ONE "CLICK"
OVER THE LINE
BY "JOEY" PHILLIPS
Often envisioned is a climber who falls after dislodging a large rock, and the belayer is unfortunate enough to be in the path of the falling rock. Consequently, the brake is released, and the climber falls to the ground. On rare occasion, this event actually happens. The following story is a personal account of being dropped to the deck, from nearly fifty feet, when a block the size of a microwave oven popped loose directly above the belayer.
It was Thanksgiving Eve, 2000. The Central Texas autumn had turned out to be a total drencher, and precipitating gloom had long since washed away splendid expectations of enjoying pristine autumn days indulgently engrossed in routine climbing frenzies. Late summer scorchers had abruptly transitioned into a season of dreary dampness ever so haunting to a Texas climber’s soul.
The urge to climb on the November afternoon was neither energized with enthusiasm nor motivated by enormous ambition. The compelling notion was merely to offer a meager token of tribute to a distant but lingering desire to climb.
Occupational priorities had claimed Thanksgiving Day as well as the three days following, and with the weather’s recent trends, another opportunity to climb seemed unlikely within the next couple of weeks. No rain had fallen in at least two days, so a solo excursion to the cliffs along Austin’s Barton Creek became the order of the day. Hopes were that other climbers would be available to belay. If none were present, perhaps a touch of bouldering would slightly warm the heart.
On the way to the crag, a stop was made to drop off a roll of film for one-hour processing. The photos were from several months earlier, and the time seemed right for having them developed. While driving on to the trailhead, everything seemed favorable, until pinpoint-sized droplets began appearing on the windshield. “ #*#*# !... should have known better than to plan on climbing…#*#*# !...” Thoughts arose about scrapping the plan. However, after a few minutes, the droplets weren’t growing any larger. With only a slight mist in the air, maybe some of the overhanging routes would remain dry enough to climb. Even a short hike along the creek seemed like a better option than returning home defeated.
While on the short trail down to the creek bed, shouts were heard coming from near the crag on the opposite side. This was an encouraging sound. However, upon arriving at the base of the hill, the realization finally computed that, with all the recent rainfall, the creek would naturally be up and flowing full hilt. “ #*#*! … forgot about crossing the #*#* #* creek!...” The creek is at least a hundred feet wide and is usually a bone dry but aesthetically pleasing rock-pit. The idea of walking back up the hill and driving to the trailhead on the opposite side definitely seemed like more trouble than the plan warranted.
A short distance upstream, a small dam consisting of rocks piled about four feet high extends across the creek. Water was flowing over the dam, but rocks along the top of the pile formed and intermittent row of stepping stones that looked reasonably passable, with a bit of wading.
The creek was lazily exerting its subtle inertia against the rocky dam causing small swells of whitewater to gently churn with turbulent applause. Brown and faded yellow leaves were gliding along strewn upon the translucent backdrop created by the crystal clear water, and the misty coolness of the hazy autumn air silently echoed an empty prelude to winter’s impending void. A few enhanced minutes were spent captivated while the scene’s intrinsic poetry caressed the deeper regions of self.
A few feet away from the dam, three knee-high cairns stood creatively arranged in a small cluster. Randomly situated cairns are a common but infrequent sight along the popular creek. Such arrangements sometimes consist of dozens of cairns ranging in height from a few inches to several feet.
The three cairns by the dam raised nostalgic memories of starting a new life, from scratch, after relocating to Austin early in 1997. While working a night job in south Austin, several months had been spent living transiently, and during that time, the lush vicinity along Barton Creek had provided an enchanting daytime abode. From early spring until mid summer of that year, the creek had remained full, and on a few occasions, a semblance of comforting solace had been derived from the artistic experience of erecting large exotic cairns amid the swirling currents of the rejuvenating glide. Cairns have since become personally regarded as implicit symbols of the proverbial path.
Barton Creek, Austin, Texas -Spring 1997
Photo and cairn by author
Photo by Dave Phillips
The course across the small dam began with several careful steps and a few delicate hops that led to a large flat stone, but further progress required wading. While perched atop the conveniently flat stone, conflict arose between the waning determination to pull a few climbing moves and the growing inclination to just hang around absorbing the tantric atmosphere of the tranquil setting. The final decision to continue on was influenced by the shouting that had come from near the crag. The idea of being excluded from any nearby climbing action seemed unacceptable, so the prevailing destiny commenced with the tasks of balancing while removing shoes, rolling up pants-legs, and negotiating the slippery course across the remainder of the dam.
The calf-deep water was flowing more swiftly than expected, and some of the submerged stones were unstable. Maintaining sufficient balance in the current was tricky, and the day’s agenda definitely didn’t include a chilly plunge with a pack full of climbing gear. The successful arrival at the opposite bank was greeted by cold mud squishing between wet toes. Since no dry spots were available to sit and wipe off the mud, the gooey stroll was continued barefooted.
The climbing area appeared deserted, and the limestone cliffs were thoroughly saturated from the recent rains, rather than slightly dampened by the presiding mist. “*#*#*! …this *#*#*- -*#*#* place is soaked!...” The shouts previously heard were assumed to have come from passing hikers, so the choice was made to trudge to a bouldering cave about a half-mile further downstream.
After walking about a hundred yards and passing a slight bend in the crag, elation whelmed at the sight of two climbers working on a route at the slightly overhanging wall known as Kingdom of Ging. At the top of this wall, a horizontal roof juts out several feet, and the routes directly below the roof were pleasingly dry. The two climbers didn’t look familiar, but they were friendly and seemed undistracted by a third party looking on. They spent about an hour taking turns trying to complete a pumpy traverse where the routes Greystreak and King of Ging converge. After several unsuccessful attempts, beta was finally requested, but these guys were obviously toasted. The steep angle and polished holds at Kingdom of Ging tend to quickly flame the guns of aspirants unfamiliar with the routes. Needless to say, beta alone didn’t solve these guys’ problem, but with the aid of a quickdraw, one of the pair was able to move past the traverse to a secure rest on a small ledge. From this ledge, a climber can either reach up to clip the last bolt on Greystreak or move left, to continue on King of Ging.
The route being attempted was King of Ging which ends just to the left of the roof. However, due to the soggy look of the route’s final section, the suggestion was made to finish on Greystreak. The anchors for Greystreak are just beneath the right end of the roof. Slightly left of the anchors, a large block protruded from what appeared to be a cleft between the roof and vertical wall. The cone-shaped block extended diagonally downwards toward the anchors and tapered to a point that made the block resemble a giant shark-tooth turned sideways. The point of the tooth formed an excellent jug that climbers typically gripped while clipping the anchors.
Greystreak’s anchors are about ten feet directly above the last bolt, and the intimidating runout involves a vertical sequence requiring both versatile skill and a stout dose of firepower. The minute features are polished to a shiny glaze, and insecure grips along with dubious toeholds sustain an intricate crux requiring acute concentration as well as steadfast composure. This intriguing crux is often the scene of dramatic whippers. Numerous leaders have told tales about being hopelessly pumped upon arriving at the bomber jug and peeling off during desperate efforts to clip the anchors.
The climber resting on the small ledge clipped the bolt and spent a few minutes contemplating the looming crux. After finally trying a couple of the funky moves, the futility of attempting the dicey runout with pumped forearms was immediately realized. Wisely, he declined to move past the bolt and asked to be lowered from the route.
After each of the exhausted pair of climbers had commented about being through climbing for the day, I offered to retrieve their quickdraws from the route. This offer was naturally accepted, so a pre-climb ritual was eagerly conducted with an underlying sense of gratitude for the simple provision in the afternoon’s outcome.
...the climb felt comfortably wholesome. One never would have suspected that a menacing excerpt, from the twisted script of fate, was lurking so closely beneath the future’s obscuring veil...
Having not done any climbing for a few weeks, the experience of performing the route’s initial moves seemed like arriving home from a distant journey. The welcoming sensations of the climb felt comfortably wholesome. One never would have suspected that a menacing excerpt, from the twisted script of fate, was lurking so closely beneath the future’s obscuring veil.
The cruise up to the small ledge was smooth sailing. Familiar moves were swept along in a breeze of flowing momentum, and a newly rekindled spirit abounded with a sense of buoyancy, in the moment’s grace. Quite a few months had elapsed since my last run on Greystreak, so after a few relaxing breaths on the ledge, a likely course was plotted across the array of miniscule holds, to the protruding jug above.
During the initial moves of the crux, increased satisfaction came from improved skills noticed in comparison to other times on the route. A couple of key holds were a few inches into the wet zone, but improvised sequencing and adaptive technique easily prevailed. Rewarding sensations flourished undaunted, while just overhead, the precariously attached block awaited a final tug.
The crux’s final moves were an exhilarating climax, and establishing a healthy grip on the point of the block released the usual surge of gratification. While holding onto the jug, some difficulty was encountered while trying to obtain adequate footing. Some of the footholds on the right side were wet, and situating both feet on the left side caused a tendency to barndoor. If body position was lost while attempting to clip the anchor, the feet could easily skate off. This would leave a climber dangling and twisting pathetically from one hand and would probably result in the notorious whipper.
The clip was finally made, and the belayer began holding the brake. The conclusion of the well-executed ascent was a refreshing relief. After attaching a tie-in sling and biner to my harness, the point of the block was grabbed to pull up close enough to attach the sling to the bolt hanger. This exerted a strong outward force against the well-trusted block. When the biner was within an inch of the bolt hanger, the block suddenly moved and made the dreadful sound of friction between large rocks. The grip on the jug was spontaneously released with the hope that the humongous block was only shifting in the recessed area of the cliff. However, the block instantly became airborne, and the “ROCK!” alarm was promptly sounded. The block was plummeting directly toward the belayer who was staring upward with eyes as big around as silver dollars. He looked like a panic-stricken housecat trying to skedaddle in all directions at once, and while reacting to the oncoming bomb, he released the brake.
The initial sensation of falling was accompanied by the feel of the rope being dragged through the protection system. This was no unfamiliar sensation, because when climbing with friend and long time partner Jason Blackwell, the two of us sometimes play a game of comparing how fast we can lower each other from steep routes. On a good ride, the rope is allowed to run through the belay device unhindered, until the climber being lowered is abruptly stopped within several feet of the ground. We get a pretty big kick out of this!
Jason Blackwell leading the fifth pitch of Space Boyz at El Potrero Chico, Mexico, Christmas 1998, Photo by author.
Jason at the top of Space Boyz, Photo by author.
As the situation with the falling block unfolded, thoughts began to race. Serious concern quickly developed about the possibility of the belayer being annihilated by the massive chunk of stone, and there was intense anticipation concerning recovery of the belay. As the fall gained momentum, the rope drag diminished rapidly. The increasing rate of acceleration was considerably alarming, because the sensation was of actually falling rather than being rapidly lowered on the rope. After seeing the small ledge whiz by with speed still gaining, the assumption was made that the rock had hit the belayer. Great expectations arose that the belayer’s friend would grab the rope and apply the brake. However, the rope didn’t tighten, and the chilling reality of the predicament began setting in.
...A floating stomach had supplanted the awareness of fleeting rope-drag. The wind was roaring, as the relentless acceleration preponderated like an exuberant demon zealously dealing a merciless woe…
After zipping past the route’s halfway point, hopes of being caught by the rope faded into feelings of being neglected, abandoned, and forgotten. The two guys on the ground were naturally presumed to be good friends, and perhaps events below had overridden any potential concern about the outsider who was plunging towards certain devastation. A floating stomach had supplanted the awareness of fleeting rope-drag. The wind was roaring, as the relentless acceleration preponderated like an exuberant demon zealously dealing a merciless woe. Loneliness and isolation enveloped like a dark cloud before giving way to the urgent sense of responsibility to make the critical landing. In an immense tide of loathsomeness toward the task at hand, my attention shifted to the rushing ground. In the quest for survival, an extraordinary magnitude of subliminal fortitude emerged in preparation for the unprecedented impact.
With the oncoming earth less than twenty feet away, antiquated skills from military parachute training produced the deeply instilled response to assume the classic body-position for a parachute landing fall (PLF). Fortunately, this drop zone contained no treacherous rocks. The exact point of impact looked to be a patch of dirt about the size of a garbage can lid. The patch of dampened soil was bordered by a slab of rock nearly flush with the ground as well as the trunks of two medium sized trees leaning slightly away from the cliff.
A lifelong fascination with heights had invariably resulted in many high-level adventures including a substantial amount of cliff diving, so the sense of timing necessary for the landing seemed innate. However below this cliff was no water, no thrill, and no glory. There was only the morbid suspense of wondering which bones might break, how much bodily damage would be incurred, or whether consciousness would be lost upon impact. Emotions completely subsided. All thoughts dissipated into the empty realm of lucid awareness, and nearly every trace of independent self was viciously gulped into the foreboding vacuum of the unforgiving circumstances. Yet still, from beyond all hope, reason, and expectations, a tiny ember of persevering faith remained determined to seek the path of transcendence through the episode’s grim finale.
A secret treemason pow-wow at the high lodge, summer 1998, Photo by author.
A split second before impact, a stout but painless thump from a tree trunk was rendered to my left butt cheek. Perception surrendered to the dark and unfathomable essence of pure will, and the remotely vague realization of the impact came as distinctly independent jolts occurring in rapid sequence - indicative of a PLF. Some sort of bounce must have followed, because amazingly, the next realization was of standing, completely dazed, with one arm wrapped around a tree. There was no incapacitating pain, and being in the standing position was assuring evidence of no major bones having been broken.
As the cobwebs were fading, clear recollection of the shocking event returned in a sudden flash. Immediately came the terrorizing image of the belayer standing beneath the falling block. While impulsively turning to observe his condition, utter despair predominated with an icy chill at the anticipation of seeing a motionless body mangled beneath the gruesome stone. However, indescribable relief triumphed upon seeing two uninjured physiques and a pair of totally astonished faces staring in baffled disbelief. The atrocious block of stone was imbedded several inches into ground. Between gasping breaths, the only words that seemed adequate to express my feeling about the miraculous outcome were: “Holy Jesus!… Jesus Christ!…A new life!”
The two comrades came rushing over to assure themselves that the apparent lack of injury was real. We were all thoroughly astounded, and they were saying: “…can’t believe you’re not hurt!…sure you’re ok?…we didn’t even know you were falling!…sorry for letting you fall!…we thought you were clipped in!…can’t believe you fell from that high without getting hurt!… .”
After sitting down, bodily extremities were tested, and with the exception of some bumps, bruises, and abrasions, everything seemed to be functioning normally. However, nausea and faintness indicated the onset of mild shock, but after quickly removing the climbing shoes and elevating my feet, the symptoms quickly disappeared.
The next few minutes were encompassed in an aura of celebration, and the three of us finally exchanged names. Both of the newfound acquaintances were students at the University of Texas. The belayer during the near tragedy was a Bulgarian transfer student named Vlad.
Vlad was pretty well rattled by the unsettling event, and he briefly described a short story, by John Updyke, called The Afterlife. Vlad’s interpretation of the story was expressed in a comment to the following effect: “Maybe at the time of death, there’s just a ‘click,’ and a person continues living on, in the same life, believing death to have somehow been avoided through some amazing turn of events.”
Vlad’s comment about The Afterlife suggested the idea that a person may never subjectively perceive the experience of death in the sense of the physical body being terminated, followed by a transition into some alternate state of existence. Maybe a person remains perpetually incarnate in one’s individual life as a human being, regardless of situations that should invariably result in death.
After realizing that Vlad was hip to the “click,” an inspiring interest developed about the possibility of the two of us hooking up for some serious climbing adventures.
Drawing by author.
A few minutes after the outrageous fall from Greystreak, the resultant aches and pains became acutely more noticeable. Most of the hide was missing from my right knee. The left foot felt stiffer than the latter stages of rigor mortis and was throbbing worse than an exponentially compounded migraine. As for the funny bone in my right elbow, let’s just say that it was hilarious. The lack of need for emergency services probably should have left a person feeling nothing but fortunate. However, the gratefulness for having escaped serious injury lasted only a few minutes before a gloomy mood developed about the mundane inconvenience and discomfort of being in the banged up condition. The overall soreness was certain to be substantially worse after a night’s sleep, so there was the dilemma of choosing between either taking days off from work thus sacrificing a generous holiday bonus, or suffering through grueling twelve-hour shifts, barely able to walk.
After packing up our climbing gear, the three of us hiked back to the parking area via the rock dam. In spite of the impeding ailments and growing dejection, the trivial challenge of crossing the little dam was still delightfully entertaining, and the frigid water felt remarkably soothing. However the rocky trail up the hill gave new meaning to the phrase “agony of d’feet.” Oh well, “no pain, no gain,” and so goes the saying: “life’s a bitch and then you ‘click’, and the shit never ends.”
Before driving away from the trailhead, phone numbers were exchanged, and we all agreed to keep in touch. Excruciating contributions to the pain in my left foot came from the pickup truck’s stiff clutch, but morale was slightly boosted by curiosity about the roll of film that had been dropped off for processing. Viewing the photos momentarily alleviated the sullen outlook and even raised a few chuckles. The photos were great!
A trip to the ER seemed wise to rule out any fractures or latent injuries. Driving on slippery I-35, in rush-hour traffic, presented abundant opportunities for additional impact, and thoughts of a traffic collision being added to the day’s events seemed unduly worrisome. Two “clicks” in one day might be a little tough for a guardian angel to bargain for.
X-rays confirmed no fractures, and a two-day pass from work was provided along with a Vicodin prescription for pain. A couple of days off would have been real nice, but the temptation of the holiday bonus was too great. The next day was business as usual, well, maybe not quite as usual. The hobbling and limping around quickly earned the nickname “Crip.” After work, one of the pain-pills was finally taken. The Vicodin seemed like pretty good stuff, so another dose seemed in order… “Maybe life ain’t so bad...”
The author hanging out above Barton Creek muddy from heavy rains, spring 2001, Photo by Jason Blackwell.
In searching for some practical lesson from the confounded episode on Greystreak, none could be ascertained except that, whenever possible, a good practice would be to avoid standing directly beneath climbers, especially in areas with suspect or wet rock. Of course, there’s the issue of “to gri, or not to gri.” It’s hard to disagree that a Gri Gri would have prevented the fall, but then again, it’s easy to agree that a Gri Gri could have locked on the rope and possibly prevented Vlad from dodging the falling block. The use of a longer tie-in sling would have allowed the anchors to be clipped without exerting increased force against the block, but this would have left the block waiting to be pulled off by some other pair of unsuspecting and perhaps less fortunate souls. Belayers often tie in at a tree and stand in the exact spot where the block landed. Fortunately ,Vlad had opted not to tie in before belaying. Sooner or later, the block was bound to come off. As the situation turned out, no serious injuries resulted.
After dislodging the block, the initial feeling of concern was for the belayer. Otherwise, the first impulse might have been to grab the rope between the anchor and belay. This could have prevented the fall, but in the world of climbing, a primary sense of responsibility toward one’s partner seems to be a much higher virtue than maintaining primal instincts for self-preservation. The immediate priority after dislodging the block is reassuring evidence of the inherent quality that typifies relationships between individuals, sometimes literally strangers, who attach themselves to the same climbing rope.
During the fall, a loud yell might have alerted those on the ground to recover the belay, but this could have prolonged the expectancy of being caught by the rope and possibly delayed crucial preparations for the landing. Moreover, a spasmodic attempt to recover the belay, at the last instant, may have caused a serious rope burn to Vlad's brake hand, and the fall rate may have only been slightly decreased at the expense of interfering with the exact body-position and critical timing for the PLF.
In regards to any controllable factors or alternative actions that may have either prevented the mishap or lessened its severity, the final consensus was simply that “shit happens.”
The incredible memento of the outlandish fall from Greystreak has become somewhat of an illustrious trophy. The unforgettable thoughts and vivid images have created awesome impressions clearly distinguished among other close calls and near misses along the path. The bizarre occurrence seems to have struck a tone of good fortune, not only for the blessing of having walked away from the event but for the acquired experience that now stands within life’s chronicles as a profound symbol of faith, resilience, and the enduring spirit of life.
The Arthur, summer 1998, Photo by Jason Blackwell.
