Falling off slate (not to be recommended)

On the first of December I fell further than I've ever fallen. In short I pulled off a large block and fell 40ft hitting the ground on rope stretch. No gear failed in the fall as I was just very high above my last piece. I sustained an open fracture and dislocated the ankle on the left foot. I lacerated both the palms of my hands open; the left significantly worse. In the process I cut my FDS tendon on my ring finger. I was climbing a route within my grade.

And in short that's what happened.

I'd like to say that it started out as a bright sunny day in wales... etc etc. It actually started with a hangover and wandering around the camp site, bleary eyed in the weak morning sunshine... in between the cloud. Sooner or later vans and tents were packed up, vehicles where mounted and we headed to Gideon Slate Quarry to go climbing.

I love climbing in Gideon. If slate is the “pot noodle of climbing” then Gideon is those dodgy looking polish or chinese noodles you find in the “world foods” section of the supermarket. Occasionally (and mostly, in my experience) they turn out to be better than your average pot noodle. Once in a while turn turn out much worse. You choose to risk it or play it safe. Today it would be Uncle Rob, Soames, Stewie, Mick, Toaf and I heading into the quarries.

The morning was spent climbing the shorter and drier sport routes around the top of the quarry. Those who hadn't been before had a chance to get used the rock. Every single crag is different, even if they're made of the same rock. The slate in Gideon (when compared to Dinorwig) almost feels like it has a grain, like a brief glimmer of hope that there might be friction. Its been folded into different structures, feaatured and is more fractured than Dinorwig. Personally I think that getting to know the rock your climbing on is important. Either way we had to wait for the Gideon slab to dry out.

The slab never dried that day. A band of cloud rolled over and rain threatened as it always seems to. As it wasn't actually raining though we all followed Stu up to see him have a go at Cracking Up, right at the top of the quarry. Cracking Up is a route that I've been waiting to have a go at since I first saw it 5 years ago... and Stu beat me to the punch! I was more than happy to sit around today, just climbing within my grade and enjoying myself. It's been a long time since all us lads have been allowed to go climbing away together.

With time to spare waiting around till Cracking up was free, I checked the guidebook. Checked the line on the cliff and settled on the Rothwell Incident, graded E2 5b. I looked like my kind of route. Even from the base I could see what looked like loose rock in the top half. There are many people who'll shy away from loose rock and there are those who seem to revel in it (See Dave Thomas climbing “choss” in the DVD HXS or look at Mick Fowlers climbing career). I fall somewhere in between. I have a lot of respect for loose rock but I still climb it.

The route started out just like old times. Toaf and I haven't climbed together in a long while mostly due to life getting in the way really. We arsed around setting up, flaking the ropes out at the base of the route, whilst banter flew through the air between all 6 of us. Before long I had to do those last few little routines, cleaning and putting on my rock boots, chalking up the fingers and one last check of everything before I couldn't put it off any longer. I don't want to make it sound like I had an immense sense of forboding as I geared up or anything like that. Its just that I always feel nervous before setting off on a trad route but most of the time I still set off.

(horrific view of my lycra clad legs)

The climbing in the lower half was good. I can't say much more than that. It was nothing other than a 5b corner compared to the second half of the route. I was spooked by the sharp edge I kept seeing but the rock was solid. Just after half height I took out my nut key and scraped the remaining choss out of a small crack, deep in the bedrock of the slate. Here the rock looked looser but only for a short section. I figured that climbing through it would be ok, there'd be gear higher and what I'd climb through before certainly justified the E2 5b. I didn't forsee it getting any harder. I made one of the those big committing moves you seem to end up doing over and over on the slate. The ones where you've only gained a few feet in height but you know you can't reverse it.

There is no point in lying. I didn't calmly carry on climbing without a care in the world. I paniced and I paniced hard. Going down didn't seem to be an option but the stuff I'd just climbed into was horrendous. From before the really large flakes which I'd taken as solid bedrock were far from it. I climbed gingerly, if you can call it that being incredibly careful. Every single hold was tested, gently at first and then weighted. I'd have kept three points of contact as well, but the climbing wasn't easy either. The route changed in my mind from a corner to a shoot, directing whatever I pulled off down towards my belayer; Toaf. I couldn't put him in danger but I couldn't stay there. I carried on climbing, my state of mind decaying with every inch gained.

Toaf has climbed with me enough and together we've shared some risky and some downright dangerous routes over the years. He knows the tell tale signs of when I'm panicked. He knew this time and kept doing what he always does. Throwing banter up to me as I was leading whilst staring at me eye to eye when I looked down. I think he knew what I was going through up there.

It is very hard to describe the feeling of climbing on very loose rock if you've not experienced it yourself first hand. The sense of relief was overwhelming as at about 4ft from the top of the route I found a couple of perfectly solid footholds and a small flat but solid hold for my left hand. I now realised I was sweating and close to tears. I probably (knowing me) yelped out some noise of relief. The terrain ahead looked bad, but not as bad as I'd climbed through. I rested. I then reached up with my right hand and selected the most solid looking of all the flat topped flakes which barred my passage. I tested the big flake, gently and that was enough. I felt like the bottom of the flake crumbled out.

I remember everything about the fall. Time slowed. Its cliché but it did. I feel backwards with the flake. I felt that horrible feeling when you fall backwards, the one where you know no matter how much you wave your arms about there is no way you're coming back from it. I yelled “oh fuck!”. I was very conscious of how far away my gear was beneath me. Foreshortening works both ways and when you look down a route everything looks further way than it is. Falling, I grabbed the first thing I could in a desperate attempt to slow myself down. I must have slowed myself down to some degree but I still sliced open both my hands on a sharp flake. I crashed and tumbled down the route. I can only assume I looked like some kind of drunken cat trying in vain to land on it's feet at the bottom. I did hit the bottom just after the rope caught so I crashed into the floor on rope stretch. Muttering something to Toaf I sat down on the ledge just by his head and he got my up and lowered me to him. I was bleeding a lot. Toaf took off a couple of layers and wrapped them round me, then he sat behind me and wrapped his arms round me to keep me warm.

I assessed my injuries. My right hand was bleeding but it didn't look deep. My left hand was bleeding more and it did look deep. The peeled open slice of flesh revealed the inner workings of my hand, an image I won't be forgetting. I flexed my fingers and they all worked bar my ring finger, which just flopped around uselessly. Oh well (a detached part of my brain thought) I might have lost a finger but I'm still alive. My ankle looked bad. The swelling was visible over my rock shoe already while blood flowed out of a gash beneath where my ankle bone should have poked out. Now it was literally poking out of my skin, but not much.

The pain manifested itself as a dull throbbing ache. A friend told me that the brain can't remember pain, but I can remember what I experienced while I was in pain. By now things had sprung into action. Mick called MRT and while Soames got grid references & place names and told him to request a helicopter. Soames then set about making me comfortable and warm. Stuart went to the road to meet MRT. Mick then joined the entangle body that was Toaf and I on the small ledge and dealt with strapping me up and stopping the bleeding. The same detached part of my brain was watching the whole incident and laughing at the stupidity of it. Here I was lay on a ledge bleed and battered. A ledge only about 5ft higher than the floor, but I couldn't get off it. Rob had probably the worst job. He was at the base (therefore not on my party ledge) passing things backwards and forward from the bags. It was vital job as none of us could move off the ledge now but it must have just been awful not being able to do anything.

With me all strapped up and the blood flow staunched we just waited. I felt bloody useless as I couldn't move myself now as my hands had become stumps wrapped in beer towels, beanie hats and hordes of climbing tape. I darn't move my left leg or ankle, which lay rested on Soames sack and Mick had a hold of it anyway. The waiting seemed like forever. Shock is a horrible thing to experience. I kept going through cycles of pain in my ankle and hands. At these times I screamed profanities into the quarry. The detached brain listening to them as they echoed off the walls of the quarry. Primal screams of pain spewed out of my mouth but it felt good. It always felt like I was throwing the pain away with each scream. Eventually they'd abate. Sometimes my head would loll as I seemed to pass out. Toaf was a wonder. He'd rag on my beard or twist my ear. Once or twice he pinched my nipple. Each time I'd be pulled back to reality. Sometimes I would be manically happy. We'd crack jokes on the ledge and the banter flew through the air. Toaf and I sang so well that Soames told me in hospital he was amazed at how well we sounded. I think the quarry helped, acting in the same way as a shower or bathroom. It was fun during these period. I'm not joking but it was actually fun. Sometimes I would feel exceptional paranoia. I told them all to leave me on the ledge because of the danger from rock fall. I was manically worried for their safety, or apologetic for ruining the climbing weekend and putting them all through this. At times I cried and screamed Rachel's name into the quarry. I couldn't believe that I was going to put her through all this. She didn't deserve to be put through the worry and stress this would involve.

It just continued on like this. Me occasionally asking and being denied some water. I was so thirsty.

Then the cavalry arrived. The helicopter was heard long before it was seen. After circling a big chap named Neil was lowered down. He came skittering down the cliff, directed by us away from the loose material at the top of the route and crashed along the cliff onto our ledge. It didn't look like a fun descent and I can only assume that it was a challenging place to land someone. Neil was great. He stuck a collar on me which I instantly hated and requested to be removed. My request was denied but I was given gas for the pain. Gas is bloody amazing stuff. The pain was still there, but I just didn't care about it. Only problem I had was getting the thing into my mouth with my bound up hands.

MRT turned up soon after. I don't know what people expect when they see them arrive but my experience of them has been very different from my perception. I've ended up helping and being part of MRT rescues a few times over the last few years I'm sorry to say. All friends or good people I've met. I always thought Mrt would turn up and instantly take over and rescue the casualty in the nick of time. I mean them no disrespect (I hold them in the highest regard) but its just not like that. Every accident or rescue must be different, each with its own problems that need to be over come. It turned out to be problem solving time. It was decided that I was to be air lifted out, from where I was. Problems however arose in the form of the cramped sloping ledge I was on made everything awkward. Eventually things took place and people sprang into action. Bit of gear we called for and I was happy to donate my rack of small brass wires when no ones else had any to offer. Toaf and Soames didn't leave the ledge till I was airlifted out. The stretcher was slid down behind me. My harness was cut off. It probably wasn't necessary but it needed retiring anyway and it required the least movement.

Then it was time to go. Goodbyes were hard and I made the lads promise to meet me in hospital. I was tucked into the stretcher. The coats and jackets were removed and I remember being freezing cold, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I was suddenly so afraid of the helicopter. How did it stay in the air? Would it fail? I panicked so much. Neil reassured me and told me I was to be accompanied by him. My belay or at least the last thing I was connected to was cut as the winch cable was clipped in. Everyone was sheltering as the down draft was flinging whatever small loose material that was above down onto us. I was covered by Soames, Toaf, Mick and Rob and Neil from MRT. Anything could have come down then, but they still covered me. And then I was off. Being pulled away from ledge I'd spent the last hour or so on. Being pulled upwards, freezing cold and feeling very very alone.