Derek Cheng is an experienced climber. Photo / supplied
This week Kiwis who have cheated death tell their survival stories. Today reporter Derek Cheng tells of his own close call.
One moment, I was sitting comfortably on the side of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada, California, USA.
The next, I awoke on my back after being knocked out, blood blanketing my face and right shin. As I sat up gingerly, I realised there was so much blood around my left eye that it was fused shut.
It was just after noon on a cloudless, July day. I was alone and 300m up the northwest face of Clyde Minaret, about 16km from the trail head and an hour's drive from civilisation.
It was the latest of many solo mountain missions, the appeal of which understandably eludes most sane people because of the inherent risks of loose rock, exposure to the elements, and being completely out of mobile coverage.
I stood up and weighted my legs and feet and, thinking I hadn't broken anything, simply started heading down. My body was stiff, however, and lacked any fluency of movement.
Without vision in my left eye, a lack of depth perception sent me tumbling over frequently, and I soon resigned myself to falling on my back, deeming it the least injurious way to fall.
When the terrain steepened, I down-climbed. Soon it became too precarious and I pulled a rope and climbing gear from my bag, and started abseiling.
As scans and tests would later show, I had suffered a tremendous impact to my cheek -just below my helmet, unfortunately - that had caused several bones around my eye to cave in and jolted my head so forcefully that it bruised my brain, leaving it bleeding in the left frontal lobe.
My bloated hands indicated that I had held them out to soften the blow. A thread of mangled flesh stood between two of my fingers. My neck suffered a fractured bone and ligament damage, as did two bones in my lumbar spine.
The injuries on the rest of my body suggested some tumbling. Bruising smothered my left shoulder and right chest, where my right lung was bruised. Rockfall struck the top of my right buttock, ripping my clothes and leaving bloody streaks down my backside.
My feet and ankles had no sign of injury but I seem to have partially landed on my shins, which both had deep, large gashes.
Yet I was making progress, making me think that none of my injuries were too severe.
Seizures are one of the symptoms of a brain bleed, and I was lucky to be free of any as I abseiled. It was exhausting to find suitable places for abseil anchors, and at one point I found a spot to lie down and immediately fell asleep for who knows how long.
It took me about eight hours and five or six abseils to get to the base of the cliff. I hiked down to Minaret Lake and then dropped into the forest, the glare of my headlamp replacing the evening hues of the sky.
My memory of this period is hazy. I seem to have circled around repeatedly, covering a distance in six hours that should have taken about one hour.
Eventually I lay down on the forest floor and passed out.
At 5am, after a few hours of shivery sleep, I awoke to mosquitoes biting exposed skin. I sat up with anchors in my flesh.
I had no idea how far from the track I had strayed, and stumbled vaguely towards river sounds. To my good fortune, the woods parted to reveal the trail.
Within a few hours, I crossed the river and allowed myself a pinch of satisfaction, knowing that the track ahead was wider and more amicable.
This section was also a popular day hike, and it wasn't long before I crossed paths with a couple who were aghast at my blood-covered face.
One guy accompanied me in the final 45 minutes of hiking. We reached the trail head roughly 24 hours after the accident, and then this good soul drove me in my van to Mammoth Hospital.
The hospital report notes: "Patient covered in blood … essentially covered head to toe in contusions, abrasions, and lacerations … multiple internal injuries including 1-2cm head bleed … multiple facial fractures … possibly unstable."
Not only had I broken multiple bones - though my spinal fractures were not misaligned, meaning I could walk - but there were no facilities in Mammoth Hospital for brain-bleeding.
I was flown to Renown Hospital in Reno and plugged full of fentanyl - an opioid stronger than heroine - and prepped for facial reconstructive surgery.
It wasn't until days after my surgery before the severity of my injuries dawned on me. The first sign was the relief from staff that I could still see out of my left eye. Then it was my face, which had puffed up to resemble some sort of lopsided Frankenstein.
The surgeon had pinned five titanium plates across my displaced facial bones to hold them in the right position and allow them to heal. The area under my eye was also shattered, and a titanium plate was inserted to prevent my eyeball from dropping down.
Damage to my infra orbital nerve, just under the eye, numbed all sensation from my upper lip and teeth to my left temple, making it feel like my face was in a vice.
While my continued coherence meant that the brain-bleed had thankfully retreated, the reality of a long recovery with an uncertain outcome remained.
Now, six months later, my bones have healed. Soft tissue injuries are taking longer to heal, including ligament damage in my wrist and knee, but I've been delighted to indulge in road cycling, hiking in the rugged Tararuas, and even occasional indoor climbing in the last weeks.
The feeling in my face has somewhat returned, and now it only feels as if I've been struck in the cheek by a cricket ball, rather than a freight train. Most of the time, I don't notice it.
After months of battling my insurance company, they are now coming to the party on my US$250,000 medical bills.
I had only bought insurance two weeks before the accident. The only thing I can think of luckier than that is to have fallen off a mountain - and survived.
Time to check your Lotto numbers to see if you are $10 million richer.