The Giants’ Overhang An Accident in Tisá Rocks

He makes a strange noise that probably means no. He’s still catching his breath from the hill. After all, we’re those wild stallions — we practically ran to the crag. We’re standing under Tlouštík. The first two meters are vertical, then it breaks into an overhang, then straightens again. The first bolt is at about seven meters, with another one somewhere up to the right. I’ve walked past this climb with drooping ears for five years, telling myself: one day. I remember someone at the pub — maybe beer number six — telling me it’s a nice, easy route. Just be strong as a bull and wise as one too, and go for it!

Only one thing bugs me — a 30 cm stone ledge runs along the entire base of the wall. But hey, I’m warmed up. I got back from Arco and Finale three weeks ago. Last weekend I was at Sušky and Panťák, climbing well. So, what’s the problem?

Moments later I’m hanging like an orangutan, and feeling nothing like a wild thoroughbred. In fact, not feeling wild at all. Suddenly all that matters is the clock I just threaded and what kind of sling I’ll jam into the crack above. I’m there. Jamming in a knot while cursing like a bricklayer — silently, or maybe not. The perfect sling for that spot would be the gray one... which I already used below. This one sucks. To redeem myself, I place another one a bit higher. I’m still dangling, forearms pumped to bursting. But this new placement is even worse, so I don’t bother clipping it.

Funny thing — back home under the bed, I’ve got two sets of cams, hexes, and stoppers. And here I am, fiddling with bits of chopped-up wire. Sandstone! My hands are screaming. I need to gun it to that bolt. It’s just a few inches up and to the left. Why are my fingers frozen? Am I even holding on?

“Watch me, I’m freezing!” I yell. I just can’t get my head around this thermal paradox — blazing sun, sweat everywhere, yet this shady north face is a freezer. Why the hell aren’t we on the sunny massifs like normal people?

An Eskimo with an ice cream in hand — that’s how I felt inching toward the bolt, hoping the salty jugs would hold, and reminding myself: nobody falls on sandstone. At least not below the first bolt!

Then suddenly, something changes. In a flash, a single thought cuts through my head:

“Dude... you’re not climbing anymore.”

No more pump, no more pain. Just falling. Darkness...

What’s going on? Why am I on the ground? Ctíra is here, along with a crowd of German tourists — guess they got dinner and a show. I’m yelling for someone to lay me flat. My back is on fire. Propped up against the stone ledge is not comfortable. But they don’t want to move me — spinal precautions. So I yell louder until they do. The Germans wrap me in a thermal blanket. I tear it off. I actually own one of those and think they’re great, but this one couldn’t handle the panic. Then... blackness again.

Suddenly mountain rescue is there. I vaguely remember a guy in a red jacket holding me. It felt nice — though I don’t recall what exactly he was holding. Hopefully just my arm. Darkness again.

They’re carrying me — mountain guys, climbing friends. No idea where the Germans went. Maybe they got mad I tore their blanket. Everyone’s being amazing. Darkness… but only briefly.

I’m puking in all directions. Same as last time I drank a bottle of gin in thirty minutes. Should’ve stuck to rum — tonic water never sat well with me.

Now I’m in the ambulance. Apparently, I was a lot to deal with. At one point I demanded a helicopter — because everyone knows you fly out of Tisá. No way was I riding on wheels. And when the doctor pointed out an air bubble in a line, I allegedly said: “Great. I survive the fall, and now I’ll die from an air bubble in my vein!”

At the ER in Ústí, a friend was already waiting. Climbers have their network everywhere — and smartphones talk fast.

“Heyyyy,” I whimper.

“What now, you lunatic?”

“I puked on myself!”

I’m strapped to a backboard. The doctor can’t understand why I’m wearing surgical pants. He doesn’t buy my theory that I found them. Didn’t matter. They cut off my shirt, underwear, and those green pants too. Now they’re doing all the fun stuff — scooping sand out of my nose, tickling my feet while washing them, hammering my legs, sticking tubes in my bladder, giant needles in my arms, and marveling at my fantastically thick veins. And my head is pounding — post-concussion, apparently. On the way to the ICU, I stopped by a CT scanner. I felt like Bruce Willis in The Fifth Element, except they forgot to bring Milla Jovovich. Grrr.

Once things calmed down, a doctor finally delivered the sweet words: “Man, you really know how to fall.” And something about being incredibly lucky. I had a fractured transverse process on my ninth vertebra — no big deal, apparently — and bruised lungs with pneumothorax. That explained the snorting sounds I made under the wall, like a pig at slaughter. At first I wasn’t breathing at all, lying like roadkill. But when my partner tried mouth-to-mouth (as an excuse, obviously), I suddenly came back to life. No man’s kissing me! Then the snorting — collapsed lung.

X-rays revealed broken ribs 2, 3, and 4 near the right shoulder blade. My wrist was just bruised, swollen like a cartoon dollar sign, in all the colors of a tropical parrot.

Then came the sweet life of hospital care, delicious food, and divine painkillers. Friends came to visit with the sole aim of making me laugh. I tried to explain that laughter hurts with broken ribs. No one cared.

So what actually happened on the wall? I have no idea. My first real memory is the ambulance ride. But back at the last point I remember holding on, there’s a huge chunk of sandstone missing. And further down — no trace of the clock knot. Just that one sling I never clipped.

Twenty days after the fall, I led my first route back on sandstone. And less than three months later — on my birthday — I climbed the full Giants’ Overhang. This time, though, on the safer second end of the rope. It’s a beast of a climb. And yeah… I must’ve been a bit of a nutcase to try it onsight. I’m definitely no giant.

P.S. Thanks to everyone who helped me in any way — and sorry about the shredded thermal blanket. And I’d really like to meet the person who stole that unclipped black-and-white sling from the wall.

Text: David “Ještěrka” Michovský This article was originally published in the climbing magazine Montana 6/2004, and it’s shared here because it’s better to learn from someone else’s mistake — and it hurts a lot less.