In reply to beastofackworth:
> (In reply to Chris Craggs) i used to love soloing on grit until i suffered a 30 foot deckout from the top roof on remergence,kinda not as interested in it anymore.
>
In 1981 I fell of the final mantel at the top of the arete on Swastika Crack (Severe) at Simonside in Northumberland. I was blown off balance by a gust of wind at a critical moment, with all my weight on my hands, and just sensed my centre of gravity shift backwards. It all went into that strange slow motion and I seemed to take an age to topple backwards,. I remember my fingers clawing at the flat top of the arete, scraping across the rough rock like a cat's claws, trying desperately to find a purchase. Then a moment of utter stillness, with a brief sound of rushing air, then a BANG!
I woke up not knowing who I was, where I was, why I was there. Nothing. Blank mind. I stared up at scudding grey clouds coming from above the crag, then suddenly my mind refilled with consciousness and sense of self. I remembered falling. My mouth was filled with grit and I could taste blood. There were sharp, angular rocks pressing into my back, as I lay head downwards on the slope below the crag.
My head hurt.
I flexed my fingers, then my toes. I could feel them move, and no pain as I did so. Relief. Next, my arms, then my legs. I flexed my elbows and cycled my knees in the air gently. Nothing wrong. Amazing.
My back hurt, and I was terrified of back injury, a sudden movement crushing my spinal cord, so that the sensation from my legs suddenly vanished forever. I lay for a long time, contemplating it, fearing it. The crag was deserted. Nobody could help me. The road was what, 2 miles away?
I tried to roll over, and managed to do so, onto my hands and knees. Blood instantly poured down my face in rivulets and stung my eyes. My back seemed ok though.
I managed to stand up, and saw that I'd been lying on a jumble of broken sandstone blocks. I'd fallen on THAT, and not broken anything!?! Wow.
I felt my scalp. There was a big mushy area just behind and right of the crown of my skull. I couldn't tell if my skull was damaged. there was a huge lump, like half a cricket ball, protruding from my bloody hair (which was long at the time) like something from a cartoon. Lots of slow dark blood.
I looked up the route I'd fallen from. The very last move. That was 30 feet! I looked around the rocks to see where I'd bashed my head, expecting to see skin and hair adhering to the gritty sandstone somewhere. Nothing to see though.
I felt the grit in my mouth, and cupped my hand to spit into. What came out wasn't grit however. It was fragments of shattered teeth. My jaws slammed shut with such force when I landed on my back, that my teeth smashed like china cups.
Falling from 30 feet, onto a pile of boulders, landed me with a period of unconsciousness (seconds? minutes? hours? I have no idea) a mouthful of broken teeth, severe concussion, some thunderous bruises, but no broken bones, no brain damage, no paralysis, no choking on a swallowed tongue, no death, all of which were at least as likely as the actual outcome, and some of them more so.
I don't seek to put anyone off with this, but it serves as a cautionary tale. My average leading grade at the time was about VS/HVS and the route was well within my ability. A mere gust of wind was all it took to kill me. That I didn't die is just luck.
I had trouble soloing after that, even bouldering more than a yard or two off the ground freaked my head out. I remember a visiting Kim Carrigan at Caley watching me gibbering on an arete problem and, assuming it must be harder than it looked, getting on it straight after I jumped off. He was puzzled when it turned out to be a 4c path, but gracious enough to listen to my story about why I was having problems, and encouraged me to get on and have another go.
I never really got over it until 1985 when I went back to Northumberland and Simonside, where I felt compelled to solo Swastika Crack again, looking at the top of the arete, expecting to see deep groves where my fingers clawed at the rock as I began to fall. I then soloed down it, a controlled descent to exorcise the devils of my previous plummet. A final repeat of the solo, and a photo looking down the route from the top, to picture my nightmare landing and throw perspective on my survival, and the barrier was gone. I soon went on to solo bigger and harder routes, up to HVS/E1, which was equal to my lead grade at the time, and I gained nothing but pleasure and controlled thrill from doing so.
I rarely dwell on my avoidance of death that day. It never put me off climbing. I never even considered that. I didn't even tell any of my family until weeks after the event, and even then I played down its potential seriousness.
I love to climb, and always will, but I don't solo now. It's just something I gradually lost the desire to do. Climbing for me is nowadays just about fun and good craic and being in beautiful places, nothing more. But to solo, you have to be aware that survival isn't necessarily in your hands, that no matter how good you are, there are always other forces waiting to interrupt your flow, and perhaps your life.
As an addendum, the poster formerly known as JoHNy, who wasn't exactly Mr Popular amongst many of you, had a fall of 30 feet at Ratho Quarry back in March. 5 days intensive care. 5 weeks in hospital. Multiple injuries. Now in a wheelchair, though not permanently.
The difference is, he was roped, not solo. He fell the same as me, but was severely injured. And he has given up climbing for good.