April 29th, 2007 was a sunny, beautiful day at Smith Rock State Park. I was paired up with one of the climbing club's strongest climbers for an instructor, a middle-aged fellow who had climbed, let's just say, "a lot of impressive stuff." I'll call him John.Right out of the parking lot, I gave my usual disclaimer: I was primarily interested in learning to place gear well, I was not looking to push my climbing technique on lead. He wondered why. The conversation went something like this:
"Because I don't want to fall."
'Have you ever fallen before?"
"Not outside, only in the gym."
"Then there's no reason to be afraid of it, right?"
I didn't grasp his logic there. Confused, I didn't push the point.
For the morning, I led strongly. I was feeling good. John climbed up to investigate my gear placements on my first two climbs and was quite satisfied. He showed me a less common but effective way to place nuts: rather than placing them so that they were getting the most surface area contact on both sides, if I found the right sized notch, I could slip the nut behind that notch and use the entire head of the nut like a stopper. There was no surface area contact happening this way, other than with the very top of the nut being pulled against the rock, but regardless, with the right placement and slinging, there was no way that the nut could be pulled from the crack
The next climb of the day was Carabid, a 5.6 trad route that John suggested, partially as a way to get out of the hot sun. After scrambling up to the start, he pulled out the guidebook and read me the description, explaining that there may be some areas where it would be hard to protect. He offered to lead it if I wished. I considered it for a moment, but was feeling good and ready enough to take a shot at it, saying, "If I get sketched, I'll just come back down."
As the guidebook puts it, Carabid would be a good beginner lead if it weren't for run-out sections and as I found, some navigation issues towards the top.
The first part of the climb went well. I placed gear quickly and regularly along the route, making sure that at least every second piece of passive protection was "backed up" by a cam here and there. I recall looking down once and thinking, "this would be a bad climb to fall on," because of how many ledges and blocky things there were that could cause what climbers like to refer to as the "cheese grater effect" (the way that on some lower grade climbs, because of the angle, you tend to tumble down them rather than fall straight down). Immediately following the first voice, another voice in my head said, as if to coach myself into the right space, "but you aren't going to fall on this."
When I was almost to the top of the pitch, I found the difficult part: a bulge which also happens to be the crux, close to the anchors (although I couldn't see the top yet). It was difficult to know whether to go right or left to get past this area. I climbed up to the left first and didn't like what I saw so I went back down and off to the right. I liked what I saw there even less so I decided to try left again.
Meanwhile, this bulge was not protectable (there is nowhere to place gear). I had looked around for any little pocket but the bulgy, cruxxy area was slabby and without any holes or pockets or cracks. The closest place to put in protection below this bulge was about 7-10 feet down: that is where my last nut was- a small nut about the size of my thumbnail which I had placed in the "new" way that John had showed me.
My second time trying to go left up this route, I took quite some time looking at it, trying this way and that. I recall the urge to just commit myself to it and go for it, which I did. When I got about few feet up this bulge, I realized I was stuck: I couldn't find a handhold, I couldn't move up it. At the same time, I realized I couldn't really back down to where I'd been either because of the angle of the slope; I definitely *was* committed to this move. All of this mental processing took place within a couple of seconds: "Crap- I can't go up OR down."
And then I felt myself losing my ability to hold onto the bulge, being slightly overhung. I felt myself peel away from the rock.
As loud as I could, I yelled, "Falling!"
I don't remember if I screamed after that, but I'm guessing I didn't. Probably because of the slightly overhung quality to this bulge, I inverted, flipping over and falling head first. That was the worst part: not being able to see what was coming as I fell. Because I was left of the rope trail, as I was falling, I was swinging right like a pendulum. I remember my left elbow and arm hitting something on the way down but I honestly don't remember if I felt any pain; I just remember registering that I'd hit something and then my thinking, "okay, what next? when will the pro catch?" I continued to fall for what seemed like several more seconds.
Finally, I felt a significant jolt when the rope caught and my back and head hit the wall; I was still upside down.
(My nut had caught me, only I didn't realize it yet. I actually hadn't even remembered what the last piece of pro was that I had placed- I thought maybe it had been a cam. But I would find out later that, in fact, my entire bodyweight, on what was about a 25-30 foot fall, was held by this little tiny nut. I have wondered many times if John had not showed me this other way to place nuts if that little nut would have held. Regardless, I am deeply thankful that the little nut held. The next piece of pro was another 7 feet below or more.)
John hollered up to me, "Are you okay, Tamara?!"
I checked myself out and saw my disfigured left elbow, bulging out in a sickening way.
"I broke my arm!" I shouted down.
"Can you turn yourself right side up and I'll lower you down?"
Slowly- and I don't remember how I did it entirely- I got right side up again and he slowly lowered me down to the start of the climb.
I had taken mountaineering first aid the previous spring and interestingly enough, was "with it" enough mentally to know what to do as the patient. I sat down immediately and leaned against the rock. Within a minute or two, I felt hot and cold chills filling my body and the world started spinning.
"I'm going into shock- you'd better cover me up or something," I said to John.
Within a few minutes, several guys arrived at the base of the climb. They had been climbing near me and had seen my fall. They introduced themselves as Wilderness First Responders and started asking me questions. I noted that they never checked me for head or back injuries but I was fairly certain and reassuring to them that I was fine in that regard- although in hindsight, they really should have insisted that I be checked over. One of them began to splint and swathe my arm with my clothing and climbing slings while John and one of the others tried to decide what to do next.
As I sat there with my back leaning up against the rock, trying to process what had just happened, an understanding came into my head, more or less in the form of a voice:
"You need to relax now and breathe deeply. Stay relaxed. The pain will be more bearable if you can relax. Just let these guys take care of everything, take care of you. Your job now is to relax and breathe."
With single focus and every ounce of courage I could muster, I willed myself calm. I continued to talk to myself and remind myself to breathe and relax, focusing only on that and not paying attention to anything the guys around me were doing.
I had honestly always wondered how I would handle a medical emergency or trauma, should anything ever happen to me. Would I be one of those screaming patients, freaking out and panicking? When I'd taken mountaineering first aid, I certainly felt like I was going to faint several times just *hearing* about and imagining particular injuries. In fact, a classmate of mine told me once that I looked so green during some of the lectures that he hoped nothing bad would ever happen on any future climbs I would go on.
But here I was, breathing deeply, only speaking to answer questions, just focusing all my energy and attention on staying calm and keeping my arm still. Something in me took charge and coached myself through the next few hours.
Since the start of the climb was 30-50 feet above the actual trail, up on a ledge, I would either have to scramble down (without hesitation, said no to that), they would have to carry me down the ledge (another definite no- was not going to risk getting more hurt or dropped) or they could build an anchor and lower me down off the ledge: yes, that was the option of choice. In hindsight, had I been the giver of first aid, I would have rappelled down alongside the victim to make sure they got down okay.
So I was lowered down off the ledge, asking several times for them to go more slowly, as I kept getting jostled by bumps, rocks and bushes I would have to navigate past- and every jostle sent a wave of pain throughout my arm and body.
When I finally reached the trail, there was a 4x4 waiting for me. I opted to walk a little further before getting on since the trail at that spot was uneven and I didn't want to risk falling off the thing. Then I rode the 4x4 through the park, back to the base of the hill, across the footbridge, slowly, being partially held onto the four-wheeler by the class organizer, Jill, who had arrived at the base of Carabid when she received the cell phone call from John- a call I don't remember being made.
Burned into my head is the memory of looking up at the rocks as I rode out, telling myself that my elbow had only been dislocated and wondering out loud if someone could just pop it back into place. This is where being in serious denial is a true blessing in an accident: had I known the true state my elbow was in or what I would face in years to come, I would not have been able to stay calm.
After the 4x4, I was driven up the dirt road up to the parking lot. In my "stay calm" state, I was carrying on a conversation with the driver of this park service truck that was wheeling me up this dirt road full of boulders and struggling to make it uphill. "So, if my arm is dislocated, how long do you think it will be before I can climb again? Will I miss the class next weekend?" He laughed.
I refused the ambulance waiting in the parking lot, not knowing if my insurance would cover it, and asked Jill to drive me to the hospital in Redmond. Heck, it was only a 10 minute drive and I didn't think the extra 10 minutes of being on morphine (the only real advantage to the ambulance) was worth whatever I would have to pay out of pocket.
The primary pain I was feeling was from the intense cramps going up my arm. I didn't understand the pain at the time, but in hindsight, since I had not simply dislocated my elbow as I had thought, but had fractured the ulna, radius, olecranon and had torn off all of the ligaments, the muscles were cramping because, with still being attached to the bones which were going every which way, they were all out of whack, likely being stretched and pulled in strange directions.
Getting in and out of the car was surprisingly painful. I had to suck in big deep breaths and move like a 90 year old granny. Once I got out of the car, there was a wheelchair waiting and I was whisked inside the Redmond Medical Center where they got me started on filling out paperwork.
"You've got to be kidding," I thought.
Still thinking my elbow was simply dislocated (oh, that denial!), and having learned in first aid how important it is to reduce a dislocation (put it back in joint) as soon as possible after the injury or risk further damage, I recall asserting myself with the nurses and staff, saying something to the effect of,
"Look, I think my arm is dislocated here and it needs to be put back in joint as soon as possible- can we just skip the paperwork and get to it?"
But of course, everyone but me could plainly see that there was more going on with this arm than a dislocation.
"We'll need to get some x-rays before we can do anything," I was told.
I was taken into the back, into a curtained-off room where the process began of getting x-rays. We found out with those x-rays that I was less than an inch away from having an open fracture- where the bone punctures the skin from the inside out. Those kinds of fractures are dangerous: one can die quickly from infection.
So, thus began the experience of The First Surgery.... starting off with my Redmond Medical Center extravaganza...
