Falling on North Star

My alarm goes off at 4:00am. It takes me about 3 minutes to struggle with the thought of leaving my comfy bed, but soon I relent. My bag is packed, food is prepped, all I need to do is make my coffee for the drive down to the Twin Forks PnR from Boulder. I arrive in the dark to meet the crew – my CMC Alpine Climbing School team consisting of 10 total including myself. The objective for the day is Mount Guyot. Time flows by as the car pool section of the drive to the TH commences with easy conversation and excitement for the day.

When we arrive, we are greeted with the road to the TH being snowed in much sooner than everyone expected, turning our proposed 7.5 round trip itinerary to be closer to 12.5-13 miles. As a group, we voted in the majority to switch our objective to North Star Mountain, a short 45 minute drive away. Not everyone agreed with this change, something I could understand. We could've potentially hiked the extra miles in just over an hour with decent conditions. But it wouldve left us with a longer return trip and more overall energy expenditure, not necessarily desired when going on a first trip above treeline in April with a new and large group of humans that would be moving at varying speeds and testing new gear.

Roughly 45 minutes later, we arrive at Hoosier Pass. We procured a previous years trip plan with all the necessary information about the route we would take, checked avy gear, donned snowshoes and packs, and set off in search of some high altitude crampon and ice axe use / practice. For me, this would be only my 2nd time wearing crampons. While I have experience using microspikes on numerous shoulder season ascents and a couple of winter 14ers, I had yet to put myself in a situation that truly required crampons, and let me tell you – I was excited!! I was going to be able to climb some couloirs and expand my skills in this sport! Something we had been working towards as a group for about 5 weeks through virtual lectures and some field days with our CMC group.

Soon we were ascending. Most in snowshoes, although I wouldn’t say they were exactly necessary. But I was also trying out a new pair and was keen to break them in a bit. A couple of members are moving a bit slower than others, so we take numerous breaks along the way to snack and hydrate. The wind was howling though so we kept them short for the sake of warmth. A group of 4 splits off to take the road – a decision that baffled me at the time, but we were unable to communicate. This left 6 of us to ascend directly via the ridge to the first false summit. Snowshoes come off, but no need for crampons yet. Soon we are all at the top of the 1st summit. Although we had to wait a bit for the mining road party to join us as their route was lengthier and less safe, although with perhaps a touch less elevation change.

Damn it is gorgeous up here! I hadn’t been above 13,000’ since hiking Bierstadt in February with my buddy Anu. I absolutely love the Continental Divide, and being able to see it filled in with snow is a sight that leaves me in awe. My stoke is high. I’m keen to continue moving along the ridge and attempt to get to the true summit before it starts really warming up and getting too late in the day.

3 in our group decide to turn around at the false summit. This left us with a group of 7 to continue moving along the ridge. We moved fairly slowly again unfortunately due to the speed of one of our members, but let me tell you, being on the North Star ridge is fun! There’s some exposure, it’s decently narrow – perfect for building some confidence. We decided to turn around at the hump just before the true summit, or moreso it was called by the official Trip Leader of the group Robert due to thinking it was a bit late in the day given our speed. Fair enough! I wanted to come back for Wheeler anyway, so this gives me more of a reason.

On the way back, I fell – pretty damn far. Roughly 350-400 feet, not 5 minutes after turning around. I surmise at this point that I did not lift my right foot high enough when stepping over a medium sized boulder, and I caught the tip of my crampon on a rock during a narrow section of the ridge. While it had been quite windy most of the day, I don’t believe that ended up being a factor here. It was a simple small miscalculation, something I assume happened because I was getting used to the stack height of my boots and crampons compared to the low-profile minimalist trail runners I had been training in the past months. And to top it off, I had even checked in with myself mentally 10-15 seconds before my fall to make sure I was moving patiently and with intention.

Anyway, I fell. It was incredibly quick. I was hurtling over a ~30-40 foot cliff before I could even recognize that I was truly falling.

Thought #1: Oh, I’m falling.

Thought #2: Oh wow, I’m really falling.

Thought #3: Oh shit, I might die.

Thought #4: Where is my ice axe??

Thought #5: Can’t find it.

Thought #6: Time to fight for my life and grab something.

I couldn’t tell you how long I truly fell for. Maybe 4-5 seconds? 10? I spread out my arms and legs instinctively, since I was falling head first on my stomach, I believe providing a bit more surface area and friction to slow my speed a touch. When I hit a slightly softer / warmer section of snow in the couloir I had fallen in, I slowed down a touch more, and I was able to reach my right arm out, grab a rock, and swing myself around to a stop.

I could tell immediately that I was in a pretty bad situation. I fought to dig in with my right leg for stability to support my body weight. I was perched with maybe a slight indent for me to sit, but it felt exceptionally precarious. My left foot had a dangling crampon, and didn’t seem to want to fully extend or move much. Hm. Guess I’ll rely on my right leg here for a minute. I found my ice axe which was leashed to my backpack, and dug it in the best I could next to me, although it was a mixture of lighter snow on top of loose rock – not the best purchase.

This is when the adrenaline hit. I turned to face into the slope and did my best to not pass out. It was an incredible head rush that had me dizzy and light headed. It took roughly 30 seconds to pass, but thankfully I didn’t lose consciousness. This is when it popped into my head – did anyone see my fall? We were decently spread out on the ridge and I didn’t make any noise when I fell. I turned my vision upwards to see two of my colleagues along the ridge, pretty far away. If it was windy, I doubt my voice would have carried far enough. I yelled up a couple of times to try and catch their attention, and received a cry back.

“Are you okay??”

“Yeah, I think I hurt my left knee though!”

I went to inspect my knee, and felt that it was huge!! I took a few moments to consider what the hell happened, then felt my knee again. It was then that I realized that my kneecap had dislocated to the outside of my leg. I was unable to straighten my knee effectively on my own at all. Shit.

“Yeah, I definitely dislocated my left kneecap!!”

Thankfully Robert spotted the moment of me going over the edge, and was able to calmly relay to our CMC Lead Instructor Chris that I had fallen into a couloir on the north side of the mountain. At this point Chris surveyed the scene quickly and jumped into action downclimbing the couloir to my position. Moments later, one of my fellow students, Chance, also joined in the effort to downclimb to me. Within what seemed like moments, they were both at my side and assessing my condition.

The pain hadn’t kicked in yet thankfully – the adrenaline was still coursing. The group utilized Rocky Talkies to relay the incident, my location, and my condition to a local dispatcher which put us in contact with a search and rescue team. From what I could tell, I was fine other than my knee. I was sure I was going to have some major bruises, but there was no visible blood on any part of my body. This is also when I realized I lost my phone in the fall (which was nowhere to be found).

It was time to assess my knee. Chris carefully pulled up my pant leg, then attempted to roll up the tights underneath. No go, too tight. Scissors come out and the tights are cut. Yep, my kneecap is definitely on the outside of my leg. That looks pretty crazy!! Chris is excited because he remembers what to do in this situation from taking his WFR. I find his enthusiasm humorous to say the least.

At this point, Chris radioed on the Rocky Talkie to Robert on the ridge

“Confirmed left kneecap dislocation. I believe we can try to reset it. Does SAR have any recommendation for resetting a kneecap dislocation in the field.”

A few minutes of chatting pass by…

“SAR has no recommendation and does not want to give medical advice.”

Cool. Alright. We are really on our own here. I give Chris permission to reset it. I am determined on resetting it, getting the hell out of here under my own power, and not radioing in for a helicopter. I knew I was going to do everything I could to not spend my night in this position waiting for help. Based on rescue and accident stories I had read before, I was doubtful of a helicopter being able to extract from our position anyway.

“Alright let’s do it before the adrenaline wears off and get one step closer to getting the fuck out of here!”

Chris: “Okay this might realllllly hurt. I won’t stop if you yell in pain – I will only stop if you yell STOP."

Sounds like a plan. Slowly, Chris lifted my leg and supported its weight with both hands... then extend... surely enough, my kneecap slid right back into place! Not much pain at all! Kudos to Chris on his WFR training here and being so calm with me while resetting that bad boy.

Chris immediately went to work on cleaning up the gash near my meniscus and getting my knee bandaged and wrapped. We went with the first layer being gauze with tape, then an ace bandage compression wrap, then pulled down my pant sleeve, then I encouraged another ACE bandage to be wrapped securely again over the top of my pants. There was no way I wanted my kneecap slipping out again on me during this extrication, which seemed like a possibility.

Now we were faced with a decision of exploring downclimbing ~1,000 feet towards the Blue Lakes TH just south of Quandary, or climbing back up the ~400 feet to the ridgeline and back down the other side.

My instinct was to want to climb back up known territory — to be frank, downclimbing looked scarier with the factor of an unstable knee. If I were to stumble or have my knee buckle when climbing up, at least I could do my best to fall into the slope. Imagining that while downclimbing involves more gravity and momentum. Plus it was unknown territory! Who knows if it cliffs out!

Chris and Chance seemed to be more interested in exploring the downclimb. Slope shading on caltopo was evaluated by the team on the ridge and determined to be worth exploring as a viable option. Chance volunteered to downclimb to check it out while Chris stayed with me while I started testing my knee a bit to see if I could effectively move.

Chance is a fucking animal and I am so thankful to have had him at my side. As a student, this would be his first couloir climb. And he was downclimbing an unknown ~50 degree couloir at around 2pm in the afternoon. A substantially risky proposition. At this point I was feeling awful about putting others at risk for my momentary lapse in judgment. I could tell some negative thoughts were starting to brew internally, but through my training of climbing all the 14ers and Centennials, I knew this would be of absolutely no help to anyone. I had to stay positive, not only for myself but for everyone else involved.

Communication via Rocky Talkies ensued while Chance was exploring. A drone was sent to our position for the SAR team to be able to gather visuals and assess potential options.

What felt like an eternity later, Chance was back in view and climbing back to our position. Once within earshot we asked him if it was a go. He signaled with a big X of his arms – telling us that the couloir very likely cliffed out and was a no go.

Back up we go! While Chance was working up the final few hundred feet back to us, Chris and I prepped our gear. He handed me his ice axe so I could double axe it up, and decided that he was going to head back to the ridge with his Rocky Talkie, due to the fact that the rest of our team had decided to start descending on the south side of the peak, stranding us out of comms range. He used his avy probe bundle to ascend.

With Chance back at my side, it was time to climb. At this point, I was still unsure whether my left leg was truly going to work, but I was resolute in giving it my best shot despite the pain. And let me tell you, the first steps were excruciating – but after a dozen or so steps, the pain dropped a grade, and I knew we were getting the hell out of there!

Slowly but surely, we made our way up. The snow quality was inconsistent and poor to say the least. The first 100 feet was absolute shit snow on top of loose rock. There were a number of steps where I simply had to trust that I had enough purchase to not once again start sliding down the couloir. Then the snow started to firm up, firm enough where I had to kick multiple times with my left foot to gain purchase. Some traversing steps near the end required some careful attention, but soon enough we were back up and on top of the ridge!! Relief!

It was at this point that I simultaneously commenced with a brief cry / maniacal laugh combo and knew that even though we were far from the end of the ordeal, that we were back to relative safety and an easier path down the mountain.

From here, we were faced with the descent. There was chatter on the Rocky Talkies of a snowmobile making its way up the road, but that was a no go due to unfavorable snow conditions. I resigned myself at this point to have to hobble my way all the way back to the trailhead, no matter how long it took.

The initial stretch of remaining ridge had me nervous, as it was the exact same terrain I had fallen on earlier. Slowly but surely we made our way. Once we reached our desired saddle, it was time to descend the face. Low angle snow softened by the sun which should’ve been a breeze, was an arduous journey. I soon figured out that placing my first step with my injured leg was the least painful process, as I was able to keep it straight. Trying to lead with my uninjured leg meant I had to bend my injured leg to step down, which was a no go.

One step at a time. One step at a time… I was reduced to a veritable crawl. Chris and Chance were amazing during this time. Movement was bearable when I didn’t end up accidentally post holing or sliding, but every 5th or 6th step offered a variable which sent a jolt of excruciating pain through my injured leg.

After a stretch of time, we reached a couple more members of our CMC group who were waiting on a flatter part of the mining road for us. Time for calories and water. 5 minutes worth anyway. We all wanted to keep moving, myself included. I could tell it was going to be a descent in the dark at some period of time, but the more we could cover in the light the better.

Onward we continued down the mining road, sloped with snow except for the right edge, on which I attempted to walk with a touch more speed. Eventually I was able to take off my crampons. One step at a time. One step at a time… we reached a lone search and rescue member! He advised that it was time to put my crampons back on. Not my favorite thing to hear, but whatever is necessary to get us all out of the backcountry in a timely manner. Two more snow slopes to descend that require crampons before reaching an area we could consider using a toboggan to load me up for the final easier stretch to the trailhead. Let’s get after it! I was reluctant to take a break and stiffen up. I was offered an option for a helicopter but turned it down immediately. It was here though that I felt a burning sensation in my knee, which in all likelihood was my MPFL ligament, which holds your kneecap in place, completely tearing..

Some unknown amount of time passes before reaching the other 3 members of the SAR crew. 1 more snowfield to go. At this point golden hour was showing off, the sunset colors bursting with vibrance. A small pick me up. Although the cold was starting to descend upon us. Nearing the end of the 1st twilight we made it to the toboggan, where I would essentially be skied out. Slowly I loaded up, departing from my CMC crew who were going to take the ridge direct route with lower avy danger but a bit of elevation gain.

Strapped into the toboggan I was unable to see anything other than the sky. It was at this point I was able to take my first real mental break, not having to focus on my every step. The sky floated by, slowly changing to a blanket of stars with the underside of pine trees illuminated by the headlamps of my search and rescue companions. Without consistent movement, I grew colder and colder, the temperature dropping into the teens.

At a certain point, where our trajectory wasn’t necessarily optimal, I was required to get up and out of the toboggan in order for us to move uphill roughly 20 feet. This must have been one of the most difficult moments of the entire day for me. My body had accepted that things were done as far as physical effort, and I could feel the effects of not only being outside for 12+ hours at this point, but the 15 miles of trail running from the day before. Standing and moving uphill was a legitimate battle, even with the support of multiple SAR members. But eventually with persistence, I was relocated back into the toboggan, and shuttled downhill to the trailhead.

Upon arrival, we debriefed with the SAR coordinator, I was able to eat some pizza, and thank everyone that participated in the effort to get me out safely. The gratitude and relief was immense. It took another couple of hours and two car rides to get myself home to Boulder, where I promptly crawled upstairs to my bed on my own accord and passed out.

Reflection

First off, a big thank you to Chris and Chance from my CMC group for downclimbing to my position and braving the conditions to help out a person they didn't necessarily know very well. Your bravery and positive attitude will always ring in my mind when I think of what it means to help someone in need. Thank you.

Second, another big thank you to the Summit County Rescue Group for coordinating communication and skiing my ass out of there the last couple of miles to the trailhead. The folks that volunteer their time for free to help someone on a Sunday night... that type of commitment is incredible. For anyone interested, you can learn more or donate here: https://www.scrg.org/

Third, kudos to the rest of my CMC group for meeting me at the trailhead with smiling faces and relief that I was able to make it out okay. The pizza waiting for me was incredible to say the least.

Fourth, carry some Rocky Talkies in the field. They were invaluable.

I decided to forgo an ER visit that same night, mainly because I was many hours removed from the initial impact and that I was able to self-extricate under my own power without signs of internal bleeding, and that I was beyond exhausted and I truly believed sleep would be more beneficial with a visit to the ER first thing in the morning.

The official diagnosis from my orthopedic surgeon was a completely torn MPFL and a few pieces of torn / mangled cartilage, some of which were floating loosely around my knee. After some discussion, we pursued the path of a surgery that didn’t involve an MPFL reconstruction, as I’m not anatomically predisposed to patellar dislocations, and the ligament reconstruction would have me with an immobilized leg for 4 weeks, while a more simple clean up of the loose cartilage in my knee would have me weight bearing the same day. I’m not at an increased risk for arthritis in my knee, and a 20-25% increased risk of redislocating my kneecap. Currently, 6 weeks post injury and 2 weeks post surgery, I’m ahead of the game on my physical therapy recovery, and am cleared for easy recumbent biking and a multitude of strength exercises. I’m hopeful for a return to trail 10-12 weeks post injury, and to be able to fully enjoy Aug/Sep/Oct above treeline and scrambling in the flatirons near Boulder.

Background: I grew up in Austin, TX and had literally never seen snow in person until I was a teenager. I finished the 14ers and Centennials this past September while living on the road and traveling around the state, and only in November did I actually sign on to my first permanent living situation here in Colorado -- the same month that I also experienced my first turns on skis. During my 14er and Centennial journey, I enjoyed many shoulder season adventures with the use of microspikes and some thick wool socks with my trail runners, but I never made the leap to full mountaineering gear and crampons. I have never been that comfortable with snow/ice, and joining the CMC Alpine Climbing School was my decision to get some "formal" training to be able to eventually tackle goals like Rainier, Hood, Aconcagua, and Denali.

Mentally since the accident, I’ve had to deal with a deep bout of depression. I’ve spent the last few years of my life relying on physical movement outdoors as a means to mental health, and without that I felt lost. I had been planning ever increasing difficult and new adventures, and this felt like a world-ending set back. Taking a fall this early on in my pursuit to be more competent technically in the outdoors had me feeling like an absolute failure.

Through the weeks though, I’ve been doing my best to treat this accident as a perspective giving gift. I’m grateful to be alive, and without a worse injury. I’ve been reconnecting with friends and family, and doing my best to connect with my non-outdoorsy identity and self; learning what it means to be happy and content if I were to never have access to the outdoors again. I was looking forward to pushing myself with some big peak linkups and attempting the Leadville 100 this year, but now I'm simply looking forward to having fun and enjoying nature. Doing the little things to get myself healthy. Taking some extended summit breaks. Being a bit more free and not planning every weekend weeks in advance. Camping at some beautiful alpine lakes. Sharing my outdoor experiences with as many friends as I can get to join me. And enjoying the process and present moment.

There is no doubt I will strap on my nepals and crampons again, very likely this upcoming winter. I don't necessarily feel afraid of continuing to develop my skills in this area, but I will certainly be more wary and know the consequences of even a minor lapse in focus and judgment. It was incredible to experience the fall in retrospect -- I didn't panic, but it was certainly a level of "scary". I didn't see my life flash before my eyes. I was simply thrust into the moment. I'm proud to know that I was able to remain level headed and objective, and to feel confident in my ability to deal with whatever pain necessary to self-extricate, aka... "get the hell out of there."

Thank you all for reading. Feel free to reach out if you’d like to chat or have any questions. IG @roughlysomewhere