This is The Shorts, and you're listening to The Dirt Pack Diaries, a duct tape

and beer production, with additional support from Patagonia, Kuat Racks, and New

Belgium Brewing.

When he hit the ledge, I was sure he was dead. He was a young college guy and we

had exchanged maybe five sentences as he climbed past. And then from 20 feet

above us, I heard his cam pop out of the crack. The top rope make a sickening

twang like a plucked guitar string. And suddenly he was flying down towards us on

the belay ledge at the top of the first pitch. He hit sideways, face first, a

slapping thud, a sound you're not supposed to hear. Unconscious, when I open,

his body slowly recoiled from the impact, currently against the sandstone. I

don't know what anyone said. I described his harness because it felt like the

right thing to do. I grabbed our anchor with my other hand. Blood started to

run out of his mouth onto the ledge. Chris grabbed a runner and a locking

carabiner to clip him into our anchor. Then he had a seizure, involuntarily

groaning and sucking an air for 30 seconds. Is this the last thing people do

before they die from head injuries?

Is he breathing his partner yells from the other end of the rope? Yes, he's

breathing. He's breathing. I say, Jesus, I'm going to be the last person this

kid ever talked to. And I don't even know his name. What's his name? I yelled

down to his partner. Peter, Peter, don't move. I say putting my hand on his back.

Peter tries to get up and I hold him down as gently as possible. Don't move.

We're going to get you some help. Help. A dozen thoughts popped up on top of

...