Chris Pope
The author looks down Boston Basin below Sharkfin Col, the day before he fell
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I was at the tipping point. Scramble successfully up and out of a gully, and there's no story to write. Maintain my balance, and a July three-day weekend would go as planned: traverse 8,815-foot Forbidden Peak up the North Ridge and down the West, drive home to Seattle, maybe even stop at the office Sunday evening to catch up on some work. The climb was not, given my abilities, that technically difficult, so I hadn't expected any great challenges or heroic tales to result.
Falling, on the other hand, creates a whole new scenario. Climbing is a dangerous sport, and I've always been realistic about the risks I've taken in the mountains. But it's one thing to understand those risks intellectually, another to suffer the actual consequences.
This is the second story, the story of how gravity pulled me in the wrong direction. It's also the story of how other people—strangers, mostly—saved my life. And I'm the least interesting part of that story. Tipping one way, from active to passive, made me both a victim and a link, an observer in the fortunate chain of events that took me from a remote, snow-topped ridge 8,000 feet high in the North Cascades wilderness to Harborview Medical Center on Seattle's First Hill.
The Rope Team
I looked down at my legs. Bones were jutting out above both ankles, just above my boot tops. Blood was pooling around me as I lay crumpled at the bottom of a nasty, nameless gully. I felt numb; my mouth was dry. I was too stunned to feel much initial pain, although I realized my helmet and dark glasses had also broken on impact. I had just fallen some 15 feet, boots first, shattering the tibias in both legs, snapping the fibulas like twigs, leaving my feet flopping uselessly like chunks of boneless chicken. I was completely helpless. It was not a pretty sight. Had I been climbing alone, I would've eventually died right there at the bottom of the gully—of shock, blood loss, or hypothermia if the weather deteriorated. It was not a good situation.
And yet the weekend had begun so promisingly. Friday, July 30, was a perfectly pleasant morning as I pulled into a turnout on the gravel road leading from Marblemount (on state Route 20) to Cascade Pass. Following the usual ritual, three of us—who had never climbed together before—pulled out our rucksacks, laced up our boots, and began sorting our gear on the ground. There was Sean Sullivan, 35, a software-industry professional; myself, 40, a journalist; and Chris Pope, 39, a fireman who works out of Fire Station No. 39 in Lake City.
As a member of the Seattle Mountaineers (founded in 1906), I've discovered that signing up for such a club-sponsored climb is like a blind date. You're often roping up with unknown personalities of uncertain judgment and ability; it's an implicit bargain that says, should the situation require, "You save my ass, or I'll save yours." There's a lot of trust involved, reliant on a common set of skills and training most members gain through the club's climbing courses.
Scarfing down some sweet rolls, we discussed the route, an infrequently climbed one that nonetheless seemed straightforward. We'd hike north into Boston Basin, drop through a col (pass) in a ridge onto the glacier on the other side, traverse west to gain the North Ridge, then bivouac ("bivy") at the end of the first day. (See map, p. 28.)
Simple enough. Apart from some time wasted in finding the col, we gained a beautiful bivy spot late that afternoon, with plenty of time for napping and sock-drying before dinner. It was a gorgeous perch, with the heavily crevassed Boston Glacier to the east and the Forbidden Glacier to the west. This was why I climb: the privileged view, the hard-earned perspective that requires a lot of sweat, moderate risk, and total concentration.
Sean Sullivan (rear) and the author start up Forbidden's North Ridge
(Chris Pope) |
SATURDAY MORNING I set out in the lead position on our three-man rope. We employed what's called a running belay: I would clip the rope through pieces of protection ("pro") set in the rock behind me. These metal gizmos, crammed into the rock, could combine with the weight and friction of my climbing partners to help prevent a long, fatal fall from the ridge crest to the glaciers below. Safety wasn't absolute; on such a long route, it was more important to travel swiftly—to get up and over the summit before darkness fell, to avoid a second bivy if possible.
Being first on the rope means taking "the sharp end." Climbers traditionally swap positions between leader and follower to share that risk. In general, it's safer (but slower) to place more pieces of pro as you go. But if you place fewer pieces, whether owing to haste or confidence, there's a greater danger that your rope partners won't stop you before you hit some ledge or outcrop below.
That morning, I was mainly concerned with picking our way along the ridge—when to go left or right, which side was easier and faster to reach the later, steeper pitches above. (A "pitch" can refer to a rope length or a distinct section between fixed belay points.) After moving fairly steadily for an hour or so, we stopped around 9 o'clock to debate the route— stick to the steeper ridge crest, or descend and detour slightly left (east) to cross a gully and gain some easy-looking ledges. I opted for the latter.
