and rocks, appears behind me. I turn around and see that it's the king of the castle, sitting in the passenger seat next to a driver.

I assume they'll stop to pick me up, but alas, the Opel isn't slowing down. In fact, it's speeding up. Then it swerves around me and continues accelerating down the mountain, kicking up a cloud of dust that takes several minutes to clear.

After a few minutes I can't see the car anymore, but I can hear its buzzing motor carrying Reinhold Messner, happy and mad, into the future.

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