Joshua Tree Climbing Accident: What a 40‑Foot Free‑Solo Fall Taught Me About Risk
A near‑fatal 40 foot fall in Joshua Tree reshaped my view on free soloing, risk, and humility.
Published: 05/08/2025
Gonzo
You cannot outsmart or overpower gravity. I learned that brutal truth after a 40‑foot free solo fall in Joshua Tree, a stark reminder that the rock never forgives overconfidence and that leftover ego belongs rotting in the bed of my built‑out 1996 Ford Club Wagon. This story is nothing more than a raw, bloody confession of what happens when you try to defy Mother Nature. I have been climbing for nearly six years, a relatively short time when I step back and think about it, but I am proud to say I have gained a decent amount of hard‑earned wisdom, and only a handful of lessons really carve themselves into your bones. I have been nervous to write about this for over a year, mainly because shame and embarrassment have a way of silencing you, but a near‑death fall does not play favorites.
I was living in San Diego at the time, seven months deep into a climbing hiatus thanks to a brutal shoulder injury. The verdict: a partially torn labrum and a grade‑2 rotator‑cuff tear. I spent
those months in a loop of physical therapy and doubt, ticking off exercises that felt repetitive and monotonous but, admittedly, were slowly bringing me back to life. If you have done PT, you know the agony and impatience it stirs—the constant question of whether it is working and if you will ever return to your old form. I learned to trust the professionals and, eventually, I got the green light.
When the doctor finally cleared me to climb, I could not have been more stoked. I ripped open the storage bin where my shoes, rack, chalk bag, and harness sat idle like relics from another life. I called my friend Grant to line up plans, and my old friend Adrianna happened to be visiting from Salt Lake City. The timing could not have been better. Grant and I settled on a weekend trip to Joshua Tree. It would be her first visit and only my second time climbing there. By sundown we knew where to meet and what we wanted to climb. I was nervous to test my rebuilt shoulder yet fired up to shove my hands into a crack and feel crystalline granite again.
After a quick three‑hour drive from San Diego, we parked on the outskirts of Joshua Tree National Park and crashed for the night. We woke at a leisurely eight, brewed strong coffee, and rolled peanut‑butter burritos to fuel up. By nine we were barreling toward Hidden Valley Campground, the desert sun already warming us through the windshield. In a moment of glorious idiocy, Grant turned to me and asked if I wanted to solo a chill route.Spending a few seasons in Yosemite Valley will warp your brain into thinking soloing is as normal as a kid jogging through a suburban park. You will see someone scrambling up Swan Slab Gully just months after buying their first pair of climbing shoes. It becomes a culture that feels completely natural once you have lived it, but outsiders look at you like you have lost your damn mind.
When Grant asked if I wanted to stroll down memory lane and “solo some chill routes,” I shrugged and said why not—I had soloed harder and higher just a summer ago. I buckled my chalk bag around my waist and slipped into my TC Pros like a junkie reaching for a fix. Walking up to the base of the route, part of my brain trembled with nausea and dread, but my ego, fat and drunk on nostalgia, roared louder. Deep down I knew it was wrong, yet hubris often overwhelms reason.
I made the first few moves with what felt like confidence, convinced muscle memory had my back. As I climbed the 50‑foot crack, a voice in my head kept telling me to breathe and stay focused. Every move felt smoother, but what sounded like minutes were really only seconds. I reached the crux and went blank—forgot how to climb, how to stay calm, how to flow on rock. The very next move became my last climb for months.
My foot slipped from the crack, my hand jam popped out with it, and for a split second I thought I was fine. Then gravity ripped me down forty feet. A bulge in the wall slowed my fall just enough to save my life—maybe the only reason I’m still here. Adrianna later told me I looked like a cat clawing at air. I hit the ground with a sickening thud, my skull cracking open like a rotten egg. Blood poured down my neck and the world went black. Lights and air flickered in and out as I groaned, the wind knocked from my lungs, adrenaline masking the immediate pain.
When I came to, frantic faces hovered around me and the sting of pain crept in as the adrenaline faded. My shirt, shredded and soaked in blood, was wrapped around my head to slow the bleeding. My friends hoisted me onto their shoulders, carried me to my van, and tore off toward Hi‑Desert Medical Center. By the time we arrived I was strapped into a back‑and‑neck brace with IVs in both arms, terrified not only of what was happening but of what might still be coming. Fear and relief wrestled inside me. Seven X‑rays, a CT scan, and a parade of needles later, the verdict was almost unbelievable: no broken bones, just bone bruises, lacerations, and nine staples sealing my scalp. Anything over twenty feet can be fatal, yet I walked away. It took a year before I could stare that memory in the face and put it into words. It was the ultimate ego death. The rock I once thought familiar now felt foreign, no longer a friend, and I found myself questioning every shred of skill. Each solo had been a tightrope over the abyss, and that fall was the wire finally giving way.
Climbing can consume your whole being and reshape your life in almost every good way, aside from the inevitable injuries that tag along. I’ve met great people, become healthier, and found a passion far bigger than myself. Then came that fall on a route I’d foolishly chosen to solo, a cosmic punch that proved my ego was running the show.
Now, a year later, climbing is more enjoyable than ever. The urge to prove myself and chase limits has evaporated. I climb and train simply because it feels good, not to feed some inner rival. I came to climbing late, so I never tangled with formal competitions, but I always felt that itch whenever someone nailed a move I couldn’t pull. Back then I would drop everything to chase that climb, train harder, eat cleaner, the whole works. These days I’m just as happy watching others send without that envious buzz.
I’ve learned that humility isn’t a one‑off lesson; it’s a muscle you have to keep flexing. Nearly dying while free soloing a route I chose to stroke my swollen ego stripped away any illusion of invincibility and forced me to face the parts of myself I had been burying. I can only speak for my own chaotic journey, but I hope anyone who climbs, especially those who solo, does it for the right reasons—whatever those may be—and always for themselves.