There's a saying in climbing: "If you ain't flying, you ain't trying". Whether you call it a flier, a whip, or a screamer, falling is as much a part of climbing as, well, climbing is.

In sport climbing, falls are expected, a typical part of the redpointing process, and often unlikely to be anything to write home about. 

Falling on trad though, that's an entirely different animal.

It's one thing to feel yourself reaching your absolute limit, those drawn-out milliseconds between the realisation that you can't hold on any longer and the actual act of your fingers opening of their own accord, sliding off holds, muscles screaming, voice joining in, flying downwards, but ultimately knowing a nice fat, safe, stainless-steel bolt is going to catch you. It's another thing to fall knowing that the only thing between you and the unthinkable is temporary gear that you stuffed in a crack yourself minutes earlier.

I would argue that the falls in trad are actually far more memorable than straightforward on-sight sends. In a flow state, even at my limit, my brain doesn't seem to actually record the moves or the gear that I placed on on-sights. In comparison, I can remember every single one of my trad falls in painful clarity. The errors that led to them, the gear that arrested my rapid descent, how I felt afterwards.

Ask any trad climber about their falls and they'll whip (sorry) out at least one wild story. If you've fallen off the same thing it can even be a bonding exercise, a shared experience between two total strangers, brought together by unexpected airtime.

So much of climbing media focuses on success, but ultimately, what's more relatable than a good failure? From rite-of-passage falls to 20m rides, let me share some of my favourites with you. Who knows, perhaps you've even taken the exact same ones… 

(I'll avoid as much beta as possible, but if you're really bothered about getting the on-sight, maybe skip the routes you haven't done! It depends how much you care about these things, you've been warned...)

Pleasure Dome (E3 5c), Pembroke

I am not the first person to ever take this whip, and I certainly won't be the last. Admitting to falling off this to other trad climbers is almost like flashing a membership card to secret club, and there are dozens of us out there. Dozens! Actually, I think I've met more people who fell off Pleasure Dome on the on-sight than sent it. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure (dome), this three-star classic at Pembroke starts its intimidation before you even begin the route, with a wide step over turbulent waters, very aware of the weight of metal hanging about your hips. 

From the end of the traverse, the guidebook description says to ignore the obvious line and head further right before starting to go up. I thought I had ignored it, I truly did. I'd traversed past an obvious corner, and now fairly far past my last piece of gear I started to head upwards.

Oh, how wrong I was. There was nothing up there. I remember climbing up and down the same two metres over and over like a faulty lift, searching for something, anything that looked like it might be a 5c hold. In the end, I was clinging on to a dreadful side-pull and a desperate mono trying to figure it out, when my endurance ran out and the sea reached up to claim me. With all that horizontal rope out on the traverse I went far, and dragging myself back up to my gear was a real chore, with my partner Chris having to bounce on the other end of the ropes like a demented rabbit.

Back at my gear I spotted the sneaky hidden jug just centimetres to the right of where I came off. Once I found the actual line, I was outraged to discover that the rest of the route was a breeze, and I cruised up the hidden section and the final simple corner. This was the first time I remember quite enjoying a fall rather than being frustrated and ashamed that I failed, the first time I realised that "I took a mega whip on a mega classic" was more memorable than on-sighting, and that trad falls shouldn't be shameful secrets.   

Strapiombante (E1 5b), The Peak District

"Yeah, but what have you done on the grit?" Oh man, not a lot. I'm afraid I do not worship at the altar of God's Own Rock. A few years ago, I went to Froggatt Edge for the first time, where I had a bash at Strapiombante. For the amount of pump this route packs in, it's hard to believe it's only 8m tall – it certainly has the aura of something much bigger. After zigging right, then zagging back left up the diagonal cracks, I fell off failing to reach the good holds to top out. But that isn't the end of this story. I found myself back at Froggatt last summer, keen for a rematch and ready to show the grit how much I'd improved. 

The audacity, the HUBRIS to think that I had actually gotten any stronger or longer in the last two years. Evidently, I have managed neither. I still couldn't reach, or even find the top out holds. Or maybe I did and I just couldn't use them. Either way there was a lot of huffing, a lot of puffing, and a lot of desperately patting around on horribly sloped grit, interspersed with an equal amount of sitting dejectedly on the rope. In the end, I honestly couldn't be bothered being dominated by this miniature monster anymore, and took advantage of its low-riding position to lower back down to the ground, and simply walk round to the top, still tied in, to set up a top rope for cleaning. I'll get the last laugh one day, Froggatt. Maybe.

Stroll On (E3 6a), Llanberis Pass

I'd heard a lot about route and its reputation, but I still had high hopes. It started out pretty well. I rested below the roof on pasty white holds that have clearly never seen rain, built my bomb shelter, and tried to scope out the beta above. Tried…and failed. Once you leave the relative comfort of the rest, you have only a limited amount of time to get through this crux. With the Countdown clock ticking ominously in my head, I upped and downed, and upped and downed, slapping the holds with increasing desperation, attempting to fingerlock in cracks that were quite clearly not fingerlockable, panting with effort. Eventually, the clock struck zero and my time ran out. I took the fall, ready for the flier… and stopped just inches later. I'd barely moved from my last piece of gear at all. Oh. Well.

I sat on the end of the rope, feeling that at that late point in the season, that I might be at the end of mine. It was only then, of course, that I spotted the intended beta. I managed to battle the incessant, pumpy moves to the top, grunting with the effort and mentally promising a rematch. That rematch came last summer – after quite the flier (to be discussed shortly), I needed something challenging but safe. Something that I knew had solid gear and a short fall if needs be.

This time I was prepared. I stitched the corner nervously, setting myself up for the big crux. I snatched my way through both it and the unrelenting headwall above it, serenading the whole crag, nay, the whole Pass, if not the whole of Eryri with my banshee power screaming. I thought I was coming off at one point, and so did everyone else in the vicinity apparently, but I managed to somehow drag my way through tenuous smears and onto better foot ledges and the jugs. Stroll On also has one of the most uncomfortable belays I've ever had the displeasure of experiencing, but damn it still feels satisfying when you've had a much-needed win against an old adversary. 

Vulture (E4 6a), Tremadog

Chris and I kick off every trad season with an intensive weekend at Tremadog. I had started this particular day last year by announcing that my goal was to get on (accepting that I may fall off) an E4. Boy oh boy, did I deliver. The VS start up Merlin lulled me into a false sense of security and I carried that confident energy up the start of the simultaneously slabby-yet-overhanging ramp. The enthusiasm dissipated rapidly, as I realised that this ramp was not only far steeper than the similar ramp of Geireagle below, but far, far harder to put gear into.

Valiantly, I fought the barndoor as I laybacked all the way up, and was just creeping my outside foot onto a good ledge when my shoe slipped and I went sailing over the edge of the ramp. Luckily, I also flew past the Geireagle ledge underneath, tipping backwards as I went, slamming my bum into the wall and gaining a beautiful purple and green reminder of why frequent gear is important, no matter how difficult it is to place. Very keen not to retake that fall, and with psyche already gone home, I aided up most of the rest of the route. Unfortunately for Chris, this meant I had unwittingly plugged a key hand-hold with a cam, thereby robbing him of the much-coveted top rope flash.

Aiding actually takes a really bloody long time, so it was quite a while later that we made it back to the car for tea (lukewarm car water) and medals (dry crackers). I did debate getting back on it straight after lunch, but third day on in full sun? It wasn't enticing. Besides, I had, after all, achieved my lofty goal for the day. I would love to give this a bash on the second if anyone fancies it. But the lead…? I don't think I'll push my luck.  

True Grip (E5 6a), Llanberis Pass

True Grip. The Magnum Opus of my falls, hopefully never to be repeated – or topped. I was still relatively new to E5, the day we headed up to the giant open book of the Cromlech. I'd seconded True Grip without issue before, so I figured it would be a good route to get some more mileage on. Everything was going according to plan in the first half – I found the climbing smooth, steady and there was reasonable gear, I just had to hunt around for it. I won't lie though; I did breathe a bit of a sigh of relief when I clipped that tat and plugged a good, solid cam into the horizontal break.

Little did I know that I was about to find out just how good and solid that cam was. I headed up the ramp, looking for the slot I knew was supposed to house a good wire. It took some fiddling – there was small, loose piece of rock like a wobbly tooth in the edge of the slot that made the nut feel untrustworthy – not the sinker I remembered from seconding. Nothing is forever it seems – not even good gear on classic routes.

Without much other choice I headed up the ramp and made it to the good pocket. Left Wall, and all the beautiful, bomber gear in the world, was almost within reach – when my foot slipped. I'm usually pretty good at just clamping down and hanging on for dear life when that happens, but the thin fin of rhyolite at the front of that good pocket is actually incredibly sharp and the sudden drag sliced my middle finger open almost from palm to tip. I must have reflexively let go because I took the ride of my life down half the height of the Cromlech. You know it's a long fall when you have time to finish one scream and start on the next. When you can write your will on the way down and still have air to spare. Thankfully, that cam I stuffed in the break was bomber and I stopped just short of Chris' head, my feet not far off tickling the top of his helmet. 

We took a breather while everyone pulled themselves back together, and then Chris led Left Wall so we could get the gear back. Part of me wanted to go again immediately but in all honesty, I was far too much of a gibbering wreck to lead anything else that day, especially after I discovered that the force of the fall had snapped a bunch of wires in the cam. The whole cam ended up getting replaced, bringing the total cost of that day to £81.60 and several months of wobbly headgame – a total bargain in the grand scheme of what could have been. 

Owning the fall

For what it's worth, I try not to be too blasé about my trad falls. After all, in each and every one I have been incredibly lucky – my gear has been good and so has the rock. Everything worked as it should to stop me from hitting the ground. All it takes is one extra thing to go wrong and every single one of these stories could have ended very differently. Each fall is an opportunity to reflect – what could I have done better? Put an extra piece of gear in? Read the route better, rested longer, thought more carefully about my technique? Trad falls can be many things: learning curves, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes horrifying incidents, an anecdote in the making, a prelude to injury, a line of connection between two strangers sharing the same experience.

What trad falls shouldn't be, are secret shames to be hidden away – something I have certainly been guilty of in the past. There is a fear of failure that runs through the heart of trad climbing. People put off climbs indefinitely "so I don't blow the on-sight", prioritising the clean, first-time send over all else, crafty omissions or excuses in logbooks to hide the truth. But what does it matter really? Who actually cares if you didn't get the on-sight, or had to rest, or pulled on gear? There are lots of good reasons to not do a trad route, and I absolutely know when to back off if a route doesn't feel right for me on that day. However, one of my primary motivations for climbing is to create memories that I enjoy looking back on, so I try not to let the fear of failure alone limit what could be a great route – even if that means logging the dog.