Hanging from a Cliff
July 25, 2011
BY STEVE WINSTON
What the hell was I doing here? And why hadn’t I listened to my gut?
I was 50 years old. I was hanging from a cliff at 4,000 feet, in the Nantahala Gorge in the Great Smoky Mountains. And I knew that my life would be over as soon as my arms weakened.
All morning long, at my cabin on the North Carolina side of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I had been fighting with my instincts. I knew the climb would be hard. For one thing, it was nearly winter in the Smokies … and there would probably be few, if any, other people climbing in the Gorge. For another, autumn rains had soaked the Smokies, and climbing conditions were horrible.
But I had been climbing my entire adult life; I had climbed in the Alps, and I had climbed in the Rockies often; I had even climbed before in these same Smokies. And the only accident I’d ever had was at 13,000 feet in Colorado, when my partner and I slipped on our descent and I went flying into a boulder. I had a pretty nice gash on my leg; but we were able to staunch the bleeding with a tourniquet, and I had made it down without further incident.
So, despite my gut instincts, I packed my gear and drove to the Nantahala Gorge. And it was there that the “don’t-go!” hints started coming. First, I got inside the Gorge and realized I had forgotten my cell phone. Then, after retrieving it from my car and walking back toward the Gorge, I realized I had forgotten the phone number of the ranger station, in case I got in trouble. So I had to go back a second time.
Finally, I began my ascent. About an hour into the climb, I came upon a climber’s worst nightmare – a small brook running downhill, which could be forded only by crossing wet rocks covered with algae. I forded the brook successfully. But, all the way up after that, I kept thinking that I’d have to cross it again coming down.
I succeeded in making my objective, an alpine hut near the top where other climbers had signed their names in a tattered journal. I gave myself a nickname – common practice in the climbing community – and signed it, and then started back down.
After an hour, it was raining so hard I could barely see, and my boots were sinking into the muck. And after another hour, I could no longer make out the landmarks by which I had marked my trail on the way up.
Then I came to that brook.
Experienced climbers will tell you the descent is often more dangerous than the ascent. For one thing, your muscles are tired by then (OK, at our age, they’re literally screaming at you to stop!). And for another, your concentration – which has already been very tightly focused for some hours – can sometimes tend to wander.
Aware of the dangers, I was focused, and I was careful. I used my poles to poke for stable spots. And I didn’t put any weight on my lead foot until I was sure the ground wouldn’t give.
I got about halfway across, trying to balance on a rock while figuring out my next step. But I never got to take it.
All of a sudden, the word was flying violently around me. I was in the air; up was down and down was up. I felt things bang against my head, and against my ribs. I felt my head jerk wildly.
A few seconds later, I was hanging on to that ledge for dear life.
I remained calm, trying to get some sense of my situation.
The first thing I tried to determine was whether I had broken anything, or if I was bleeding … not easy to do when you’re holding on to the muddy side of a cliff. As far as I could tell, I hadn’t broken anything, although there was blood dripping from my face.
The next thing was to determine where the hell I was. I quickly saw that I had only fallen about 12-13 feet.
Then I did a quick check of my surroundings. I was flat against the side of the mountain, my fingers digging into the muck of the ledge. Below me was a fall of at least a couple of thousand feet, with huge trees sticking out of the side of the mountain at about 70-degree angles … any one of which would have killed me instantly on impact. I could not reach my cell phone, which was on one of my climbing belts, because I dared not take one arm off the ledge (and, at that altitude, it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway).
I was calm … almost eerily so. You’re an experienced climber, I told myself. Just do what you always do as a climber: Break down your objective (13 feet above) into smaller steps.
Plan A was to call out to see if there was anyone nearby. But, as noted earlier, it was nearly winter in the Smokies … and I, apparently, was the only one dumb enough to be up here.
Plan B was to push myself up with my legs. But each time I tried to wedge my boots into the mud, I slid down another inch or so.
Plan C was to pull myself up by the branches hanging in front of me. But each branch that I grabbed broke off.
Plan D was some serious praying. My backpack felt like it weighed a million pounds. My arms were getting tired. And then it dawned on me…I would be dead as soon as I lost my grip. I actually said goodbye to my daughters, Jessica and Alyssa.
And then, something occurred to me. Perhaps, if I (very gently) burrowed with one hand down into the mud in front of my face, I could find some tree roots to help lift myself up. I knew tree roots wouldn’t break; they had been there for thousands of years.
Very slowly, I removed my left hand (my weaker one) from the ledge, and began burrowing into the mud right in front of my face.
I remember feeling a root below. I remember wrapping my fingers around it. I remember using it to propel myself up, maybe 8-10 inches. And I remember saying to myself, “OK, Stephen, that’s the first one. You’ve got about twelve more feet to go.”
Next thing I knew – although I can’t remember how – I was standing on the ledge (thankfully, on the “down-side” of the brook).
An hour later, I was down at the ranger station, where they stopped the bleeding on my face and told me I had some bruised ribs.
While treating me, one of the rangers said, “It was the brook, wasn’t it? That’s the most dangerous spot up there.”
What had I learned from the experience? Well, exactly a year later, I was back in Nantahala Gorge, by myself. I came to a rushing brook that looked somewhat dicey, and filled with algae-covered rocks. Believe it or not, I actually started thinking about fording it. And I’m reasonably confident that I could have. But then, I suddenly realized that climbing, at a certain age, should no longer be just about the goal, but also about the journey.
So I sat down on a fallen oak and just watched the brilliantly-colored autumn leaves float silently to the ground.
Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media. He has scaled mountains all over the world. Here, he is shown at 12,000 feet in New Mexico.
To hike with in the Smokies with a guide, contact the Nantahala Outdoor Center in Bryson Center in Bryson City, N.C., or Gatlinburg, Tenn.