Measuring the gravity of a fall

David Vass relaxes at Lake Terror, Llawrenny Peaks, Fiordland. Photos: supplied

When lifelong mountaineer David Vass had a serious accident, he had to find a way to live without that which had been most precious.

It’s easy to reflect on the irony of my accident. I’d spent the bulk of my youth without much thought to consequences, and my early alpine career was characterised by near misses. But I learnt; I moved away from the higher mountains and their inherent dangers, and found my place in the alpine rock and landscapes of the deeper south, especially among the granite of the Darrans. I climbed with friends I trusted. I was never reckless, but I had been obsessed, or close to it. My obsessions slowly subsided, I gained knowledge and became safer in the hills all the time. And yet, in the end, despite all that, a root breaks ...

So yes, there is a sense of irony but I don’t think of it too much; experience might not have saved me on the day, but it has given me perspective. Earlier in my life, my friends died in the mountains. Now they die of medical conditions, and a car smash is a possibility for anyone; life has a random element wherever you are. As well as being one of the unlucky few, I’m also one of the lucky ones. A few millimetres of spinal displacement less and I could be perfectly functional. A few millimetres more, dead.

I asked Richard to read over an early draft of this manuscript. His summation of the main theme — that I finally found the place where it all came together for me and then shit happened — seemed as good as any other. The absolute, definitive cut-off from the nature I lived for often makes me feel helpless about what to do next, but of everything I’ve learnt from a life of adventuring, some kind of tolerance seems a good one to bring with me. Acceptance seems the only reasonable response to the consequences of your actions, whatever they might be. Acceptance of consequences, but of all the good times too; acceptance is helping me through the now.

David Vass: " Having a life of wildness and nature behind me helps with the now, simply because I have lived. It was worth it at the time; it is still worth it now." Photo: supplied

It feels as if there should be other qualities I can use that have come from adventuring. Determination, perseverance, enduring discomfort, might all be relevant to how I live my life, but less so to what I live my life for. It seems worth persevering only if you can see the possibilities. Those possibilities are less obvious right now, but it probably doesn’t matter; I just need to suspect it will be worth it. Pressing on and hoping for the best is something I’ve done plenty of in the hills, and regardless of whether I made it to the top, it all seemed to work out in the end; it seems a worthwhile thought to carry with me.

I have survived my accident, and reasonably well. Whether my time in the mountains can be credited with any of that — some inherent toughness, some great will to live — I can’t say. I have memories of the mountains and they are good ones. Having a life of wildness and nature behind me helps with the now, simply because I have lived. It was worth it at the time; it is still worth it now.

I nearly found the solace of death among the mountains the night of my fall, and it would have had a certain rightness to it, to drift off into the baroque theatre of the storm, surrounded by the mountains of what had become my home ground. However, I’m still here, and living. Most physicality is beyond me now, but there’s much to look forward to. Although the high drama of the mountains is gone, I have found things to involve the parts of me that still function. In the long and sometimes lost years since the fall there has been plenty of time to reflect. I can feel, reluctantly, the landscapes of the mountain world receding, I will be forever coming to grips with the human landscape to which I’m now restricted, but I have a secret weapon: I know the thing that has saved me.

Simply put, that thing is people; the beauty and power of my relationships are as apparent to me now, as another beauty once was in the hills. Some friendships have faded away, others have grown stronger and some have transformed into something else. Without people, though, I would be nowhere.

Complete strangers have offered support for the simple reason that they see I need it, and that support has taken many forms: handwritten cards of love, links to the latest scientific advances, the wackiest alternative remedies. Other people in my situation have made contact, offering their stories and experience. It has all helped.

My friends and family have stopped me from withdrawing into myself. My friends — and my support workers number firmly among them — have become expert in getting me up steps, into inaccessible locations, into trouble. I love them for it. They suggest outings and events that have nothing to do with the mountains and they’re good. I’ve become better at going out to music gigs, performance, and entertainment events. I’ve started to dress more smartly again when I go out, and feel better for doing so. I’m finding life becoming interesting once again. I laugh a lot more.

The mountains affect all our lives to some degree and they’ve shaped my life. They’ve given me much, but I’ve realised something: the mountains, unlike people, never cared for me. They were glorious companions, and it was an ardent relationship, but ultimately, it was a one-sided affair. My relationship with the mountains was all about me, simply a reflection, no more, no less, of what I allowed myself to give to them. For a while it was everything, and I’m lucky to be here with the memories I have.

From early on — from that first time on Aoraki — it seemed obvious, even wearing the blinkers of obsession, that climbing wasn’t about the summit. The mountain journey was worth it in itself, and this journey I’m on now will be worth it too. I’ve finished with the mountains now, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s time to move on, and I’m beginning to see how.