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jsj42
Feb 9, 2006, 10:30 PM
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Soloing, Falling, and Living to Tell About It:
January 5th, 2006
Since I first started climbing the longest my hands have been away from rock has been two weeks. Now, five years (and over 1000 routes) later, I was climbing as well as I ever had: I was a solid 5.11 leader, I had a dozen 12’s under my belt, and I was tantalizingly close to my first 13. But in some ways I had reached a plateau. I needed to shake things up a little, get some perspective, try something new. Maybe even take a break from climbing for a bit.
Interestingly, I came to that realization while in the middle of a climb – about 35 feet off the deck – and I was so taken by the idea that I decided to lower off immediately. Now some may call it an “oversight” that I was neither tied in nor wearing a harness at the time, but I prefer to think of it as efficiency. I mean what better way to spend some time away from climbing than in a wheelchair – simultaneously honing the arms while allowing those heavy, superfluous leg muscles to waste away? Of course, had I known how terrifying the fall would be (or how painful and costly rehabilitation would be), I probably would have gone with a more traditional training regimen, but hey, hindsight is always 20/20.
Six months ago I wrote a trip report on an ascent of Sykes’ Sickle in Rocky Mountain National Park. In it I mentioned that sometimes, while soloing, I’ve been forced to consider “…the very real possibility (and consequences!) of falling.” On January 5th of this year, that possibility became reality. I suppose that just being able to write about it puts me in the minority, and I cannot speak for those who have died or have suffered far worse injuries, but I would like to share some of my own experiences. And of course, hopefully answer the obvious question: "What is it like to fall?”
It’s scary. Very scary. Scary beyond anything I’ve ever known before and scary beyond anything I’d ever imagined. When it all happened, I didn’t have a lot of time to experience fear, but at various points since that moment my foot popped, even up to the present, I’ve felt that fear.
When it happened, I knew immediately that I was off; there was nothing I could do. I had no sense of time slowing down or that sort of movie magic – it was simply an instant of shock and disbelief followed by a fleeting sense that in a moment my life would be very different – and then I was hurtling towards the ground. I only had time for one thought: “Land on your feet.”
In retrospect, perhaps it was more instinct than thought, but whatever it was I believe it meant the difference between living and dying. I spun outward, back to the rock, and as I fell I could see my surroundings rushing upwards impossibly fast. My eyes came to focus only a split second before I hit: The image of my legs and feet extended downwards and the gray rock below me will be burned into my memory forever.
And the next thing I knew I was lying on my back staring at the white sky, arms and legs sticking straight up in the air like a beetle, screaming.
“No! No! Oh God no!”
There was no pain, but there was blood everywhere. I looked at my legs and desperately insisted that they weren’t my legs, that this wasn’t my body, that this wasn’t really happening. I was completely hysterical – and simultaneously trying to do a self-evaluation of my injuries. The whole thing was horrifically absurd.
Within moments, another climber arrived at my side: “Don’t move; you are going to be OK. My name is Peter, I’m an EMT.” I’ll never forget the sound of authority in his voice; I must have actually believed him because I stopped my screaming, in spite of the fact that I was convinced I’d broken both my legs. Peter told his partner to dial 911 and then turned his attention back to me: He asked me a few evaluative questions and then began to feel my spine and neck for injuries. As he did this I looked more closely at the bloody mess in front of me: I could see a large chunk of exposed bone just below my right knee, but strangely, other than that, my legs looked normal. They moved around, they didn’t really hurt… I could tell that something was wrong with my feet, but my legs seemed OK. Then I caught a glimpse of my left index finger and, forgetting about my legs entirely, I immediately started freaking out again – it was obviously dislocated – bent in a ghastly S-curve. At this point I began shaking uncontrollably. I felt terribly cold – I was slipping into shock.
Time seemed to pass by very quickly, and before I knew it I was hearing seemingly far-off voices discussing my condition. I distinctly remember being very annoyed that they kept referring to me as “the patient” when I was laying right there, perfectly capable of speaking for myself. More and more rescuers arrived on the scene and as I woke from my dream-like state I began to contribute random shock-deluded opinions as to how the rescue should be executed. I became increasingly agitated that no one seemed to take me seriously, especially when I repeatedly demanded (“Fix it! Fix it now!”) that someone relocate my finger.
A new face, silhouetted by the white sky, appeared above me. It was a firefighter from the Cherryvale Fire Department, who, along with the Rocky Mountain Rescue Group, was handling my evacuation. He asked me how I was doing. “Super,” I said, and I managed a completely artificial, teeth-clenched smile. I then tried a different approach: “Would you please relocate my finger? That would make me very happy,” I asked in my nicest voice. He declined and then began to explain how they were planning on getting me down to the road. He told me there was a paramedic waiting there with pain meds, and that if I wanted he could bring them up to me. Incredulously I asked, “Do you really need to ask me that?” As the surges of adrenaline were fading, the pain had begun. But after the firefighter explained that meds could potentially delay the rescue by as much as fifteen minutes, I promptly declined and instructed him to “Get me out of here as fast as possible!”
Over the next hour I was covered in blankets, put in a c-collar, secured in a litter, and carried and lowered several hundred feet down to the road and the waiting ambulance. As we drove off, the paramedic got an IV going and gave me Fentanyl – a morphine derivative – and life started to seem a little better. I remember thinking, “Man, I guess I’m not worthy of the sirens,” but I was too tired to argue. The ambulance drove the speed limit the 9 miles to Boulder Community Hospital.
Several hours later I discovered the good news – that I had no internal injuries or spinal trauma – and the bad news – that I had broken both of my feet. The doctors looked at the MRI's in disbelief that that was all that was wrong. The cuboid in my right foot had a minor, non-displaced fracture, and the navicular in my left foot had been completely destroyed. 15 some-odd pieces. The doctors stitched my knee back together, and they also finally reduced my index finger to its normal position, most of this being done under the pleasant influence of an intravenous Dilaudid drip. Ten hours later my nurse and ER doc reluctantly released me to the care of my girlfriend with a prescription of Percocet and referrals to several orthopedic surgeons.
***
So, what do I think of soloing now?
That’s what most of my friends (climbers and non-climbers alike) seem to want to know. Have my views changed since that journey up Sykes’ Sickle?
I am very lucky to be alive. A few days after I was released from the hospital I caught a ride into Eldo to retrieve some personal effects from my car – which was still sitting in the parking lot. From the passenger seat I was able to see the roof I fell from, and I shook my head in disbelief. I am very lucky to be alive.
So, yes, of course my views on soloing have changed. I’d be a fool if I didn’t look closely at my own climbing and reevaluate what I was doing. Only an hour before the accident, I was halfway up Ruper, a classic six-pitch 5.8 - the first climb I had soloed that day. I had paused on a ledge to catch my breath and take in the view, and I remember thinking of all the things that were important to me: My friends and family. The direction my life was going, the experiences I looked forward to having. Am I a thrill seeker? No. Did I have something to prove? No. I just loved to climb. But will I solo again? No.
I’m not sure that my attitude towards soloing itself has changed; rather, it’s a deeper understanding of what’s important to me. A reorganization of priorities if you will. I enjoyed soloing, and I understand why I did it; it’s just that I can see now that the math didn’t make sense: 99% of the enjoyment I get out of climbing has nothing to do with ropes, and that 1% of enjoyment that I could only derive from soloing is simply not worth the risk. From a climbing perspective alone it was shockingly illogical: There are just too many routes on my tick list (which is a mile long) that, had this accident been any worse, I might never have had the chance to climb.
Climbing is dangerous – and of course, as I mentioned in the Sykes’ Sickle trip report, so is driving a car to the crag for that matter – but there are ways to minimize the risks. For me this is about staying alive to climb again, not about sanitizing or mass marketing the sport. Prior to the accident, I had wanted to repeat Jules Verne, a notoriously run out climb in Eldo that I had previously onsighted. Now I realize that a better place for that climb is in my memory; my ascent was as flawless as I was capable of doing, and that’s enough. What else has changed? My passion for climbing is as strong as ever, and my tick list is still a mile long, but I've tweaked it a bit. Bachar-Yerian (5.11 R/X) is off, but Shipoopi is still there (11+/12-). Sandstone Samurai (5.11 X) is off, but The Original Route (5.12-) is still there, The Serpent (5.11 R/X) is off, but Stoned Oven (5.11) is still there… I’m just thankful I have a second chance to make these sorts of changes.
***
As I write this, I’m counting down the days until the cast comes off my right foot: 12 days left! At that point I’ll be able to begin bearing weight on that leg, after having spent nearly two months in a wheelchair. The first order of business will be a nice, long, hot shower.
I have a lot of pain in my right knee – I’m concerned that its cartilage or meniscus damage – but it’s too early to know the extent of that injury. My finger is grossly swollen, and I’m told that it might remain swollen for as long as a year, but it is expected to eventually return to normal.
The left foot is the real wild card. I had surgery on it a short time after the accident, and now, three weeks, thirteen staples, 5 screws, and a titanium plate later, I'm still in a lot of pain. I can’t walk – or climb – on it until the plate and screws come out in early April - and I won’t really know how successful the operation was until then. But in spite of that, I can honestly say, if I come out of this with even close to the same level of functioning that I had before the accident, that this whole experience will be one of the best of my life. I don’t know if coming so close to death has had a big impact on me or not, but I do know that the trauma of the accident, the pain, the hospital bills, and the loss of independence that comes with this sort of thing have taught me a lot about myself and my world.
I’m anxious about returning to climbing. I miss it terribly, and I’m simultaneously looking forward to it and afraid of what I might not be able to do when I return. There are lots of unknowns at this point. If the worst outcomes are realized, will I be able to compensate for my weaknesses in other ways? Will my dream climbs even be feasible for me?
Personally, I’m putting my money on the best outcome. In a few months’ time I will be climbing harder than I ever have before – after all, my arms are already getting way honed from pushing this wheelchair around, and now that my legs are about ten pounds lighter… When I return I'll be unstoppable! This fall Ruby’s Café is going down – that is, if my swollen index finger still fits in the locks.
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leapinlizard
Feb 9, 2006, 10:53 PM
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Good luck, and stay driven. I have a very good friend that took a 20 footer and just swung into the wall wrong, shattering his tibia and fibia into dust. 5 years later he has climbed at his previous level. The only catch is now he is having trouble just walking. The best advice I can give you is to overcome the need to climb and take things slowly. This way you will have the best of both worlds. Good luck and quick recovery..
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styndall
Feb 9, 2006, 10:55 PM
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Good work staying alive. I've never soloed, personally, but there have been times, usually when I'm futzing around at a belay, when I've done something stupid and only later realized it wasn't my fault that I didn't fall to my death right then.
I'm glad you're getting put back together, and your conclusions seem quite sensible to me.
As to thinking while falling, just recently, I was top-roping in the gym, belayed by some guy I'd just met. I came off the wall, and expected to feel the rope catch straight away, but I just kept going. I had time to think "Damn, I don't have health insurance," and "It sure is stupid to die top-roping indoors" before about fifteen feet of wall had whizzed by and the dude finally caught me, getting jerked into the air in the process. Falling is a funny thing; it lasts way longer than it ought.
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crimpstrength
Feb 9, 2006, 11:23 PM
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powerful
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cal_gundert05
Feb 10, 2006, 12:20 AM
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Wonderful reflection, and damn fine writing. I took a small (maybe 8') fall after dislocating my kneecap bouldering, and your story brings back memories of lying on the ground, not in pain but very antsy from the adrenaline.
Thanks for your account, and best of luck when you continue climbing!
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crotch
Feb 10, 2006, 12:38 AM
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Wow Josh. That's really sobering. Best of luck to you and thanks for writing.
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moose_droppings
Feb 10, 2006, 12:44 AM
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So glad to hear it wasn't worse. Weird how unreal everything seems right afterward, the thinking process, no pain, and then the reality of the situation sinks back in. Stick fast to your road to recovery, seems that your mindset is in the right place. If you get a chance, look up the people that helped you and thank them, this all ways made me feel better, they appreciate it too. Amazing the amount the human body can endure and the mind can compensate for.
Thanks for the report, and good luck.
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healyje
Feb 10, 2006, 12:47 AM
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Stellar TR of both the climb and the trip your body and mind have taken. All the best and a speedy recovery...
P.S. Here's some other thoughts on it all from a recent ST thread...
http://www.supertopo.com/...ic_id=150521&f=0&b=0
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healyje
Feb 10, 2006, 1:08 AM
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P.S. Please feel free to blog your recovery here - it would be of great interest as recovering from a decking fall is the same whether solo or roped.
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justthemaid
Feb 10, 2006, 1:33 AM
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Wow!
That was a good read. Well written, and I have to agree with the Roughster. Anyone who considers soloing should see this.
Good luck with your recovery.
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wings
Feb 10, 2006, 2:23 AM
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Thank you for the post. I think if nothing else people should come away understanding this quote:
In reply to: I’m not sure that my attitude towards soloing itself has changed; rather, it’s a deeper understanding of what’s important to me.
I've always felt that having this knowledge makes life, and the difficult decisions that come with it, much easier.
- Seyil
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mistajman
Feb 10, 2006, 3:12 AM
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Thank you for sharing your story.
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steelhands
Feb 10, 2006, 3:17 AM
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I was impressed when I read your report on Sykes Sickle both from the boldness of the climb and the quality of the writing. I am likewise impressed with this most recent missive.
Sir, you have a fine mind and obviously use it. I have no doubt that you will maximize your recovery and soon be on to new challenges. Do us the favor of sharing them.
Also, I agree with other RC'ers, the words are worthy of publishing. Much less is often found in the mundane pages delivered to my mailbox on a monthly basis.
Heal well and regards to you.
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the_mitt
Feb 10, 2006, 3:20 AM
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(This post was edited by the_mitt on Nov 19, 2006, 6:26 PM)
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treez
Feb 10, 2006, 3:30 AM
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That gives me pause.
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radistrad
Feb 10, 2006, 3:34 AM
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I watched a buddy deck from 25', I could not get the image out of my mind for weeks. He was self belaying on toprope, fell, grabbed the rope and plummeted to the ground when his Ushba did not engage the rope.
edit, he broke both feet and 8 months later is still walking funny and not yet climbing.
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kydd76
Feb 10, 2006, 4:16 AM
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very great writing thank you.
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jeep914x4
Feb 10, 2006, 3:46 PM
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Great TR. I agree, it is well written and a great read everyone should check out.
Keep the positive mindset and good luck on a speedy recovery!
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cowpoke
Feb 10, 2006, 4:08 PM
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Glad you're recovering and doing well (all things considered). Thanks for writing this up. Your report on Syke's Sickle is one of my favorite climbing stories; combined with this Part II, your tale is extraordinarily powerful. Please keep posting on your progress (physical and psychological) -- I look forward to reading about you getting back on the rock and I'm curious to know whether this serious "scratch" has really cured THE itch.
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jabtocrag
Feb 10, 2006, 4:15 PM
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Great read!! I'm curious, how far was the fall and can you describe the "landing site"??
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omegaprime
Feb 10, 2006, 4:21 PM
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Thanks for sharing, it was a truly interesting experience, with some profound thoughts.
Please, do update us on your recovery progress. Wish you all the best in getting back on your feet (no pun intended).
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tonypurmal
Feb 10, 2006, 5:08 PM
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I really like your attitude towards the future and hope that you are able to climb at even a higher level than before the accident. Thanks for sharing your experience and thoughts about it.
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alex234
Feb 10, 2006, 5:13 PM
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great tr. enjoyed reading about your experience. i wish u the quickest of recoverys. made me really think twice about climbing routes with sketchy gear placements.
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cracklover
Feb 10, 2006, 5:42 PM
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Well said, as always. I'd encourage you to get it published too.
By the way, you mention that you were halfway up the climb, that you were 35 feet up, and also say that minutes before you fell you were halfway up a six pitch climb. It took me looking back over the TR to figure out that these were two different climbs. Just an FYI.
Best of luck on a full and a speedy recovery.
GO
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brent_e
Feb 10, 2006, 6:14 PM
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I hope all works out for you!
Be well!
Brent
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