Unhappy synchronicity
This morning I happened to look at a blog listed on the roll of another one I read. The blog owner had written a bit about seeing a car accident happen in front of him, and stopping to assist the victims, with a general observation about how quickly one's life can change due to an accident. Someone responded to his post with one about knowing a woman whose husband had fallen in a freak climbing accident in Joshua Tree National Park last Saturday afternoon. He was declared brain dead on Monday, and his donated organs were transported around the country by Monday night. As I read this post, I realized my family and I had witnessed the end of this young man's life. Our son was belaying his dad up a route on a rock formation some distance away from the one the man fell on. We heard a siren approaching, and watched a group gather to assist the fallen climber. A helicopter arrived and landed on the road. Our son remarked that it was a difficult route involved, if your gear pulled out you could land on a ledge. We didn't hear anything by the time we got back to our campsite, but Monday night I spoke with our son, who told me the guy had had a piece of gear pull out, and fell onto the ledge, hitting his head, never regaining consciousness. This could have been a freak failure of the gear, or it could have been a poor placement by the climber. By this time, I suppose it doesn't matter, he's gone. We walked past people on that climb; we may have seen him in his last moments of life, excited, maybe a bit scared, climbing for all he was worth. Yes, climbing is risky, but less so than driving a car. I tell myself this, but I feel sick inside at the tragedy. I know of climbers and other outdoor enthusiasts who've been killed in car crashes coming home from an outing. I don't know what to say, except that it still beats sitting inside.
posted by isabelita at 1:01 PM
3 Comments:
Our life does hang in fragile balance. IN the early 90s, I was on my way to work. It was just drizzling rain. No other cars on the road, and I was going to be early. I was thinking about my son's ballgame, and hoped that I was going to get off in time for him to see me in the stands. But, then a drunk kid came rushing out of a side road, and I felt my car lunge forward and then it started to roll and he and I kept get tangled up and me slammed into a gian cement wall. I was conscious the entire time, even when the inserted a tube for me to breathe. I heard things like code blue, and realized it was me, I woke up in intensive care to my preacher praying over me, and for some reason, I couldn't move. I was paralyzed and was that way for almost nine years, before the feeling began to come back, not all the way, but enough for me to stand. Eventually I worked my way into a walk, then with help from my son, I could walk longer and longer, and soon was just using a cane. My point, I was on my way to work, not a care in the world and almost died.
On my blog you complimented my bravery in cycling the roads of Pittsburgh, and inwardly, I must confess, I scoffed. Me? Brave? Riding to work through the Strip District and Lawrenceville? Please.
But of course, riding has its moments.
I climbed with great dedication for five years, from one end of my time in law school to the other, through a relationship so powerful it made me feel immortal at its pinnacle and then almost ended me in its demise. I climbed sport on occasion, but over time focused ever more intently on bouldering. I loved its simplicity, the lack of equipment, the purity of its movement and the elegant singularity of its each new challenge. I used "project" as a transitive verb.
I never climbed trad, however, and still have not. My forays on TR and sport reminded me just how unreliable I feel in dealing with height. Familiarity breeds ease, but it always seemed all too imminent that I would freeze up on trad. My climbing friends are capable, experienced. Even were I to freeze utterly halfway up a second pitch in West Virginia, I know they'd find a safe way to bring me down. But I never wanted to be a burden in a setting so dangerous, and so I demurred countless times until my friends stopped asking and the jokes wore thin. I was a strong boulderer. My climbing in that context earned respect. That was enough.
Now after a climbing hiatus that has, with one brief month-long exception, lasted two years, I contemplate returning for the spring bouldering season, resuming regular gym workouts in February until my skin thickens and my drive returns in time for March's beautiful climbing weather, the rock desiccate with winter's chill, the sky a shade of blue with a cutting edge. And at the mere hint of that, my friends have resumed the gentle chiding.
Maybe this year: One simple 5.4. No roof. A route I could climb in my current state of non-fitness. Something I can rationally believe I might climb without any protection at all.
Everything is a question of risk. The cliches about leaving the house don't even cut it. In some ways, staying home is the most dangerous thing of all.
You know,I'm sure, moon, that falling off a high boulder problem is much riskier than coming off a TR, or falling on an easy, much-bolted sports lead. Leading on gear, I'll grant you, can indeed be risky, if you fall and the protection zippers. I will boulder up to about 15 feet if it's really easy. At my age, I don't need broken ankles.
My husband has had kind of an issue with heights, but on this trip to Joshua Tree, he topped out on two TR's set up by our son which were long, 70-80 feet or so.
They were 5.5 crack and "5.3-weird", easy routes. I think your idea of doing some moderate routes first is good; my first gear lead was on a 5.6 crack that seemed so low angle I thought I could solo it, although I didn't. I see no reason to terrify myself when it's supposed to be a great pleasure!
Nice description of early spring climbing. It fits what we did last week in J-Tree, and conditions down in Bend, Oregon's sport climbing mecca, Smith Rock.
Well, I think riding in big cities is terrifying, but then I rode for so many years, I started worrying about the odds being against me.
So true, sitting at home is slow death.
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