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False Death and the Uncaring Cruelty of Mountains

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When I was wandering off from my values, death brought me home. When I had forgotten what my purpose was and why I came to the woods, death came gently, reminding me. When the dreaded knot of “other people’s values” had tangled itself all around my work and my knowledge, death came by to show me what matters most. When I had lost my relationship to the woods, my relationship with places, death forced me to slow down, to heal, and to begin again. To learn those difficult lessons we never feel like learning.

It was quick, uncaring, brisk accident that nearly left my children without a mother. I lost my footing and just like *that*, I was released from the rock and began my tumbled descent backwards across the slab, head cracking against the rock swiftly with each turn, cartwheeling toward the edge I knew was right there.

I screamed.

I screamed my son’s name as I fell. I was powerless to stop myself as the edge approached rapidly.

One last head crack, and then I flipped into a chute. I landed, miraculously, standing upright, in a little cut where the water runs off the slab. Looking down, I saw the sky behind my feet. My tongue slid across my teeth; none were broken. I crawled back up on to the slab to sit, rest, be still. I wanted to lay my cheek against the cold, uncaring rock of the mountain and feel its stillness, be held in is embrace once more. I was filthy and bleeding, the wrist on my right arm began to swell; I would later learn it was broken. My left elbow also swelled, my left hand rendered unusable. I down-climbed off the mountain in the sunset, with two fingers on my left hand and the forearm of my right, triumphant upon reaching the basin floor. Triumphant to still be alive, but fully broken open, weeping.

Death came for my life, but then decided to teach me a lesson by taking my arms and breaking them instead. Leaving me unable to rock climb, which at that time was my greatest passion. I was at the peak of my fitness; incredibly strong from a continuous, four-season schedule of hard, limit-testing days in the mountains. I bounded up the steepest trails with ease, felt unchallenged by twenty mile days. Relatively new to rock climbing, I was brashly fearless, getting stronger all the time, and delighting in the way it was changing my body. I had never had an accident in the back country. I had never been witness to one. I guess I thought it would never happen to me; I thought rock climbing had taught me how to control my body in the mountains. I felt invincible. I did not have any fear that day. I underestimated the uncaring cruelty of the mountains.

As the bones of my radius knitted themselves together again, all the muscles in my forearm wasted away. All the strength I had worked to build slowly faded as the weeks passed. The cast was almost loose enough to slide off on the day they removed it. I did not recognize my own skinny arms anymore. They seemed to belong to someone else.

I had thought I understood, from the beginning, how to process the emotional tax of the accident. I immediately thought to myself, “Where will this feeling go if I don’t allow myself to feel it right now?” So I cried. I cried all day and into the night. I cried in the arms of my friends, I cried while I held my children. I cried in the shower, on the toilet, in the backyard while watering my garden. I thought I could just keep crying and eventually, it would work itself out. I drove my car to the woods several times each week, sobbing gently on the mountain highway.

The most haunting experience of all was the false memory that had implanted itself in my mind. I could not remember back to that day without imagining my own death. My memory of landing upright in a safe place was buried beneath the fear fantasy I had constructed. Replaying in my mind the events as they actually transpired took conscious effort.

Otherwise, I pictured my death vividly. I could remember the scrambling motions I made to try and stop myself as I hurtled toward the edge; fingers reaching, grasping and finding nothing. The way it felt when I left the rock, the rock left me, and I fell through the sky. I imagined my body crumpling upon itself like a sheet of paper as it crushed against the hot, rocky talus slope below. I felt the wave of pain, the wave of regret, and then nothing at all. I died a false death, alone, under the blinding sun, every single time.

I didn’t understand why I had been cursed in this way. Hadn’t I done everything right? I cried, I cared for my body inside and out, I sat with my feelings and my fear. I was so determined to learn this lesson the first time around. What didn’t I understand?

Facing, and somehow still missing the point all along, I couldn’t “make my body heal”. I kept trying to make my brush with death a simple footnote, another wild story, a project to complete, something to move beyond.

Meanwhile, I had returned to the woods.

The place I chose was one of convenience. Easy access from the highway. Closest wilderness area to my house. No big, show stopping destinations. Just a quiet, shady place to go do some miles in the forest.

An old friend once advised me to stop spreading myself around in the various forests of the Pacific Northwest. The key to knowing a place, to learning it’s secrets, is returning again and again. Listening. I decided it was time to take his advice.

This place; it would become my place. It would become my forest home. I would come to know not just the trails, but all the woods they moved through. Places where you could leave the path and investigate along a ridge, or pick your way through the fern grotto to reach a small sandy beach along the river. Places where the feeling in the forest was always heavy and strange, where the birds went quiet, where it always seemed dark, even in the heat of august. Portals. Some almost sing out to you as you pass; are they calling you closer or issuing a gentle warning? Either way, I like staring into the abyss.

I kept on crying as I shuffled up and down those trails. I kept dreaming of that perfect moment when I would finally understand the lessons. All would be revealed! I would be healed in my body and soul! I would be released! The forest magic would provide a complete, instant transformation. I would return to my pre-accident, fearless self. A little bit wiser, but unchanged. The fear in my muscles and bones would be only a memory.

Summer gave way to fall on the trails in my forest home. Each week, I watched the leaves change from green to yellow to red and then drop in full sheets across the ground. The air became crisp and the rains returned. I continued my dutiful miles along the ridges and into the canyons, rarely seeing anyone else. The spooky places called out to me and I found myself calling out to them, too. Exploring their edges, wandering in to them, getting closer.

Fall gave way to winter; the ground froze and the rain got colder. Mushrooms sprang up through the earth. Hoarfrost formations, crunchy leaves, ethereal low-hanging mists. As I pressed through the slide alders, who’s work reclaiming the old logging road was nearly complete, my breath formed great clouds. The ravens announced my presence. Small birds would follow me, flitting from branch to branch; their cheerful little songs felt serene. I occasionally felt the energy of a larger animal, a predator, nearby. I was being watched, but not followed. I never saw any deer or elk. I never saw any other mammals.

The winter pressed onward, and the snow started to fall. I added another layer under my rain shell, put on my micro spikes, and kept hiking. I slowed down. The forest silence was powerful on those darkest days. I felt held by it. I felt seen by the trees. I saw no one else. I returned again and again; the magick unfurling at my feet in new, subtle ways each time.

My perfect moment of realization never came, no matter how many times I longed for it. I never regained my fearless charge to see every ridge-line for myself. Instead, something softer, and more authentic grew in its place. I had connected back into myself, realizing the destination was always just a distraction; both in the backcountry and in my longing to be made whole within. There would be no “return to”’ because it was time to go somewhere else.

I have so much yet to learn.

47 thoughts on “False Death and the Uncaring Cruelty of Mountains”

  3. Beautifully written! I had a similar experience with a near-death fall in Lodore Canyon, but I’m not sure I was wise enough to learn much from it. I do think photography, geologizing and hiking with a child have all taught me that there are ways to go deep in a landscape that don’t involve anything that would be considered “extreme” or carry bragging rights.

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    1. A well-written post with a powerful message. After I had a near-death experience two years ago I was plagued by the weird idea that I had actually died that day and this new perceived reality was an alternative self in a parallel universe. I still feel unreal most of the time. Glad the forest helped you to heal.

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  6. A very powerful story of self-discovery. I live in a rural area on the family homestead. My dad loved to hunt and fish, and so do I. I know every dip in the terrain, best place to cross creeks, and have seen trees grow from tiny samplings. There’s a comfort in nature you can’t find anywhere else.

    This was also very tightly written. Normally, I don’t read long blog posts, but I couldn’t tear myself away from this one. 🙂 Great photos too.

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      1. Other than God, I keep wondering how you used survived. I can only put it, it wasn’t your time.
        There was a worker who fell off a five story construction site and hit the paved floor. He sat up and brushed himself off as people ran towards him asking him if he’s ok. He was overwhelmed with joy that not a bone was broken. Everybody who witnessed this was gobbed smacked struck in awe and disbelief. You don’t fall from a five story building and survive to tell the tale. But he did. As the workman who was so overjoyed he survived the fall, he offered everyone to buy them drinks. There was a pub across the road and as he was crossing the road, he got hit by a car and killed instantly. You see, it wasn’t his time nor the place he was supposed to depart this world, but it was there in the middle of the road at a particular time he was.
        I’m glad you survived the fall because I feel you have so much to offer and as you learn along the way, you’ll pass on this knowledge of wisdom, you’ve earned as I do to others in my craft of traditional woodworking.

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  9. Wow, and I don’t get to say that very often. As with the commenters above, I have a story. Mine was experienced in an urban environment — just outside my mum’s front door. I was in my forties, at peak fitness and cheeky with it. A running jump off mum’s front porch usually landed me on my feet half way down the path. On this day I had forgotten that it rained the previous night and the edge of the verandah was damp. Result? Me flying through the air at full speed as my legs went out from under me. I remember thinking, “This is going to hurt.” I landed on my back and lay there waiting for the pain. It didn’t come, but that added to my anxiety — spinal injury! After a few seconds, I started wiggling toes and fingers — they worked fine. Sitting up, feeling very stupid, I looked around and no one had seen what happened. I sat there feeling lucky and wondering how I had survived. In short, every part of me must have hit the concrete at exactly the same moment, absorbing the energy. Still think about what might have happened — young family, mortgage etc.
    I’m pleased you survived and I look forward to reading about your adventures.
    We are lucky enough, now, to live on the edge of a forest.
    Terry

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  12. “The key to knowing a place, to learning its secrets, is returning again and again.” I love this line. Your story is remarkable and, as Russell Gayer commented, tightly written. At first glance, it is a ~Wow, what a trauma you experienced and how fortunate that you lived to tell the tale~ sort of writing, but then, a little further, when you say, “My perfect moment of realization never came, no matter how many times I longed for it. I never regained my fearless charge to see every ridge-line for myself. Instead, something softer, and more authentic grew in its place.” This resonates with me. I cannot phrase it properly in a comment here. It may be worked out better in an essay. I’ll use this as a starting point, if you will allow, and maybe, finally, write what I have so far this year, or in the previous three, been unable to articulate. Thank you for visiting my blog. Otherwise I would have missed out on something special.

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  13. Pingback: How To Be A Brilliant Human | Honie Briggs

  14. You tell your story so powerfully. When I had a similar experience I felt death walk beside me for many years. Now I walk as you do, getting to know one place deeply, rooting myself in the natural landscape, changing with the seasons.

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  15. I have climbed a lot, for decades. Each climb is a life, with its potential death attached. It doesn’t matter how easy: the easier climbs kill more, because there are more of them, and one’s guard is down, because they are easy. Also easier climbs are harder to protect, because the hardest climbs would not go without some protection.

    Never let the guard down, expect danger from the expected and unexpected, try to keep a safety margin because sometimes it will erode or disappear, all of a sudden.

    Climbing teaches to master one’s hubris. It forces the otherwise arrogant, uninformed human mind to listen to the universe, to take instructions from it, to become one with the universe.

    Why climb? Why live? Each climb, well done, should feel like a life… because it’s a life. But mostly it reveals unknown powers.

    Once I was torn off a mountain by an enormous rock avalanche: my double ropes had been hit by rocks… Also I was running a one hundred meters wide ice gully… in rock climbing shoes, not proper ice equipment, and the belay was horrendously bad. I faced certain death, and when I remember the event, it was as if it happened three seconds ago, although it was three decades… Miraculously, I was able to wedge myself between an ice wall and a rockwall along the side of the gully… and stopped! At the time I was an excellent Yosemite chimney climber… After this I stopped mountain climbing proper for years. But the fact remains that I discovered my brain could mobilize absolutely superhuman strength. When I remember exactly what happened, if someone else than myself described it, I would not believe it.

    So I learned something I could never have learned in books, because I don’t believe in superstitious religions: sometimes the thoroughly impossible happens. For a hard core rationalist such as yours truly, this is an astounding lesson, nearly as astounding as the miracle of life itself.

    Many more lessons can be learned from climbing, or activities similar to it: mountain running, which I still practice between smothering smoke clouds, requires similar neurology. In mountain running one of the dangers is to trip and head head first towards a rock, or off a cliff, it happened to me more than once… although emergency reflexes saved me with fractions of seconds to spare… In general, whereas danger in climbing can appear in seconds, in mountain running, it can appear in hundredths of a second, and one needs to think with one’s body much faster than in climbing.

    What are older folks going to do? Well one can climb into very old age, and of course the best climbers are the oldest, as climbing is a survival school. And to replace mountain running, there is always hiking. There is actually a rule among professional mountain runners: if you can’t see the top of a rise, you walk (high angle running is less efficient an walking).

    We, and the universe. Be it from having a pet, to enjoying a landscape, to be human beings in full, of this we need to be reminded all the time: we are at our best, when we are one with the universe.

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  18. Wow..you have shared with your readers, an amazing story of trauma and realizations, of despair and understanding. A near death experience that changed your way of thinking about things…. I enjoyed very much your style of relating it too..

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  19. Awesome writing. Happy you found the woods and yourself again. Something like what you experienced is tough business for sure. I wrote a fictional short story (The Anchor, check my blog) of a similiar vein, but only once did I ever come close to what you expereinced. Once when I was working construction in my wild youth before al the safety measures now in place, I was walking 12 inch concrete wall about 3o feet in the air and my coverall snagged a rebar and I went face first and hit some stageing about five feet below me hitting two cross beams, one on my chest and one on my thighs. Twenty or so feet below me was nothing but dozens of concrete rebars upon which I was not impaled. Nothing like the tumble yuou took however. But your story reminded me of that incident so long ago now. All my best to you in your writing.

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  25. Awesome story of awakening. Powerful. We can love Nature, but it doesn’t mean Nature will love us back… Nature could care less. But we love it anyway. Of course we do. Lessons for life. Always remember who’s in charge… It’s not us puny humans. Learning this frees us to be authentic in our relationships with the life of the Wild. There are no rescues. It’s up to us to survive on our own. Be humble.

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  26. I can very-well relate to your feeling of coming near death. I once lost my footing while rock-climbing and held on by only three fingers. Another time I was run by a car and I remember seeing the curb sliding in my view as it dragged me by the braking wheels. But this is about you, not me. I believe these things happen as a wakeup call: to prod us to do something extraordinary: like your blog, say. Keep the good work. Your account is language-rich, melodious-sounding, and captivating: I couldn’t stop reading. I hungered more when I got to the end, but what a way to end! We probably learn something every day until we die. Thank you for visiting my blog.

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  28. Actually – it raises interesting questions about the nature of risks and risk-taking. Physical risks, emotional risks, and all the rest of them. Why do we move beyond the cocoons of our safety zones? And to what ends? And at whose expense? We know that adolescents are wired to step out and take risks. We know the adrenalin rush of getting close to the edge.

    There are the pioneers driven by necessity and adventure who push themselves to a limit for so many reasons. There are the self-destructive who do not feel alive unless close to death.

    And think of those who take to social and political risks – driven by conscience – to do the right thing for others in spite of the deadly risk to their own careers, livelihoods, and careers! Amazing courage.

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  35. I like the way you are writing, it talks to me, if you know what I mean.
    We all have still so much to learn about life, don’t we … and when I am too cocksure about something, I get taken down a peg or two immediately. Your experience was more of a steam hammer though. Getting down the mountain with broken bones must have been extremely painful.

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  38. Wondrous experience when death becomes a teacher. Especially in the beauty and enchantment of the real world – the wilderness. The home you prepare so much to be a part of. To experience all our senses can grasp and beyond. That rawness can be unforgiving. But we heal and emerge transformed. Just as the mountain after being carved by the glacier. Loved your story ❤

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