I was feeling really confident about my climbing; just 72 hours previously Mark and I had climbed a classic at Fairhead, An Bealach Runda. I decided to have a go at a short route called "Dreams of Distance." At E2 5c it was harder than anything I'd led for many years, but not that much, and because it's short, and I'd heard the gear was good, I thought I'd knock it off quickly and then we could do something easier afterwards. Hah.
A couple of things about falls; with sport climbing of course it's de-rigeur, but there's no sport climbing in Ireland. It's all traditional, placing your own protection as you go. In 30 years of rock climbing I can count the number of leader falls I've had on trad climbs on the fingers of one hand. It's just not something you really want to do.
The climb starts with a diagonal, rising traverse up to the right (shared with "Whole of the Moon", just to the right), then traverses left under the first overhang to a break in the overhangs. I had a good wire placement in a vertical crack some distance below the roof, but when I got up to the overhang I was hanging quite precariously, using up lots of energy, and found myself quite unable to place anything for protection under it. I was feeling my way around, as I was all scrunched up, not able to see what I was doing. Eventually I placed a 0.5 cam, which I couldn't see, and gave it a good tug just to check it. It held. Two moves further, and I can't remember whether I slipped or the strength just gave out, but I fell backwards. I felt the cam pop, and remember thinking "that's ok, the nut placement's good" and it was, for a straight down pull. But I had traversed across to it, and the direction the rope was running pulled it straight out to the side. Now there was nothing to stop me hitting the ground. This all happened in a split second, but it's amazing how your memory can clearly segment the different processes.
Six, seven meters, then I hit, hard. I was lying on my back, winded. Heard Richenda's voice asking me if I'm ok. Oh yes, I said. Mad. I began to sit up, realised my right arm is underneath me but it won't move. Had to use my left arm to pull it out. Took one look at my grossly mis-shapen wrist, hardly recognisable as a limb. Thought shit, this might be an open fracture; there was a lot of blood, but it wasn't. I'd just ground it into the gravel with my body, and was bleeding from abrasions. Dull pain in my back too. Richenda was trying to do the right thing, looking for my mobile to call for help. I think because I was involved in mountain rescue myself (in Cape Town in the 1990's) my mind was reluctant to accept that I was now the one needing help. In shock, and stubborn to the core, I insisted I could get myself to help; I'd only broken an arm after all. I shuffled myself back to lean against a small rock slope (which thankfully I had not hit when I fell), got her to take my climbing shoes off, put my walking shoes back on and help me get the harness and other equipment off too. Then she helped me up, and I began to walk down, holding my back with my left hand (pulled muscles I told myself) and letting my injured arm hang down, useless. Richenda packed up all the gear; I'd made it easier for her by not leaving anything in the rock to be extricated, it had all come down with me, and soon caught up with me. We made it to the car; Richenda offered to drive, but it was a hired car (I was expecting Pieter over from Holland the next weekend) and she wasn't on the insurance. So I insisted on driving too, fortunately my left arm was still fine, and in a right-hand-drive car of course you operate the gears with the left hand. Thinking about this now it's crazy, but at the time, although I knew I was seriously hurt, a part of my mind just wouldn't allow that information to overrule "normal" behaviour. Perhaps a psychologist could explain it better, but I can't.
We made it, somehow, back to Dundalk, and Nadia was waiting outside the house. Richenda (bless her) went inside to take care of the children, something she ended up doing a lot over the next few weeks, and Nadia took me to A&E. It was a slow night there for a change, and I could be seen immediately. After establishing that I'd shattered my wrist, and standing for some x-rays I was able to lie down, and I didn't get up again for another two weeks. I'd broken my back too, a compression fracture of the T12 vertebra.
After spinal fusion, and an external fixator on my arm, involving being moved around among three different hospitals, I could go home on the 26th July, and was off work for another four weeks after that.
Well that was the rest of that beautiful summer gone, from a climbing point of view.
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