The Fear of Falling

One morning during a climbing trip, my friend Travis and I woke up to a snowstorm.

I left my tent late, and we shivered in our puffy jackets while Travis made breakfast –the temperature at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia was in the low thirties. Snowflakes shaped like wood shavings wheeled all around us. In spite of the cold, the snow was not sticking to the ground, and we thought that we could still climb if a break in the snowfall presented itself, which it did around noon. Eager to take advantage of it, we drove to the trailhead and geared up. Travis carried our backpack and rope, while I had all our climbing gear hooked to the loops on my harness: an assortment of carabiners and protection (or “pro” for short), nuts (small, curved pieces of metal that can be jammed inside a crack of a constriction in the rock) and spring-loaded cams (a syringe-like device with four lobes that contract when one pulls the trigger, and then expand upon release, exerting pressure and, again, jamming inside nooks and cracks in the rock.)

Our plan was to attempt a route called “Thais Corner,” a difficult, steep route that ascended a lengthy corner in the middle of the South Peak’s West face. The route has a bit of a reputation as a classic test-piece for Seneca Climbers, and we knew we were in for a challenge, but we believed we would either pull it off or retreat early and safely if the climbing became too hard for us.

We hiked in to the lower part of the cliff, and, after a short scramble, reached the bottom of the climb. The corner was unforgivably steep and long, arching all the way to the South summit. Craning my neck, I could see a white bulge of Tuscarora Quartzite about halfway up, barring the way to the upper stages of the climb. Travis and I had agreed that I'd lead the first pitch, so I tied into the rope and double-checked my gear.

About this method: the leader climbs first with a rope attached to their harness and places pro along the way, clipping their rope to it to protect from a fall, while the follower belays from the ground. The leader then builds an anchor at the top and belays the follower, who in turn removes the pro as they climb, or “cleans” the pitch. Because there is no rope hanging from the top, this method requires the leader to climb past each piece of pro, hence exposing themselves to a potential “lead fall,” in which they would fall the length of the amount of slack that has been fed past the last piece of pro, and then that length again, before the rope catches them. Leader falls are often lengthy, hazardous, and, obviously, highly undesirable in traditional climbing.

I started up the cliff, pinching small holds and placing the edges of my rubber climbing shoes on tiny grooves in the rock. I climbed about five feet before placing my first piece of gear, a large #3 cam, into a crack running along the middle of the corner. I let out a long breath, pushed my left leg along the other side of the corner, (a technique called “stemming”) and rested in this position. I was surprised at how hard the route really was –finicky, crimpy face-climbing at its best. While the corner protected us from the wind, it also cast shade over us. The rock was frigid, and my hands were already growing numb.

Best not to linger; I pushed on past the next few moves, using the corner to make the moves more restful. The footholds were small, and I could feel my toes growing numb too through my thin climbing shoes. I climbed another twenty feet, placing two more cams along the way, and then threaded a sling through a carabiner and around a small tree that had chosen this odd place to grow, and clipped my rope to it. Again, I let out a long breath and pushed on, finally topping out on a small, rocky platform, on which another large tree grew. A caretaker of the cliff had left three large permanent slings around the base of the trunk with two metal rings (known as “rappel rings” or “rap rings”) fixed to it. I secured my rope to them and called for Travis to take me off belay. I belayed him from the rap rings, and soon he was standing beside me on the small platform, breathing heavily.

The snow had started again and we were both feeling the cold. I put on my gloves and beat my hands against my thighs to help get the blood flowing. We briefly discussed bailing on the route. We had two beautiful, solid rap rings, and we could go down now without leaving any gear. The weather was getting worse, our feet were turning into chunks of ice, and we had both left our sneakers at the bottom of the climb. We had acquitted ourselves pretty well on the first pitch of a hard route –there would have been no shame in heading back down.

But I knew that we could always bail later in the climb if the weather really took a turn for the worse. It would mean leaving some gear behind if we had to build an anchor from which to rappel, but that would be a small cost compared to fleeing for our lives in really dangerous weather. My hands and feet were cold, but we were not nearing frostbite, and the climb protected well and offered numerous cracks and features in which to place .gear We decided to push on for at least one more pitch.

Travis didn't feel like leading in these conditions, but I felt decently confident, so I put on my face mask and clipped the gear back to my harness. The next pitch featured a large “chimney” (a constriction between two opposing corners in the rock, which can be ascended by jamming one’s body between opposite walls) that exited back onto the face on an overhanging section. I made my way up carefully, stemming between the right-sided corner and the middle wall. I placed plenty of pro, aware that a long fall into the walls of the chimney would leave me banged up, if not seriously injured.

The crack system I had been using to place nuts and cams ended abruptly near the top of the chimney. I paused there and looked up. Above me, that nasty white bulge protruded into the snowy sky, obscuring the entire climb. I placed a small, #7 nut into the very top of the crack, and extended my placement by clipping it to a single-length sling. I knew the bulge above would cause my rope to curve over the rock. Nuts are designed to jam down, not up, and by extending the placement, I was reducing the risk of the rope’s movement pulling the nut out, or causing it to “walk.” I clipped my rope to the sling, confident in my decision, and climbed on.

With a twisting move, I heaved myself out of the chimney and found myself back on the face. The biting wind hit me immediately, and my fingers and toes grew even number. Above me, the incline steepened, and the handholds were gone altogether. Looking across to the left wall of the corner, I saw a tiny, roofed platform carved into the rock, no bigger than a large cubby, with permanent slings affixed to it –the next belay station. I had to traverse about ten feet across the bulge to reach it. I wrapped my right hand around a small horn in the rock and scrambled my feet to the left across some small, sloping ledges, and scanned the rock for a left handhold. I found only one: a small crack two feet to my left. Very slowly, I leaned my entire body off of the horn and slipped my left hand into the crack, using its left side to push back and maintain myself in this precarious balance. Breathing deeply, I decided that it was time to place a piece of pro. And there was the problem: my left hand was in the one small ripple in which I could possibly have squeezed a piece of pro.

Something was hammering inside my chest, like a distant drumbeat. For the first time on the climb, I realized I was afraid. Splayed out across the white bulge, I didn’t move. Hidden from sight by the towering chimney, Travis was silent. About ten feet below me, I could see the green rope snaking back over the bulge and into the chimney to where I had placed the #7 nut, which I could no longer see. Would it still be in its place? I had lengthened the placement with a sling, but would that be enough to prevent it from walking?

I wanted to move, but I couldn't will myself to do it. I could no longer feel my right fingers at all, but I could see that they were still wrapped around the small horn. Across the way, my right hand was similarly freezing inside the crack. My feet teetered on the tiny ledges –they both felt as if they could go at any time. Horrified, I contemplated the fall that awaited me. It would be at least twenty feet, perhaps up to thirty with rope stretch and slack. I would fall right into the chimney, bouncing off all three walls, and then hang there limply, level with Travis on the belay ledge, perhaps unconscious or with broken limbs. There was no cell phone service here; he would have to get me off the cliff somehow, and then drag or carry me down to the parking lot. Would he be able to do it? What kind of pain would I be in? Would he have to leave me and run down for help? These images surged one after the other like a fast-paced commercial, and I dimly recognized that I was very close to something like panic.

It's hard to describe what one goes through in the moments before a big fall. The mind, a few moments ago so engrossed in the grace of the climb or the mechanics of the gear, is suddenly jittery and unfocused, unable to zero in on anything. Limbs start to shake violently –climbers call it “Elvis-ing” or compare it to a sewing machine. You want to call “time-out” or say “wait, hang on, let’s take a break,” or call for your belayer to “take tight,” as if you were hanging from a top-rope. Often, the strongest instinct is to try to somehow look away, to evade the immediacy of the predicament, and it feels oddly like pulling the covers over your head on a Monday morning and thinking: “I don’t wanna go to school!” Only there are no covers, no top-ropes, no breaks, and no possible escape. Only the fall. Or sometimes, the unhoped-for solution.

Gathering a modicum of focus, I willed my mind to cooperate. NO, I thought in a burst of self-control, you’re not gonna fall. You’re gonna figure this out. Right now. There was no feeling left in my right hand. I squeezed its muscles and saw it tighten around the horn. That hand had to stay there. It was too cold to unclench and grab anything else. My left leg started to shake. I made a minuscule shift of my weight onto my right leg, and the shaking stopped. I scanned the face again –only one crack in which to place gear. The one my left hand was in.

My left hand, which was keeping me in my shaky position on the face, was precisely in the one possible spot where I could have placed a piece of pro.

That’s it. That’s it. You’ve gotta move that hand. You’ve got to do it now. I gripped the horn even tighter with my right hand and slowly pulled my left hand out of the crack. For a second, I teetered slowly like an unhinged door, but I didn’t fall. Okay, quick, get something in. My left hand had just enough feeling to grab a large #3 cam from my gear loop. I tried to stuff it into the crack. Too big. Way too big. Come on, man, get it together. Too weak to clip it back to my gear loop, I placed it on a sling I carried around my shoulder. It made a clinking noise as it settled against the carabiner I had clipped to the sling. I tried a #0.4 cam, and it sank into the crack without touching anything. Too small, way too small! What are you thinking? Come on man, come on. I dropped it onto the sling, and it clinked against the #3. My right leg started shaking. Slowly, I inverted the shift back onto my left leg, and the shaking stopped again. Above me, I didn't even dare look at my right hand, now a locked vise around the small horn. I fumbled for a #1 cam, and, shaking, compressed the lobes and dipped it into the crack. It barely went in, and when I released the lever, the lobes barely expanded, gripping into the rock. A perfect placement. This is the one. This is the one! Clip to it! Clip to it now! Both legs now shaking uncontrollably, I reached down to my waist and felt the knots around my climbing loops. I slid my hand down the rope, grabbing an armful of slack, and finally heard the divine sound of the carabiner’s wire-gate click shut around the rope.

“TAKE TIGHT!” I yelled down into the wind.

I didn't hear a response, but I felt the rope tighten and pull me into the inviting embrace of the rock. At last, I sat back in my harness and let go of the rock horn, dangling off my blessed #1 cam. My right hand was a frozen claw, the fingers barely able to move. Even in the cold, I was drenched in sweat. I am not sure if I hung there for two or ten minutes, but it felt like ages. I put my gloves back on for a while and felt the painful sting of my fingers regaining sensation. Above me, the rest of the climbing looked fairly straightforward –hard, but nothing like the run-out bulge I had just gotten past.

Regaining my strength, I called for slack and pulled the last five feet to the rock cubby, wondering what types of contortions might be required for Travis and I to both fit inside. I clipped the fixed anchor, rigged a belay, and called for Travis to climb. A few minutes later, he was level with me, struggling to climb past the white bulge that had so nearly spat me out. Attempting the traverse, he tried out several ledges and holds with his left hand, unable to gain any purchase on the rock. Finally, he leaned back on his right hand and called out to me:

“Dude, that cam is in the one place where I could possibly put my hand!”


Comfortable in my little rock cell, it was all I could do not to laugh.