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Here's a totally bizarre story I wrote a while back and just
recently edited. It's a TR or sorts, but it didn't start out
that way. Originally, I was pondering the cataclysmic nature
of injury and how it changes reality in an instant. I've
been hurt in the back country a few times, so unfortunately,
I have some experience with the subject. My way of
describing the before and after aspects of this event almost
lends the feel of 2 separate stories. What I ended up with
has nothing to do with Christmas, or the climb, or even
getting hurt. Not sure it has anything to do with anything.
I know it made me feel better to write it.
Anyway, I hadn't posted anything substantial in a while and
hoped to make amends. Yet another story from the Milktoast
Chronicles...
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The Price of Success
(an ascent of Lower Cathedral Spire)
by Dingus Milktoast
Angus and I drive through the north gate of Yosemite at
nearly 30 miles an hour; without stopping! And get this...
the rangers don't pursue. No, we're not dreaming. No, I'm
not the President's nephew. It's 4 in the morning and as we
all know, the rangers are still asleep. We're in long route
mode. A 2 am departure from home assures us of a first place
start on the route of our choice.
I find myself climbing the Spires Gully at dawn. I've been
here many times before. There are some outstanding routes up
here, but the price of admission is the 1000 foot approach.
There is a climbers trail that wanders through the woods,
then up the gully through a maze of tumbled boulders and
thick underbrush. The consolation is that the climber is
assured of being thoroughly warmed up at the base of any
route.
There are some cool climbs up here. The Braille Book, a
steep 700 foot corner system, is probably the best 5.8 route
in the valley. Higher Cathedral Spire, first climbed with
soft iron and logging boots, goes free at solid 5.9,
rewarding the climber with an amazing summit island. The
North East Buttress of Higher Cathedral Rock is a testament
to 5.9 Yosemite crack climbing. It's a serious Grade IV with
many difficult sections of rock over the course of 12
pitches.
We take a left turn where normally most continue straight
up the gully. Lower Cathedral Spire is our goal today; a
summit I've never touched. The Regular route went up at
about the same time as the Higher Spire route, but it
doesn't interest me. Today, it's the North East Face that
requires our attention.
Roper called this climb an outstanding line, hard and
committing. He predicted it would become a trade route. He
was right on the first statement, but way off on the second.
I asked around. No one I know has ever done the route.
Reason enough to climb it right there! Know my definition
of a great Yosemite route? One I've done but none of my
friends have. It automatically becomes the best climb in the
valley of it's grade, whatever that happens to be. I did a
classic sandbag on two of my buddies with the Yosemite Point
Buttress climb. Told them it was the classic route of it's
type in the valley. Just didn't tell them what type.
We stand at the base of the Lower Spire, trying to find the
start of our route. We are in a large concave area, with
much rotten rock above us, leading to a ridge and the base
of the spire proper. The guide book is back down at the car.
The first 2 pitches are supposed to be easy 5.7 and 5.4.
This looks anything but easy! But we see some slings about a
pitch up, so Angus heads up to investigate. Isn't it funny
how easy a dangerous and difficult lead can appear?. He bobs
and weaves his way over two ledge systems, over, under and
even through loose hanging boulders. I slap at a horde of
mosquitoes and urge him to hurry. He mutter oaths at me as
he finally reaches the belay, a mere 4 pieces between us.
I follow. Now it's my turn to mutter. Damn! It's hard!
Scary too! The rocks are loose. I'm afraid to pull very hard
on some of them. It's all covered with lichen. Fools must
have put those slings up there. Fools like us? What gets us
into places like this? They're probably rappel slings
anyway. What kind of idiots climb a rappel route up loose
rock? You need go no further for your answer. Meet idiot A
and idiot B. Angus's pitch is at least 5.8 in difficulty. It
also deserves a R rating. Now it's my turn.
I find myself ascending an indistinct corner up stacks of
loose and overhanging rock. There are plenty of cracks, but
none of them offer any protection. I'm sucked higher and
higher. In many cases I'm scared to even jam. I don't want
half of the crack to go sailing out into space. Finally I
get a piece in; something that might hold a fall. Angus
remains stoic, but I assure him all is well. The higher I
go, the worse it gets. Eventually, I'm about 15 feet below
the shoulder at the base of the spire, facing a hard and
unprotected move through a loose overlap. I fidget for a
while and then finally commit. Adrenaline sees me through
the 5.9 moves. Wow! That's the scariest lead of my life.
It's funny though. The real fear hits me after it's over.
Now I realize just how far out there I was. While engaged,
while dealing with the lead, the horrors are held at bay
automatically. Now as I look back down and watch Angus
remove one of the 3 pieces I placed, I understand the full
consequences of my actions. Had I blown that last series of
moves I might very well have stripped both of us from the
wall. Heady stuff! Angus gives me a look as he reaches the
belay. Words are inadequate to describe these two pitches.
But the look says it all. It's a look of admiration tempered
with the knowledge that he's looking at a madman. It's a
haunted look. I don't like seeing that look on my climbing
partners' faces.
Angus gets an easy 4th class pitch around some trees along
the shoulder. My next lead, now obviously on route, ascends
a crack system through a small overhang to an alcove beneath
an even bigger overhang. Killer crack climbing all the way.
I set up my belay, very pleased with myself and the rock.
It's all solid here, with no lichens and no death blocks.
Angus leads straight out of the alcove for several feet,
using a wide crack in the ceiling for his hands, head and
arms, stemming his feet in the chimney below. Nothing but
hundreds of feet of clean air beneath. It looks like 5.13
from where I'm perched and I fret for the rest of his lead,
worried I'll slip under the ceiling and go sailing over that
void. I hate that shit. He finally signals off belay and I
follow.
Turns out the ceiling is about 5.8 and very climbable. The
hard stuff is higher up. Faced with the choice of thin
unprotected crack climbing or hard, overhanging off width,
Angus chose the thin crack. It deviates from the main crack
system out onto a bulging face. There is a very similar
pitch on the East Buttress of El Cap offering the same kind
of choices. This one's harder to climb and protect. Angus
only got one marginal piece in about 50 feet. But the locks
are very solid, painful in fact. When I reach him, it's my
turn to give him "the look." I don't even like to imagine myself
leading such a pitch!
The last lead is mine. Again, I'm faced with alternate 5.9
options. Wide crack straight up or slightly overhanging
hands to the right. I whimper about for several minutes. The
wide stuff looks easier, but the old green guide book warns
of it's burly nature. Angus finally counsels that I should
take the hand crack. Half way up I get an attack of the
chicken shits and stop to place a cam when my rational mind
tells me to keep going. I flub a red camelot placement, blow
my arms out fixing it and end up grabbing the damn thing.
After that, it's no holds bar jamming for another 50 feet to
reach the lower end of the summit.
Finally we stand on the very tip of Lower Cathedral Spire.
Wow! The view is incredible. We lounge about for a while,
hollering against Higher Cathedral Rock just to hear the
echo. Higher Spire looms above looking like a castle for the
gods themselves. This has been a well-earned summit and we
revel in the glory of it all. But we have to rap to get down
from here and I can never truly relax in the face of
mandatory rappels, so all to soon we pack up and head down.
The rope catches on the first rappel. We both pull on it
for several minutes. Nothing; it's stuck. Finally Angus ties
a loop in the rope and stands in it like it's an aid sling.
I pull on Angus. That does it. The rope comes sailing down.
Soon we're back at the base, swatting mosquitoes again. We
pack up everything and head down the talus toward Angus's
truck. We're feeling a little cocky and quite pleased with
ourselves.
A few words about talus may be in order here. There's a lot
of talus in Yosemite. Much of it was deposited by the same
ancient glaciers that carved the spectacular cliffs. The
older, less active talus slopes have always seemed pretty
stable to me. This particular slope leading down from Lower
Cathedral Spire seems as though it hasn't moved in eons. All
the rocks have that deep gray weathering and are lichen
covered. There are few fresh rock scars. There are no trails
and very few signs of other hikers or climbers. Normally I
would pick my way carefully down through such a place,
taking care to test suspect rocks before committing my
weight to them.
But the mosquitoes are swarming and I can here the beer
calling my name. Angus leads out at a slow jog, talus
running Doug Robinson style. I remember that Robinson
article, have read it in reprint. He talks of the dance, of
the dynamics of boulder hopping. I've been doing it my whole
climbing career. I know a thing or two about talus running,
I tell myself with conceit as I read his words. Funny thing,
though. You don't hear Doug Robinson talking much about the
consequences of a talus running mistake. I guess he left
that to me.
After 10 minutes or so we come out of the shade of the
spire and stop to regroup, get our bearings and a drink of
water. Angus leads off to the right, stepping on a teetering
rock and jumping down hard to a small platform. I don't like
the looks of it and make an instant decision to go left. I
too jump down hard onto a big rock. Too late I realize I
have made a very bad mistake.
My chosen landing is a big rock, about the size of a 2
drawer file cabinet. It is perched at the top of a short
slab. Of course there are other rocks around, above and
below it. As soon as my weight hits it the rock gives way
and begins rolling down the slab, taking me and some of it's
sister rocks with it. I fall onto my butt and begin sliding.
An even bigger rock, formerly held in check by the rock I
kicked loose, is rolling beside me. All of this happens in
about 5 milliseconds, but to me the scale of time seems
altered.
I reach out and push at the other rock, trying with all my
might to get away from it. It seems as though it's working.
I am able to alter it's trajectory. Then I slam into the
pile of rocks at the base of the slab and stop, still in a
standing position with legs splayed, but with my butt still
against the slab. The boulder I pushed hits another rock and
just as I come to a stop, rebounds right at me! One final
push keeps the damn thing off my knee, but just barely. As
it is, it rolls right over my lower left leg.
My leg was pressed against the slab to begin with. There is
no where for it to go. The boulder smashes over both my calf
and ankle. I'm wearing recently purchased mountaineering
boots to break them in. I believe they just saved my ankle.
As the rock hits me it rolls my leg in the same direction of
travel; to the right. Part of the weight of the boulder is
absorbed by the sole of the boot. The padding around the
ankle also helps save me from what surely would have been
badly crushed bones. This final deflection forces it to roll
directly over my calf muscle. The rock stops between my
legs, the smell of flint floating heavily in the air.
Ten seconds ago I was descending from a successful climb,
carefree and anxious to get a sandwich and a beer. Now I'm
at the bottom of a landslide and I'm badly hurt. Just how
bad I don't know. But it is bad enough that my time scale
remains altered. My entire world centers around my left leg
and the beating of my heart.
As the rock rolls over my calf, my head explodes in a
bright flash of pain. Oh God! My leg! My leg is broken!
Aaaagh! I can't even look at it, it hurts so bad. Then my
heart beats one beat; THUMP. Whatever I thought I knew about
pain a heartbeat ago is blown away by an even greater wave
of bright, savage pain. I can't hold it back, the pain
exceeds my ability to keep it inside. AAAAAAAGH! It feels as
though my leg has been crushed to a pulp, as if every bone
in it has been pulverized. My eyes bulge. I can't breath.
Pain is the only thing in the universe I understand.
THUMP. The next pulse of blood brings on a tidal wave of
fresh pain, exceeding the previous two by a mile. There is
no way I can hold it in. AAAAAAGH! I become aware of Angus
making his startled way toward me, his anxious questions. I
can't even acknowledge his existence, let alone respond.
THUMP, goes my heart. Another, and unbelievably even
stronger wash of pain floods every nerve in my brain. If I
don't let it out I'll literally explode. AAAAAAGH!
At this point the survival being takes over. I slide myself
away from the scene of the accident, to the left, into a
half sitting position. THUMP. AAAAAAGH! I'm holding my left
leg with both hands, above the knee. Angus is standing
beside me, looking at me as if I'm some kind of high school
science experiment gone horribly wrong. He probably thinks
I'm over-reacting. THUMP! AAAAAAAAAGH! I'm not. Incredibly,
each heartbeat continues to bring on a more powerful surge
of pain than the one before it. Each time I am unable to
contain it and have to let it out as a scream. And that's
what these are, blood curdling, agonizing screams, pure and
simple. I have previously suffered broken bones, sprained
ankles, bad cuts, serious road rash and a host of other
violations to my body, but nothing, I mean nothing in my
experience with pain has prepared me for this. This far
exceeds anything I have ever dealt with before. Why I don't
pass out I'll never know.
THUMP! The pain still surges through my body, but this time
seemingly of the same intensity as the last. I manage to
open my eyes. Perhaps 20 or 30 seconds have passed since the
rock rolled over my leg. THUMP! I shudder and shake, but
manage to keep it in. Shock is now knocking on my door, but
the survival animal in my soul is not going to let it come
in. The automaton takes over. Rational thought soon follows
and I begin to take stock.
THUMP! Angus is still standing over me, watching me writhe
in pain, unsure of what to do. I look at my leg, expecting
to see a horror of torn flesh and broken bones. But there's
nothing to see; no blood, no strange angles, nothing. THUMP!
I have to know if it's broken, that's the first order of
business. But I'm too scared to pull the pant leg up. I get
Angus to help me stand. As I do, a new pulse of blood forces
it's way into the depths of my leg. This is as close I ever
come to passing out. My world goes down to tunnel vision
with blackness around the edges. My hearing goes high pitch
like the tail end of a wave gently washing up over wet sand.
A cold sweat breaks out instantly over my entire body. I
shiver uncontrollably in the hot sun. THUMP! Dizzy, I sway
and start to fall. As I do, I'm forced to stand on my left
leg to keep from falling. THUMP! It holds my weight! As
screwed up as I am, I'm still aware enough to be surprised
that I can stand on it.
I sit again quickly. Now I can muster the courage to look
at it. Okay. It's not broken. Good. It's red and looks like
it's going to swell. But the assault of pain continues,
totally out of line with the visual inspection. Can I walk?
Angus asks me if he should go for help. I automatically tell
him no. My every instinct is geared to self-rescue. I don't
want to be carried out on a stretcher. I can use that
stubbornness to fight the pain. If I sit here very long I
know I won't be able to get up again. This thing is gonna
swell fast. My only hope is to get moving now. I tell him I
want to start down. He takes my pack and even finds me a
good stick. I get back up. This time the rush of pain is
expected, but it still takes everything I have to not
scream. I take my first step and almost topple.
No, it's not broken. But I have to learn how to use the
damaged limb, all the while descending a trail-less boulder
field. I find that I can stand on it, but that's about it. I
can't move my leg or ankle in any way that causes the calf
muscle to contract. To do so invites a fresh wave of pain.
Each new wave of pain takes me closer to shock.
Ever try to walk down hill without bending your ankle in any
way? It's not easy! But with Angus's help and a will to
move, I manage to stay upright. We work our way down, down,
down through the endless field of stone. Less than 5 minutes
passed between our water break, the accident, and starting
to move again. Yet everything has changed in that 5 minutes.
Everything.
Time has no meaning for me now. I am a being that lives in
between steps. I take a step and deal with the resulting
pain, breathing fast and shallow, awash in cold sweat and
shivers. I'm still dancing on the verge of shock. I know
that if I do stop, it'll take me. That fear keeps me moving
as much as anything else. I stabilize enough to plan my next
step, then I take it. A new wave of pain floods. I repeat
this process hundreds of times down the slope. Finally, we
reach the trail junction and a cache of gatorade. Angus
stashed it there this morning. I'd totally forgotten about
it. Gratitude brings tears to my eyes as I drink. Angus is
there, right by my side, the whole way down, helping me when
I need it, staying back when I don't, enduring a torrent of
gutter language and encouraging me in the process. There are
friends and there are friends. This is a guy I know will
stick with me right to the gates of Hell. I gain a lot of
moral strength from his character.
It takes me about 2 hours to reach the truck. I expect it
might have taken us 20 minutes, sans accident. I hobble
through the final level steps in the woods, approaching the
loop road. It's actually harder for me to walk on level
ground! In foolish pride I angrily throw my stick away as I
step from the woods onto the pavement. I don't want any
tourons to see me hobbling with a crutch. Luckily, Angus
drove this morning. All that's left is a ride back home.
Once again, my eyes flood with tears, only this time out of
relief . The worst of the ordeal is finally over.
Epilogue:
It's been several years since I crushed my leg under that
boulder. Time is the great healer and has worked it's magic
on me. I have to concentrate hard to remember some of the
details. For instance, I can no longer recall the pain. Oh,
I know it hurt all right. Hurt worse than anything in my
life, before or since. I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on
my worst enemy. But I can no longer conjure up the feeling
or remember the pain. I think my brain erased the memory in
the interest of self-preservation. And I can no longer
remember how big the rock was. It was big. 300 pounds? More?
Less? I don't know. Maybe someday I'll go back up there and
find it, carve my initials into or something.
By the time I got home that day I could no longer walk. My
leg would no longer hold any weight at all. I had to keep it
propped up to keep the pain pulses, timed impeccably with
the beating of my heart, at bay. When I brought it down, I
was flooded with the same intense pain I felt when I first
crushed it. We got home late, and I figured the damage was
already done. Not respecting the danger of blood clots, I
decided to hold off going to the doctor until the next day.
I went to one of those out-patient clinic things that are
so popular these days. The doctor there was quite shocked at
the extent of my injury and the fact that I got there under
my own power. She didn't know what to do, other than to
advise me of the nature of soft tissue damage and blood
clots. She described symptoms to me that for all the world
sounded like a stroke or a heart attack. Precisely, she
said. She indicated that due to the massive nature of the
injury (my entire calf muscle was crushed), hundreds or even
thousands of tiny blood clots could be forming. If any of
them broke loose...
The only other thing she could offer were pain pills. I
declined, telling myself it was better this way. Besides, I
had to go to work. Yup, that's right, work. I'm was the lone
field engineer and an important client was taking one of our
systems live the next morning. There was no replacement
available. I had to be there and there I was, hobbling
around on crutches, literally sick with pain. It won me
Employee of the Month for whatever that's worth.
I have a picture stuck in some drawer. It shows my calf
when the swelling was at it's height. My calf was the same
size as my thigh! Oh does it look sick. At night I had to
prop my foot up in such a way as to prevent my calf muscle
from touching the bed. Getting up in the morning was always
the toughest. Like most people, I wake up and go straight to
the bathroom. But bringing my leg down to the floor after
having it elevated all night brought on thick waves of pain
that rivaled the initial injury in their intensity. It
usually lasted between 30 seconds to a minute. I would get
dizzy as the throbbing agony intensified beat after beat. If
I gave in a sat it made getting up again that much harder to
endure. So I usually just forced myself to stand there and
let the pain wash over me, like a wave on the beach. I tried
to let it wash right through me as well, but that was
harder. I had some days better than others.
Getting up slowly brought on the pain slowly. Getting up
fast delayed the pain for a few seconds, then caused a tidal
wave as the demons caught up. But I used that delay. I'd get
up and start hopping for the bathroom in one go. My goal was
to be leaning against the wall next to the toilet when the
wave hit me. That way I could either stand there and take
it, or at worst, sag onto the toilet. In either case, I was
where I needed to be.
I went to see a specialist after a week's time. He poked
and prodded, mumbled and scratched things on my chart. After
all that (to the tune of 300 bucks an hour) he said,
"That's the damnedest soft tissue injury I've ever seen."
He had little else to offer, in his professional opinion.
He too cautioned about clots. He too offered pain pills. I
thanked him for his time and hobbled back home.
Four weeks after the accident I was able to walk without
crutches, although slowly. The next weekend I went climbing
at Lover's Leap with Angus. We did easy routes and I
surprised myself at how well I could manage. Hiking was more
difficult than climbing. The next weekend saw a little more
improvement so I went up to Sonora Pass with Burl and
Angus. We hatched some crazy plans that day and the next
weekend saw us succeed on a one day attempt at Balloon Dome,
deep in the heart of Mammoth Pool country. I considered
myself healed at that point.
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