WHEN THINGS GO WRONG IN THE WILD
You think of absolutely nothing when you fall, yet your mind fires a billion sensory details directly into your consciousness.
Head over heels you spin, through the sky, with your neocortex computing you have less than two seconds before you shatter onto the rock-scattered impact zone below. Intense disbelief is obliterated by surging adrenal spikes, coercing your lizard brain into snatching at any miniscule options for potential survival.
Your amygdala jostles with your rational mind, collaborating in a desperate effort to compute some manner of safety amid near-surreal terror and utterly detached calm. You remember the ledge, just a couple of metres below where you started down-climbing (this was before both your rock holds sheared simultaneously approximately 12 metres up the pinnacle face). And now you twist in a last-ditch attempt to grab a hold on the brittle wall.
Your thumb dislocates, but you donʼt feel a thing because all your senses are snap-shotting the terrain rising up to meet you at speed. Your third eye freeze-frames an insignificant patch of rock-free earth, and you contort your body to spread the impact across as large (and resilient) an area as possible. And then you brace every sinew and muscle and tendon for the impending earth strike.
Nothing you do can prepare you for the intensity
