I don’t really know how the normal shit go, so
I guess I just play it by ear
Silence is all that I hear
Listening as close as I can
—Mac Miller, “Wings”
Note: this piece is published in Volume 26 of The Climbing Zine, now available
Banner photo of Felipe Garcia on Viento de Primavera by Ivan Iozza
I know the sound of death from a falling rock, and it sounds like nothing. Well, at least this one did.
The rock came from above, and as it so often does in Potrero Chico, it presumably came from the climbing party above us.
In this era of my climbing life, I made a habit to not climb below another group, especially in Potrero Chico, with its abundance of loose rocks and flakes. But this was a situation of circumstance.
We were on Sendero Luminoso, the famous 5.12 test piece, made even more famous when Alex Honnold free soloed it, a decade before, on what we all know now was training for his ultimate free solo: Freerider on El Capitan.
When we started up, it appeared that we were the first party on the route, and there was a party on a newish route to the right called Sombre de Muerte (The Shadow of Death). The climbers were so far off to the right I assumed that we would not be in harm’s way if they dislodged any rocks. But little did we know that Sombre de Muerte eventually converges with Sendero Luminoso and climbs right above it—which left us, unknowingly, in the shadow of death indeed.
In a way, Sendero Luminoso could be considered the Freerider of Potrero Chico; I’m constantly amazed and impressed by how many climbers are successful on this route; during the busy season, it seems like there’s always at least one party on it. Sometimes at night while I’m having dinner at my favorite restaurant, Checo’s, I’ll step outside and see headlamps high up on the wall, and I’m content to be in the horizontal, with my amigos and chips, rice, beans, chicken, and guacamole for dinner.
Getting high on tall walls consumed my life for so long that it’s been interesting to ponder what to do next with my athletic and aesthetic aspirations. I could feel the urge to be hanging from my harness a thousand feet off the deck waning.
Sendero Luminoso would be the last one. The last great, big multipitch climb. And then I would retire from the big walls and only experience them in treasured memories and stories, the safest of all big wall experiences.
One year before this, almost to the date, I had no such inclinations of retirement. I was experiencing a resurrection in my love for Potrero Chico and warm rock in the winter. I’d been doing a different kind of climbing: out of the hole of depression and loneliness in the aftermath of calling off an engagement during the pandemic. And as it had so many times before in my life, I turned to climbing and the community for salvation.
While once Potrero Chico was an exotic land that seemed so far from home, now, seventeen years after I’d first been there, it was like walking through a familiar door, one that opened up to an abundance of sunshine and rocks, that was leading me back home, to my purpose in life.
All positivity aside, I was still aware that, on each and every climbing day, we could die doing what we love, even the most innocent-seeming days—especially on those days.
On Mole
The author while developing the new route, Nipsey Hussle, Potrero Chico, Mexico.
This was one of those days. It was February, but summer already seemed to be in the air. It was a simple day of cragging with a woman that I had a crush on. We were in Virgin Canyon, which gets maximum shade this time of year. The air was hot but the rock was not.
It was our ninth pitch of the day, and I decided just to toprope it. I climbed up the immaculate gray rock, feeling woozy from the heat but in harmony with how much time I’d been spending on those rocks that winter. While getting lowered down, I noticed a loose rock on a ledge about fifteen feet up.
As one who established new routes and maintains existing routes, I’ll usually take action when I see something sketchy. But for whatever reason, perhaps the heat, and perhaps I was just thinking about what would happen next with this beautiful woman, I did nothing about that rock.
When I hit the ground, there was a group next to us, on the classic Don Quixote, a cryptic and iconic corner, and we all exchanged pleasantries and chatted it up. At this locale, more than most sport climbing areas, we were often there for the vibes, and everyone seemed to be feeling good.
I pulled the rope, and it got stuck fifteen feet above me on that ledge. I should have known better, and instead of thinking about why it was stuck, I simply pulled harder on the rope. When I did so, it dislodged that rock I’d noticed, and it landed directly on my head, hitting my helmet, which took the brunt of the impact; then the rock hit my shoulder and then my chin.
The crowd around all got silent, and the attention was focused on me. I was profoundly embarrassed. I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but I remember that whatever person was around that had the most medical experience did a quick check. Other than the cut on my chin, I remarkably didn’t have a visible major injury.
Deep down, I knew that if I hadn’t been wearing my helmet I would be on the ground, getting an assessment for a traumatic brain injury and likely heading to the hospital far away in Monterrey.
I was concussed, but I was full of that feeling that we climbers get when we find ourselves narrowly avoiding tragedy. Lucky to be alive, but with no real explanation. Sure, I had my helmet on, but it was that point in my climbing career where I started to feel naked without my helmet on. Many times in the past, I wouldn’t wear my helmet while toproping, but luckily I’d switched over.
Any day you go climbing could be your last. Any day you’re alive could be our last. It doesn’t feel real until something real happens. And that next day, and the many days after when my head felt cloudy and off from the concussion, I knew I had been lucky……
