I almost took a serious fall on this trip. I was descending the southern bowl of Bear Mountain, when I decided to downclimb a cliff rather than take the gradual way down. I thought it would be more fun, but I reached a point where the cliff was steeper than I liked. I was facing the cliff, thinking I should climb back up and take the longer way around, when the black I was holding with my right hand pulled loose. I watched it wide-eyed as I barndoored outwards, watching myself drop the rock out away from the cliff. "Here I go", I thought, wondering how serious the injuries would be. I slid down a ten-foot section, slowed at a bulge in the trough I was in, and started sliding down the next ten-foot section. I felt myself start to cartwheel forward, but fought that with everything I had. No need for a header. I scraped my fingers and feet on the rock, and somehow came to a stop just above the next drop. I just sat there and breathed, unmoving, looking at the rest of the 75 feet or so I might fall if I moved the wrong way. I calmed myself and made a careful traverse off the cliff and onto a snowfield a short ways away. I sprawled on the snow and thanked the world for sparing me.

As climbers, we often walk the line between perfect health and serious injury. That's what I like about the mountains here, most of the time staying safe is all about keeping a cool head. A friend told me afterwards, "You shouldn't be surprised to fall! You're always putting yourself on the edge, it's bound to happen sometime." That may be true, but the difference between being on the edge and over the edge is so great that when it finally happens, it's a pretty harrowing experience. For the next day and a half, I was scared to blink because I was afraid I would open my eyes and find myself crumpled at the base of that cliff waiting for death or a rescue.

I finally calmed down after talking to a friend about a 75-foot tumbling cartwheel he took climbing down a chute on Cross Mountain. He stopped just above a longer fall as well. I realized that we all have scary stories from the mountains when we go to them often enough. Still, I felt like I should have a big "L" on my forehead, a scarlet letter to let everyone know that I was lucky to have survived this most recent hike.