Steve's Incident (rockfall)

Hi all,
I know Steve’s incident is old news at this point, but also that the information provided was a bit thin. This is to satisfy the curiosity of a wide range of people from those with zero interest/background in climbing but an interest in the human aspects of this event, to those curious as to how these kinds of incidents unfold (how decisions are made) and those who already know what to do and are curious as to how it went for us. It is difficult to write to such a wide range of people without boring everyone to a certain degree. Argh.

It was October 9th, his birthday, and we had just climbed the classic super-great crack “Outer Space”, a 6-pitch route on Snow Creek Wall near Leavenworth in central Washington. It took an hour and a half to walk in. We expected more sun than we had and were cold for much of the time.

At the top we put the ropes away and walked and scrambled down the descent “trail”, helmets still on. The guys who followed us up the climb, and who had gotten to know Steve, had recently passed us. There was no indication of goats being above us and no rocks had fallen. We were getting close to the base of the descent, moving down a steep narrow little gully with Steve about 10’ in front of me. The guys had just finished a 20-25’ rappel and had left their rope hanging through the bolted anchor for our use.

Without a warning sound, a soccer ball sized rock appeared in the air about a meter away from Steve and heading toward him. It did not come down the gully I was still in but from the cliff to our left. Instantly “ROCK!!” erupted from my lungs but of course it was too late and the rock impacted the side of Steve’s back. As he crumpled onto the gravel-covered sloping rock surface, I yelled to the guys below “CATCH HIM!!”, as if they could in any way, followed immediately by “HELP HIM!!”. Steve, looking calm but confused, was clawing for something to grab, seemingly in slow motion, but there was nothing.

Later he described realizing he was being pushed, wondering why he was being pushed, and ‘why won’t it stop’.

It was surreal watching him disappear over the edge. It happened too fast for fear, I just had the sickening awareness that this was serious, that it has finally happened. And that I needed to get down to him without knocking more rocks on him or messing up my own rappel set-up and getting hurt myself (and landing on him).

As I rappelled over the lip I could hear him moaning, a good sign at least for now. I saw that one of the guys was holding Steve’s head to stabilize his spine, but I was dismayed to see blood coming from his mouth. As I got closer I saw that the blood was originating from his cheek instead; a significant relief.

This fellow, Brian, is a recently certified EMT, yay. However, he instantly turned the scene over to me although my certification, Wilderness First Responder, is lower than his. With the extent of my training over many years and field experience, I was happy to take the lead role especially as I was already well into Response Mode.

Brian had determined that Steve knew his name and that it was his birthday, but not location, who we were, or what had happened. Steve asked the latter questions again and again and we answered again and again. Meanwhile, I looked for immediate life-threats and assessed his injuries beyond the obvious concussion. His helmet has a dime-sized dent over his ear. His ribs, his chief complaint, were super painful but he was not bleeding from them. A concern was a broken rib puncturing his lung so we carefully monitored his breathing. We essentially ignored his painful swelling ankle for the time being. His respiration and pulse were in the reasonable range and remained stable throughout. He spit pieces of tooth into his hand.

Steve saw the rappel rope still hanging and reached out to hold hit, frequently staring hard at his hand on the rope. Later he said he thought the rope helped ground him in where he was, what was going on. It was maybe 15-20 minutes before he had a good grasp on where he was and what happened though he still doesn’t remember the incident.

Brian’s partner Eric ran to the base of the route we had climbed to retrieve all of our packs. These guys, unlike Steve and I, had brought their phones. Steve had thought we wouldn’t have reception; I had no excuse not to have my phone. I had simply chosen not to bother bringing it; lesson learned.

The first 911 call went in at 5:31pm, about 10 or 15 minutes after Steve fell.

As soon as he was stable enough, I got Steve’s permission to take photos and continued through his hospital stay. This was both for documentation to help us later assess what happened, what we did and when, as well as for Steve to have to tell his story. Clearly this would be a major learning experience for all of us. It turned out that everyone involved in the evacuation was interested in copies of the photos (as long as Steve gave his permission, which he has).

An overhead sound drew my attention. Fifty feet above us, three mountain goats peered down upon us, surveying the results of their sloppy footwork. Not much we could do to get them to leave. They aren’t hunted in this area, are curious, and hang out around people because we supply salt, a nutrient lacking in their diet. In other words, they often follow you around if they think you’re about to pee.

Steve was on somewhat of a ledge: not in a place where we could effectively manage his injuries (not to mention protect him/us from further rockfall). Despite the rib pain, for other reasons it seemed reasonable to see if we could clear his spine. He really kept his composure throughout this whole incident. We took our time with assessing his spine, Brian still holding Steve’s head. We waited until Steve’s feedback was reliable and I did the assessment exactly by the book. I also made sure he understood the potential consequences of moving him if he had a spinal fracture. The exam revealed that his spine was fine.

Steve had previously broken ribs in a motorcycle accident, and recalled how easy it was to panic and make things worse; he knew the importance of steady controlled breathing and staying relaxed in minimizing respiratory distress. He kept his head together and with a lot of help from the 3 of us, was able to very slowly move himself down to a flat spot 3m away, better protected from rockfall, where we situated him on empty backpacks for insulation. We elevated his very swollen ankle and other foot to help minimize shock. At this point about 45 minutes had elapsed from the fall.

We did our best to insulate him including draping the ropes across him which he reported as helping a lot. By this time Steve was quite coherent and verbally involved with his care though talking was painful and required more energy than he had to spare. Steve had the great idea to cover his face to warm the air he was breathing. Everyone remained relatively positive and upbeat, feeding off each others’ light tone. I knew Steve was not about to die, that it was just going to be a long haul out and healing. It turned out that the guys, having seen Steve land next to them, weren’t at all sure that he would be ok, but hid it well. Steve had whiplash so couldn’t move his head and continued to experience severe pain in his ribs. Darkness descended as did the occasional small rock from above as the goats went about their business.

We heard from dispatch that there would be a delay in responding to our call because of a search already in progress and a motorcycle accident. Turned out that a speeding motorcyclist had crossed the double yellow line and crashed into the side of the emergency vehicle responding to our call. Gulp.

The dispatcher ruled out a helicopter because there wasn’t a suitable landing zone. We later found out that the county doesn’t have a helicopter equipped for short-hauling (a cable hung below for the litter for when there isn’t a landing zone). Locally only the military can do that, but the helicopter would have had to hover dangerously close to the rock wall above, a risky maneuver in daylight. As it was night and Steve was not facing loss of life or limb, the military possibility wasn’t appropriate.

By this point our main concerns were shock and hypothermia. After careful consideration of the details, the four of us decided that Brian and Eric would head back to the cars to get insulating materials, enough for us all to be there through the night if it came to that. They left 2 ¼ hours after Steve’s fall.

In addition to discussing logistical details, including that I was supposed to fly to Antarctica from home, in a week, Steve gave me a list of people to call and told me where his insurance card was… everything we could think of to organize until we could talk again in the hospital. It was way too early to make any decisions regarding me going to the ice and I did my best not to fixate on that during the hike out. Conveniently this happened Friday night so I had the rest of the weekend before the office opened to see how injured he really was and how much help he would need in the coming weeks or months.

As he lay there feeling cold, Steve’s muscles slowly tightened up. This increased his pain when he tried to move at all and he spent a lot of the time zoning out to deal with it all.

About 2.5 hours later, the guys returned and we covered Steve in 3 sleeping bags and pulled on warm parkas ourselves… ahhh. Steve really warmed up. While waiting, we exchanged contact info with the guys and organized for the craziness expected when the team arrived.

At 10:40 the team arrived. Dr. Mark, who is also a climber, checked Steve over and soon whipped out the needles, shooting Steve up with an anti-nausea drug and a bit of morphine. Mark was great and later visited Steve in the hospital and then helped us out later with some other logistics.

I was pleasantly surprised that the team indeed welcomed my help for the evacuation. This is not necessarily the case with all Search and Rescue teams. Although some members had a technical background, it turned out that this team, all volunteer, hasn’t been extensively trained in technical rescue. I started out hanging back, watching and respecting their jurisdiction, but soon found myself drawn into an integral role.

With the Search and Rescue team I worked on in Antarctica, I received a lot of (and gave some) training for just this kind of situation. I felt super fortunate to both have had the training, to be here, and to get to work with such great, hard-working, and non-ego guys. As well, Eric and Brian assisted us through the very end and were a tremendous help, including building the initial anchor in the rock with their own gear. We really could not have had a more committed and easy to work with Mountain Rescue group (plus 3 deputies from the Sheriff’s office).

It was particularly important to make sure Steve was packaged well to minimize the rough-ride hell he was going to experience on what promised to be a very long evacuation. Again, I felt grateful for my training as well as for the confidence provided by having the skills.

I wrote earlier that it was 7-8 pitches (sections, often up to a rope length), but in hindsight I count fewer, more like 6. In my late night stupor I counted the several intermediate anchors for the traverses and a couple lower-out belays to control the litter until it was sufficiently below my main belay (anchors were often hard to come by so we had to take what we could find). There was only one real spot of fourth class, steep/exposed enough to make one think. Otherwise it was all scrambling or even walking terrain on a narrow exposed loose path for some of the traverse sections. Others rigged hand-lines for the team members to hang onto. At one point we actually needed to raise the litter a distance so I got to switch from a lower to a raise, another skill I’d practiced in trainings.

Down by the creek we used the rope in the steep burned-out trees mostly to give the litter attendants something to lean against and balance on while managing an unwieldy and heavy load in awkward terrain. It was a TON of work for the litter attendants, wrestling the litter over rocks and logs, for many hours, while I had it easy operating the main rope and setting up anchors. Knowing how hard it is to manage a litter, I really appreciated not to having to help and super thankful for everyone’s efforts. They sloshed through the cold muddy creek with the litter while I got it easy: crossing on a log.

By 4:30am we had reached the trail, where the team had stashed a wheel that attaches to the base of the litter making it much easier to get down the trail. I winced upon seeing the wheel: it wasn’t the wide burly off-road type I’ve seen before, but more of a glorified, small, mountain-bike tire. It would give Steve a rougher ride, but, well, it’s what they had and I was sure glad they were there.

The whole ride shook the daylights out of Steve and no doubt contributed to muscle spasms and pain, but he knew that was the deal so just sucked it up and didn’t complain whatsoever. One of the team members used the word ‘stoic’.

Two hours later, at 6:30am, Steve was loaded into the ambulance and was taken to a hospital in Wenatchee.

The guys and I finished sorting gear. I made the phone calls Steve had requested and headed back to the campground to pack up our camp. Getting in his car without him, I had the sudden feeling that “this trip isn’t any fun anymore”, realizing I had even enjoyed being in the car with him. How quickly things can change. During the evacuation, knowing that Steve was going to be ok I could appreciate getting to actually use some of the skills I’ve learned. But with that over now, the reality began to sink in.

When I got to the hospital, the first thing Steve said was “When does goat hunting season open?”.

In contrast to the number of pitches I initially reported, I may well have short-changed Steve on how far he actually fell in my effort to avoid the common hyperbole, conscious or otherwise, making accidents sound more dramatic than they were.

My initial assessment, from the bottom of the rappel looking up, was 25’, but then I decided 20’ to be conservative. Remembering the effect of fore-shortening, my view when I first looked down to Steve and Brian, and looking at the photos, I think it was more like 25’ that he fell over the vertical drop. This is in addition to the 8-10 feet he slid down before he dropped out of my sight, so he launched over the lip with some momentum.

He landed so suddenly and completely, with no shock-absorbing tumbling, that Brian and Eric were absolutely sure he was going to have more severe injuries than he did, thinking people don’t survive falls like that. Later, a friend who saw the photos, a SAR team member elsewhere, went wide-eyed when he saw the rocks Steve landed upon. Steve was very lucky he didn’t land on the worst of it. Dr. Mark later said that people who fall 30’ have a 50/50 chance of survival. In all likelihood Steve would not have survived without his helmet. Wear your helmet.

That afternoon he went into surgery for his ankle which had swollen substantially in the preceding 22 hours. He has a spiral tibia (and fibula) fracture starting at the base of his tibia (shin). Five screws pulled the base of the tibia back together. The surgeon determined that the spiral fractures should heal fine without a plate as long as Steve doesn’t catch and twist his foot or fall in the coming month. Given time, his moderate concussion and numerous fractured ribs will heal on their own. The ribs are the most painful and its taken awhile for him to be able to breathe normally or move around much. The jaw fracture doesn’t need wiring or anything dramatic. The broken molar doesn’t seem to have included the nerve very much so thankfully he can wait until he can open his mouth more before going to a dentist or oral surgeon. The only painless injury was nine stitches under his chin.

He spent almost 2 ½ days in the hospital; he was really beaten up all told. They knew we’d been camping and let me stay on a cot in his room, which I greatly appreciated so I could be there with him. I have never helped someone in the hospital and was surprised at just how much there was to do in terms of direct care in addition to being a liaison with the outside world. He still had sticks in his hair and dirt all over his face from the evacuation. They only cleaned up his ankle for surgery, but I really can’t be surprised.

We were still in the hospital when Monday morning rolled around. I had realized I would have to make the decision myself whether or not go to Antarctica; he continually encouraged me to go. However, it had become rather obvious that he needed quite a lot of help and would for awhile (nor did he have great options). Although the situation was relatively cut and dry, it still took me some time to fully accept that reality. Had he been in better shape the decision would have been a lot harder. I knew what I needed to do for myself: I would not have been able to live with myself had I gone to the ice. I did this for myself at least as much for him. First thing Monday morning I made the call. It was helpful that I had to leave messages rather than having to say “No” directly to a friend for a job I really enjoy. They have all been very supportive and understanding, thankfully.

Helping him out has felt right, he’s still pretty messed up. I don’t have romantic delusions of care-taking; we’ll have our stressful times without a doubt. Lots to learn and I can see how such dynamics can be a mine-field between any two people; I’ll do my best to stay on top of that stuff as it arises. I enjoy being with him and even at his most miserable thus far he’s been tolerable. So far taking care of him has been relatively easy and of course he’ll need less assistance over time. I think getting out and doing things for myself, being active, is as important for him as it is for me both indirectly (my being happier) and directly: his not feeling that he’s trapping me, that assisting him is dominating my life. And I’ll play the tough-love role and crack the whip for him to do his physical therapy (when he gets to that point) and otherwise heal so I can climb and ski with him again sooner than later. Told him last week that “The good news is that I’m going to stay and help you, the bad news is that I’m going to stay and help you”.

Steve used to live in Bellingham so it made sense to go there for the first week until his follow-up appt a couple days ago. The orthopedist said that nothing can be done for the next 4-5 weeks other than to remain absolutely off the leg. We’ve just returned home where I can take care of him while moving along with my own projects and activities (such as rustling up winter work).

Turns out great to have gone to Bellingham. Many of his friends visited and it’s nice that he got to tell them the story in person and enjoy their company again after having moved 4 months ago for the year-long climbing trip. Brian and Eric were also in town for a few days so we got to see them a couple times. That was valuable for closure; we shared our different perspectives and thoughts during and about the incident, answered each others’ questions, and otherwise got to talk and process this event… and just hang out; they are great guys. This stuff matters, sort of our own informal and dispersed Critical Incident Stress Debrief. For the same reasons it was also nice to see Mark a couple times in Wenatchee and talk with a couple other rescuers after the incident.

Before we left home last month, Steve had signed up for a Wilderness First Responder course. This incident will certainly enhance his understanding of the curriculum! Anyone who spends real time in the backcountry should take this course. Backcountry is technically defined as only 2 hours between patient and advanced life support; we were 13 hours between despite the hike in only taking 1.5 hours. If the cost and time commitment are a deterrent, take it not for yourself as much as for your backcountry partners. This is a big deal. I cannot imagine not knowing what to do in such a situation and how horrible it would feel to not be able to help someone so in need. At the very least take Wilderness First Aid, a much shorter/cheaper course. In fact, even for those who have no interest in the backcountry, Basic First Aid, a short course (day?), could have the same value if your friend/child has injuries that could kill them before the ambulance arrives. Stay current with your certification. There is enough to know that the reinforcement and practice really make a difference; it’s how we actually learn the material over time. Enough said, I’ll get off my soapbox.

Thanks for all the comments and positive energy sent my/our way. It’s been really was nice to hear from people; thanks for checking in.

Love and Helmets, Suz