Forward
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Paul is a leader who represents the adaptive community in Australia and abroad. But the leader he has always aspired to be is the one tied into a rope. Watching Paul over this past winter working his project was refreshing. A reminder of human resilience and a compliment to what climbing is to all of us; a telling place, an honest place, a place that measures your character and opens a window to your inner self. 
 
I saw this realised the day he topped out on Jean. What did he find? He found that although broken in body he was complete in the knowledge that he is wholly a man of his own means. Jean continues to give this climber life and we are all the better for it.
 
-- Dave Barnes, Assistant Editor, Common Climber

I attempted a rockover onto the ledge. But my foot just stabbed the rock well short of the ledge. Again, I tried, but like a stuck vinyl record, the needle just could not climb into the groove. My spastic limb would not cooperate and however much I strained, it remained pin straight. Compelled by an unknown force inside of me I tried the move three times, and three times I was repulsed by the offending leg. Doubt began creeping into my mind. Could I really climb this thing? Every time I become anxious or nervous my right limbs become rigid.
 
There was a reason for my nervousness. This was the first traditional climb I was attempting to lead for a quarter of a century. Twenty-five years ago, I had a traumatic brain injury on a piece of rock called The Totem Pole in Tasmania. It’s an infamous story involving one of the most daring cliff rescues in mountaineering history. Celia Bull hauled me thirty metres to a ledge halfway up the world’s most slender sea-stack. She then had to leave me alone and run seven kilometres for help. This was in the days before mobile phones. I will not go into it here as I have written three books on the subject; suffice to say that it left me with epilepsy, speech problems, and half of my body not working properly. 
 
At times like these, having hemiplegia can be problematic and dangerous. In fact, often the spastic right side seems to engage in a battle with the left side, actively trying to force it off the rock – a bit like a physical schizophrenia. This was happening now. You know that simply bending your leg should be straight-forward and at least theoretically possible - much like touching the end of your nose with your tongue or forcing your eyes to roll back inside your head. For me, at that moment, it was impossible.

Paul Pritchard on his first trad climb since his climbing accident 25 years ago (Photo Credit: Dave Barnes)

I could hear my friend Conrad, who was carefully belaying me, giving me encouragement. I think he was shouting, “Go on Paulie, go on.” But, on such occasions I try and block out everything external – it’s just me and the rock. Luckily, I had a cam in the crack by my waist, so I nervously slumped onto it. I say nervously because I was reliant on my protection-placing memory, but I soon discovered that, like riding a bike, you never forget how to place a good piece.

I weighted the piece and called to Conrad, “Down.” On lowering to the sea-washed platform and catching my breath I then held my friend’s rope on his nearby project. He climbed it seamlessly and lowered down to the platform grinning from ear to ear.
 
My turn again. I perched on a rocky seat and closed my eyes. Inch-by-inch I simply noticed the sensations in my body. My left side was tingling all over, but my affected right side was numb. I couldn’t feel anything. I concentrated and began to observe and study the numbness and the weight of my clothes against my skin. I began to notice a faint tingling in the background. By the time I opened my eyes both sides were having much the same sensation. Sitting in meditation like this not only calms me down but puts me right there in the moment.

Feeling mentally prepared I began to climb. Popping well-rehearsed one-arm slaps up the leaning lower wall I contorted my stiff body into position. When it came time to high-step my leg onto the ledge it managed to hinge itself at the knee with relative ease. Once I saw my foot on that ledge in John Bachar’s boot (Yes, I wear rock shoes that previously belonged to the late, great original free soloist himself, John Bachar), I knew I was going to get this done. I performed a weird no-hands-rock-over-mantel-shelf move and stabbed my pointed hand forward for the jam. Twice previously on top rope I had caught my fingernail on the edge of the crack mid-thrust and split a nail. Wriggling into a no-hand position I rested for a long time on the sloping ledge attempting to quell my breath.
 
Twenty-three years ago, and still considerably ill, I emigrated from North Wales to Hobart in Tasmania. I was now living close to The Totem Pole - the scene of that which did me so much harm. And, more recently, I moved close to a huge sea cliff, three kilometres long by seventy-metres high.
 
Last year, during one of my many forays to the cliff I discovered an unclimbed splitter crack, perfect for hands. However, the crack was vertical, and only having one usable arm I foresaw problems. You see, each time you take your hand off to make a move you fall off - that is unless you use the full armoury your climber-wiles. I had to use a variety of knee bars, dead points, and bum-scuns. The bum-scun involves placing your bottom on a small edge and using friction to keep it there while you move your single hand and place it on another hold (or in this case jam) - a move unique to me, I believe. 

​This was the first time I had attempted a climb in "headpoint" style. This mode of ascent was invented on English gritstone. The climber rehearses a traditional route in much the same as they would "redpoint" a sport climb. At first it felt unnatural to have the moves so well-rehearsed. Back in the day I would climb on-sight often - just walk up to a cliff and climb it. 

Paul Pritchard named the climb "Jean" - after his mom. Paul has hemiplegia, which affects the right side of his body. He is unable to use his right hand and has partial use of his right leg. Paul has figured out how to adapt and create his own techniques for climbing, including a little technique he calls the "Bum-Scun." (Photo Credit: Dave Barnes)

Obviously, this would still be my preferred method. However, that style of ascent got me into some scrapes, even when I was able bodied. Like many of my peers I recall instances at Gogarth (my favourite cliff in the world in North Wales) of getting into positions where I was unable to climb on. Quite often I would have someone on top of the cliff with a rope, just in case I needed to be rescued, hanging onto matchstick edges miles out from my last gear.

​Gradually though, through my six days spent in rehearsal, I began to discover a rhythm to this type of climbing. I began to understand the artistry involved in a difficult headpoint. I had even led the climb three times on a top rope. I had to make positively sure I could find a no hands position from which to place protection and clip the rope.
 
I had also discovered - from coming back to Devils Corner again and again to practise my climb - a fresh appreciation of the place. Conrad and I got to know which particular tree the resident sea eagle preferred to perch in to study the river’s surface. We observed a seal teaching her pup to hunt by tossing a stunned cocky salmon in the broad estuary of timtumili minanya. And we are becoming ever more familiar with the intricate geology of the Permian mudstone: which areas are crumbly, which areas are not, where there are fossils, pyrites, and pebbles. Those pebbles I’m told fell to the seabed from the bottom of icebergs two hundred and sixty-million years ago as the bergs drifted north and melted.
 
When my breathing had regained its natural flow, I set about tackling the vertical hand-crack above. I slotted my hand into the crack and wedged it deep. I strained to place the left, unparalysed toe of John Bachar’s boot into the fissure, as high as I possibly could. Hanging off the jam, I then stood up on my left foot. Then came the hardest sequence of the climb – on the vertical wall I had to release the jam and perform a one-handed lay-back to a widening of the crack just short of a metre above me. This involved piano playing the fingers of my left hand up the edge of the crack until they were level with a chalk mark that denoted the jam. Then I had to work like a milkmaid, gradually nudging the jam into place.  

"I was an adventurer before the accident, and I am still. I can’t live half a life." -- Paul Pritchard (Photo Credit: Dave Barnes)

Once the jam was seated, I could then look at my feet. I had to place my paralysed right foot in the crack - something I am always wary of doing (because it tends to get stuck). I instantly stepped through with the left foot and cammed the boot in the crack. For a brief moment my gammy foot became stuck. This is what caused me to fall the previous time I tried to lead my project. However, this time I knew not to place it so deeply and, to my honest surprise, it caught and then released. “Go on Paulie, go on.”
 
Now came the "Bum-Scun." Sitting on a matchbox narrow ledge with a fold of bum-cheek skin and the friction my trousers allowed I let my feet dangle free. I hurriedly placed Dragoncam Number 1 (thanks DMM) above my head and took a deep breath. This was my last protection, as this was the last no-hands position. Now I had to run it out. I threw my hand into the crack and felt the friction afforded by the jamming glove on the back of my hand. I doubt I could have climbed the route without those gloves (thanks G7).
 
Topping out is always difficult as there is no rock above you to hold on to. Consequently, I commenced what can only be described as a worm-like belly-grovel, a process of hydraulic expansions and contractions, over the top. The two summit fishermen I had said hello to, on peering over the lip, must have been intrigued to see me lying on my back and executing a roly-poly move (the 3rd crux). Then I continued dragging my one arm up a 45-degree hillside and moaning, out of breath. I imagined those fishers thinking me to be some sort of zombie clawing up out of the grave. 

​Sitting on top of the cliff, I had an incredible sense of deja vu. I had been here before. I had been all over the world but really only to one place. And that place was deep inside me. I felt a profound gratitude to all the people who had brought me to this moment: my mother Jean who passed away last year. She taught me so much about freedom, courage and living an adventurous life, whatever that might look like. My physics teacher Charles Wooley, who taught me how to climb when I was fifteen. And to my climbing friends who accompanied me now.​

One may think I should not be doing this kind of thing, that it’s just too dangerous for a person with a disability. After all wasn’t it rock climbing that gave me a brain injury? What about the kids? My partner?

​But, I was an adventurer before the accident, and I am still. I can’t live half a life. I can’t show my kids that. I must be a full person. All I can do is calculate the risks and mitigate them. I put safety precautions in; I do things with experienced people I trust and who know me. I modify how I do things; I don’t need to be bigger or better of first, but I still need to be out there, challenging myself. I need to try. I have to be afforded the dignity of risk. All people with disabilities have to be afforded at least that.
 
I believe it is through challenges like this that we find meaning in our lives. Deep down that is why we climb. I am sure of that fact. Of course, climbing is fun, but deep, deep down, it is through this challenge and hardship that we become more comfortable with inevitable fears, and more able to lead courageous lives. I look at our injuries as no different. Just another challenge to cope with and accept. We do not overcome our problems. We learn how to sit with them - often for the rest of our lives.

A well-deserved victory. Paul Pritchard celebrates completing his first trad lead in 25 years. (Photo Credit: Dave Barnes)

A View from the Catch
 
A day out climbing with Paul is always more than just pulling on holds. We begin with strong coffee around the kitchen table then head out, chatting wide, from the meaning of life to punk rock, even beatnik rock climbing culture. 
 
People tend to treat a person with a disability as inspirational or sadly, less-able. When I hang out with Paul, I see the most able person I know, he has an intense desire to innovate new ways of doing things. The build-up to Paul's ascent of Jean was a culmination of adaptive climbing innovation, bold determination, self-awareness, and above all, risk management. 
 
The stakes were high, Paul had explained the potential impact a lead fall could have on his quality of life; a simple twisted ankle would mean having to use a wheelchair until he recovered. Each section of the climb had to be weighted up for fall potential versus gear placement to allow for a one hand jam, shuffles, and dynos. 
 
For me, the responsibility to be ready for the catch, felt huge. Thankfully Paul's overhanging left-hand pinch to hand-jam dyno landed. He committed to each move with full body intensity. His right leg spasticity playing-up did not shake his firm mind.
 
The place was magic, the climb was intense, the walk out terrific, and the pint well earned."

-- Conrad Wansbrough