I was hanging from a cliff at 4,000 feet, in the Nantahala Gorge in the Great Smoky Mountains. I realized that my life would be over as soon as my arms weakened. And I realized I never should have ignored my gut feelings.
All morning long, I had been fighting those feelings. I knew the climb would be hard. For one thing, it was nearly winter in the Smokies…and I knew there would probably not be anyone else in the Gorge. For another, the past hurricane season had deluged western North Carolina, and climbing conditions were horrible…thick muck everywhere, and soaking-wet rock.
But I guess I had a sense of confidence, despite the elements. I had been climbing my entire adult life; I had climbed in the Alps, and I had climbed in the Rockies often. I had even climbed before in these same Smokies. And the only accident I’d ever had was at 13,000 feet in Colorado, when my partner and I slipped on wet ground and I went flying into a boulder. I had a pretty nice gash on my leg; but we were able to staunch the bleeding with a tourniquet, and I made it down without incident.
So, despite those nagging feelings, I began my ascent. About an hour into the climb, I came upon a climber’s worst nightmare – a small brook running downhill, which could be forded only by crossing wet rocks covered with algae. I forded the brook. But, all the way up after that, I kept thinking that I’d have to cross that brook again on my descent.
But I succeeded in making my objective, an alpine hut near the top where other climbers had signed their names in a tattered journal. I gave myself a nickname – common practice in the climbing community – and signed it, and then started back down.
After one hour, it was raining so hard I could barely see. After another hour, my boots were sinking into the muck with each step. And after a third hour, I could no longer make out the landmarks by which I had marked my trail on the way up.
Then I came to that brook.
Experienced climbers will tell you that the descent is often more dangerous than the ascent. For one thing, you’ve already (hopefully) achieved the “high” of reaching your objective. For another, your muscles are tired by then. And, for a third, your concentration – which has already been very tightly focused for some hours – can sometimes tend to wander.
I’ve let that happen to me occasionally in the past. But not this time. I was extremely careful. I used my poles to poke for stable spots. I didn’t put any weight on my lead foot until I was sure that the ground would not give.
I got about halfway across, trying to balance on a rock while I figured out my next step. But I never got to take it.
All of a sudden, up was down and down was up; the world was rotating violently around me. I felt things bang against my head, and against my ribs. I had no control over my body. I felt my heard jerk wildly.
A few seconds later, I was hanging on to a ledge for dear life.
I slowed my breathing down, so I could take stock of the situation.
The first thing I tried to determine was whether I had broken anything, or if I was bleeding…not easy to do when you’re holding on to the muddy side of a cliff. As far as I could tell, I hadn’t broken anything, although there was blood dripping from my face.
The next thing was to determine where the hell I was. I quickly saw that I had only fallen about 12-13 feet.
Then I did a quick check of my surroundings. I was flat against the side of the mountain, my fingers digging into the muck of the ledge. Below me was a fall of at least a couple of thousand feet, with huge trees sticking out of the side of the mountain at about 70-degree angles…any one of which would have killed me instantly on impact. I could not reach my cell phone, which was on one of my climbing belts, because I dared not take one arm off the ledge (and, at that altitude, it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway).
I was almost eerily calm. I’m an experienced climber, I told myself. Just do what you always do as a climber: Break down your objective (thirteen feet above) into smaller steps.
Plan A was to call out loudly to see if there was anyone near me who could help. But, as mentioned earlier, it was nearly winter in the Smokies…and I, apparently, was the only one dumb enough to be out there.
Plan B was to push myself up with my legs. But each time I tried to wedge my boots into the mud, I slid down another inch or so.
Plan C was to pull myself up by the branches hanging in front of me. But each branch that I grabbed broke off.
Plan D was some serious praying. My backpack felt like it weighed a million pounds. My arms were getting really tired. And I then realized that I would be dead as soon as I lost my grip. I actually said goodbye to my daughters, Jessica and Alyssa.
And then, something occurred to me. Perhaps, if I (very gently) burrowed with one hand down into the mud in front of my face, I could find some tree roots to help lift myself up. I knew tree roots wouldn’t break; they had been there for thousands of years.
Very slowly, I removed my left hand (my weaker one) from the ledge, and began burrowing into the mud. I remember feeling a root below. I remember wrapping my gloves around it. I remember using it to propel myself up, maybe 8-10 inches. And I remember saying to myself, “OK, Stephen, that’s the first one. You’ve got about twelve more feet to go.”
Next thing I knew – although I can’t remember how – I was standing on the spot where I had fallen from (thankfully, on the “down-side” of the brook).
An hour later, I was down at the ranger station, where they stopped the bleeding on my face and told me that I had some cracked ribs.
What had I learned from the experience? Well, from a climbing perspective, never to climb in poor conditions without a partner. From a mental perspective, never to climb in poor conditions – period. And from a common-sense perspective…learn to trust your gut!