Anatomy of a Fall
The start of the climb was awkward; an overhanging roof meant some strenuous pulls from the ground were required to put you into the leftward trending crack system. Balancing along the face, I began to discover a feature of the climb that was to continually dog my progress. The flared, rounded cracks made it almost impossible to place any protection.
I stood on tiptoe trying to waggle in the little metal wedge, and seat it securely, then clipped it onto the rope. Harry paid out the slack, and I stepped up, my smooth rubber soles sticking to the sandpaper surface. As I did so, the wedge dislodged from the crack and slid gently down the rope to where Harry stood.
I took a breath, composed myself, and tried again in a higher crack. Again I fiddled the metal into the rock. Again I stepped up. Again the wedge tumbled out and slid down the rope.
I was now 30' up and, despite my mind being fuzzed with anti-depressants, becoming increasingly conscious of my complete lack of protection. My fingers were beginning to sweat, requiring me to stop and chalk up far too frequently. And I could feel the increasing tension in my calves that might lead to uncontrollable shakes. Here comes the fear, I thought.
Another horizontal break loomed, and this time I detached a Friend No. 2 from my harness. I pulled on the lever that retracted the camming wheels, seated it in the wide crack, and released. It was horribly loose, and waggled about. I doubted its ability to hold any fall but, having no alternative, clipped in and stepped up again. Any thought of being able to reverse down the rock had long since passed.
At 40', finally, a reasonable crack appeared. I took a smaller Friend and seated it, reassured by its stability. Another clip, another step up.
My toes in the break, I rested my hands on the next holds. Well, not holds. What we call an 'elephant's bum' hold. Nothing to crimp your fingers around, just a vague curvature that you press your hands hard against to generate as much friction as possible. I smeared my right foot onto the gritstone, tensed my shoulders and rocked quickly up, attempting to get the weight of my torso above my palms as quickly as possible.
It didn't work. My vertical momentum rapidly became horizontal as my hands detached from the rock; the kick of my leg throwing me out and away from the face. Time slowed to a crawl. I fixed my eye on my Friend, my good, solid, dependable Friend; the only one I could rely on, and watched as my outward momentum ripped it from the crack, sending it spiralling into the air.
The inevitable parabola of my fall meant I was descending rapidly now as I passed my one remaining piece of protection; that loose, wobbly Friend No. 2. The rope pulled down on the karabiner, the cam wheels jerked, expanded, bit into the sides of the crack....and held.
Time accelerated. I slammed hard into the rock, legs first, and barrelled out into space again. The stretch of the rope, designed to prevent shock loading, sent me tumbling towards the ground. It reached its limit as I drew level with an open mouthed Harry, his right hand gripping the rope through the belay device, and preventing me from hitting the ground, now inches below me. The rope contracted, sending me spinning up into the air once more, smaller and smaller bounces like a pond skipping stone, before I could finally plant my feet on the slab and steady myself.
Harry lowered me, visibly shocked by what he had been a party to. I seemed unfazed; laughing it off, then grabbing the rope, running up to the top of the crag, and abseiling down to retrieve my life-saving Friend. A couple of people approached and asked me if I was alright. I smiled and reassured them, pointing to the cut on my leg as the only evidence of the fall. Somewhere inside, I knew, was another me who right now wanted to fall on his knees and vomit, and shake, and cry, a me that would find it hard to lead a climb for the rest of the year, but that me could wait till later, when I was alone.
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Derbyshire gritstone has its own personality; local climbers call it God's Own Rock. Climbs are short but bold, holds are never particularly convincing, and protection is limited at times. Jean-Minh Thin-Trieu's famous fall attempting to lead the desperately hard Gaia has all the elements of a gritstone nightmare...
He was okay - just a cut leg, like me!
The start of the climb was awkward; an overhanging roof meant some strenuous pulls from the ground were required to put you into the leftward trending crack system. Balancing along the face, I began to discover a feature of the climb that was to continually dog my progress. The flared, rounded cracks made it almost impossible to place any protection.
I stood on tiptoe trying to waggle in the little metal wedge, and seat it securely, then clipped it onto the rope. Harry paid out the slack, and I stepped up, my smooth rubber soles sticking to the sandpaper surface. As I did so, the wedge dislodged from the crack and slid gently down the rope to where Harry stood.
I took a breath, composed myself, and tried again in a higher crack. Again I fiddled the metal into the rock. Again I stepped up. Again the wedge tumbled out and slid down the rope.
I was now 30' up and, despite my mind being fuzzed with anti-depressants, becoming increasingly conscious of my complete lack of protection. My fingers were beginning to sweat, requiring me to stop and chalk up far too frequently. And I could feel the increasing tension in my calves that might lead to uncontrollable shakes. Here comes the fear, I thought.
Another horizontal break loomed, and this time I detached a Friend No. 2 from my harness. I pulled on the lever that retracted the camming wheels, seated it in the wide crack, and released. It was horribly loose, and waggled about. I doubted its ability to hold any fall but, having no alternative, clipped in and stepped up again. Any thought of being able to reverse down the rock had long since passed.
At 40', finally, a reasonable crack appeared. I took a smaller Friend and seated it, reassured by its stability. Another clip, another step up.
My toes in the break, I rested my hands on the next holds. Well, not holds. What we call an 'elephant's bum' hold. Nothing to crimp your fingers around, just a vague curvature that you press your hands hard against to generate as much friction as possible. I smeared my right foot onto the gritstone, tensed my shoulders and rocked quickly up, attempting to get the weight of my torso above my palms as quickly as possible.
It didn't work. My vertical momentum rapidly became horizontal as my hands detached from the rock; the kick of my leg throwing me out and away from the face. Time slowed to a crawl. I fixed my eye on my Friend, my good, solid, dependable Friend; the only one I could rely on, and watched as my outward momentum ripped it from the crack, sending it spiralling into the air.
The inevitable parabola of my fall meant I was descending rapidly now as I passed my one remaining piece of protection; that loose, wobbly Friend No. 2. The rope pulled down on the karabiner, the cam wheels jerked, expanded, bit into the sides of the crack....and held.
Time accelerated. I slammed hard into the rock, legs first, and barrelled out into space again. The stretch of the rope, designed to prevent shock loading, sent me tumbling towards the ground. It reached its limit as I drew level with an open mouthed Harry, his right hand gripping the rope through the belay device, and preventing me from hitting the ground, now inches below me. The rope contracted, sending me spinning up into the air once more, smaller and smaller bounces like a pond skipping stone, before I could finally plant my feet on the slab and steady myself.
Harry lowered me, visibly shocked by what he had been a party to. I seemed unfazed; laughing it off, then grabbing the rope, running up to the top of the crag, and abseiling down to retrieve my life-saving Friend. A couple of people approached and asked me if I was alright. I smiled and reassured them, pointing to the cut on my leg as the only evidence of the fall. Somewhere inside, I knew, was another me who right now wanted to fall on his knees and vomit, and shake, and cry, a me that would find it hard to lead a climb for the rest of the year, but that me could wait till later, when I was alone.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Derbyshire gritstone has its own personality; local climbers call it God's Own Rock. Climbs are short but bold, holds are never particularly convincing, and protection is limited at times. Jean-Minh Thin-Trieu's famous fall attempting to lead the desperately hard Gaia has all the elements of a gritstone nightmare...
He was okay - just a cut leg, like me!
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Who wants to live like that? i'm more of a live and let live kinda person - except when it comes to ethics and integrity. One must have a foundation of beliefs after all, "sniff"....