My dad started taking me climbing when I was 10. By the time I was 13, I could do walls that he couldn’t. I even had a circuit on the buildings at school that I would climb during lunch breaks.

The climbing lifestyle is incredible. You go to some of the most far-out places in the world, searching out incredible adventures. In October 2001 I got some sponsorship from Berghaus and I set off for South America. My parents are normally fine with my expeditions, but before we left, my dad had a word with my friends, saying that this time he was a bit worried and could they take care of me? But after we’d been to Chile they went home and I met up with two other guys, Kevin Thaw and Alan Mullin, to climb the 5,000ft north face of Cerro Torre in southern Patagonia.

We flew to Buenos Aires, then on to El Calafate before catching a bus and embarking on a four-hour hike to the base camp. From there to the advanced base camp is about a day’s trek. The terrain is awful: all loose glacial moraine, with boulders the size of cars. You walk 15 miles up a glacier, but the surrounding peaks are awesome. To give it some perspective, Ben Nevis is 4,400ft, and it’s a walk. These rock faces are 6,000ft and they’re vertical. After the advanced base camp it’s a 2,000ft scramble up steep scree. You then walk across the Torre glacier, which is full of crevasses, until you reach the base of the climb.

We wanted to free-climb as much as possible. That’s where you use nothing but the rock face to ascend, while ropes are attached to the wall in case of a fall — the principle being that you will only fall twice the distance that you are from your last attachment. We quickly climbed 1,000ft. Then I was faced with two routes. One was flowing with meltwater, and I didn’t want to have to start using equipment. The other line would allow us to free-climb but it was going to be hard. My initial thought was: “Come on, this isn’t the right arena for being really hardcore.” But I was excited. I was 21 and I thought I was indestructible.

So I started up this thin crack and ended up about 30ft above my last attachment. Then, just as I was reaching easier ground, I slipped. I plummeted 70ft, and on the way down I smacked my foot on a ledge, bending it up towards my shin and shattering the bones. I tried to grab the rope to slow my fall: it gave my fingers terrible rope burns, almost down to the bone.

I scrambled back up to Kevin and Alan and just sat there, shaking with shock. My foot swelled to the size of a melon. I told them to carry on while I went back down, but they wouldn’t let me. The objective had changed from getting to the top of the mountain to getting me down. First we had to abseil, which was unbearably painful because I had to let the rope slide through my hands, which had these epic rope burns. I slid myself back down the glacier to the advanced base camp, where we spent the night. Two other climbers were there and they set off early to get help.

We only had a basic first-aid kit. I taped my hands up and put my foot in my boot, which worked as a splint. The next day, Kevin tried to carry me but the terrain was so bad that he kept dropping me. The jolting was unbearable, so I chopped up a sleeping-mat, taped it to my knees and crawled down the moraine. It took us eight hours.

Finally we reached the dry glacier, and Kevin carried me for about six miles. Eventually a park ranger arrived with a stretcher and we got back to base camp in the early hours. The next day we went to hospital by horse. I was meant to be going to Venezuela, so I convinced myself that my injury was just a sprain and I’d be better in a couple of weeks.

Back in El Calafate, I had an x-ray at the hospital. They told me I had to go back to England for an operation. But the worst news came after I landed in Manchester and my dad drove me to the hospital in Carlisle. The orthopaedic consultant told me that I’d crushed my talus bone. He said not only would I be lucky if I ever climbed again, but that I had a 50% chance of avascular necrosis, which means the bone dies, and they have to fuse your foot. Or, worst-case scenario, they have to amputate.

After a six-hour operation I made a decision to stay positive: I wasn’t going to think about climbing until I got better. I learnt to use a computer and bought a house. I actually had quite a good year — and it made me realise that there was more to life than climbing.

It was nine months before I climbed again. Although I stress-fractured my metatarsal, I was happy because I could still do it. After a year, I tried again and managed without any problem. In 2004 I went back to Patagonia and climbed one of Cerro Torre’s neighbouring peaks. It was the most extreme climb I’d done since my accident, and I was on top of the world. You’ve only got one life, and I want to make memories that I can take to the grave — hopefully not too early.

Interview: Seb Morton-Clark.
Photograph: Richard Davies