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Reversal of Fortune

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Follow friends and authors, share adventures, and get outside. Maybe you've never heard of Lucky Chance—born Toby Benham—but the Australian climber, circus act, and all-around stunt monkey was testing the limits of BASE jumping in when he survived a horrible mountainside crash in France. What happens when a highflier falls to earth? He starts over—no matter how daunting the prospect. New perk: Easily find new routes and hidden gems, upcoming running events, and more near you. Your weekly Local Running Newsletter has everything you need to lace up! Last January, three months after Lucky Chance woke up from a coma in France and a week after he arrived back home in the suburbs west of Sydney, he put on his oversize monkey costume and hobbled across the street to a playground. There, his mother held a camera and helped Lucky, now 28, make a video. The videos are beautiful and terrifying, halfway magical, two-thirds nuts, exploring what it looks like when a young man in his prime pushes his body hard up against the edge of risk. In them, Lucky does handstands on the lips of cliffs. He hurls himself off rock walls holding only a rope. He BASE-jumps from unfamiliar exit points on days when clouds obscure the landing zone. He sets up a diving board on a sheer rock face, inches backward toward the end, and leans back. Carol Hahnfeld, a preschool teacher, is one of only a few people who still call him Toby. Her office is small and stuffy, cluttered with filing cabinets, an ironing board, and old family photos, homey enough to make anyone with a strong taste for adventure want to cannonball from a ledge. Much of the world met Lucky in July , when a video surfaced of him doing just that. Or, to be more precise, when the world saw Lucky, wearing a pirate costume, do a triple backflip with a double layout from the end of a foot-long climbing rope bolted to a cliff in the Blue Mountains, about two hours from Sydney. Lucky called the apparatus the Death Swing , and in July , a camera crew working on a climbing movie called Smitten was there to film him as he flew off and landed with a parachute. But as he rotated, his legs splayed. The chute tangled around one leg, and Lucky fell feet before it finally deployed, 30 feet from the ground. He hit the earth standing and walked away. His handsome face is lined with scars. The light in his eyes flickers like a wonky fluorescent bulb. His legs get stiff. The place is known as a good, accessible spot—the first cliff many BASE jumpers approach upon arriving in France. He planned to leap off and practice his trademark somersaults and flips in flight. Lucky remembers, or says he remembers, no details of that day. All he knows or will acknowledge is that he was jumping with his best friend, fellow Australian Alex Duncan who did not respond to interview requests , and that he did the two things he always did before a BASE jump: he checked the wind direction and speed and pushed negative thoughts from his mind. Much of the short, fantastic life of Lucky Chance feels like a fable: dramatic, timeless, containing a moral—and a little vague. On principle he refused to surrender to risk. According to reports from other jumpers, the day was very windy, and Lucky freestyled did airborne gymnastics where he needed to track put his body in the best position to gain distance from the wall. When he bounced off the granite his chute partially opened, and he wound up suspended, unconscious, from his canopy, which was caught in a tree feet above the grassy landing zone. He suffered a fractured jaw, a broken pelvis, open fractures in his left femur and heel—and a traumatic brain injury. Three French jumpers later retrieved his canopy, which was full of cuts and holes. In the first video Lucky made after returning to Australia, he is not Lucky at all. Instead he is a character he calls Stunt Monkey. Before showing me the video, Lucky stood up and walked with his stiff, wide gait across the hall to his childhood bedroom. There, stacked in the corner, next to the twin bed with the floral coverlet, sat a pile of three football-mascot-type costumes: a monkey, a dog, and a bunny. Monkeys like to do all the same things I like to do: climb and swing. Stunt Monkey—who has a head filled with foam, a brown body, black eyes, and a tan face and belly—front-flipped off the Death Swing cliff wearing a rope and harness. He walked down the sidewalk in Sydney, glanced up at a building, and scaled it unroped. Near the top, Stunt Monkey sat to rest on a windowsill. Then he climbed back down. That first post-accident video is unbearably sad. Stunt Monkey, his balance off and his confidence tattered, wobbles on crutches around a tiny playground. The sky is gray, the music melancholy. The adventures du jour do not involve handstands on cliffs, skateboarding prostrate downhill at 45 miles per hour, or double back layouts through the sky. Instead, Stunt Monkey flails his arms through the bars of a jungle gym built for a toddler. He crawls on hands and feet up a flight of three stairs. He pauses timidly at the top of a tiny slide. Then he inches down. Following the accident, Lucky was evacuated by helicopter to the village of Sallanches, but his injuries were so severe that doctors there sent him on to the University Hospital of Grenoble. The Grenoble doctors searched for Lucky, who was still unconscious, on YouTube to learn more about who he was. He started waking up six weeks later. According to Carol, Lucky has been seeking high-altitude trouble all his life. When he was a child, if she wanted to find him, she needed to look up. Lucky—then still Toby—spent a lot of time on the roof of the house and of his school and on top of the bus-stop sign. Shortly after, he signed up for a rappelling class in Glenbrook, in the Blue Mountains. He already possessed that sparkling ambition and love of heights that characterizes the puer aeternus. Toby started climbing. Then he started jumping off a nearby highway bridge, 60 feet down into the Nepean River. School felt deadly: too boring and too many rules. The day his mother flew to Germany for a honeymoon with her new husband, a postman named Knuth Hahnefeld, Toby dropped out of high school and moved about an hour away to a climbing campground. He was The hand-to-mouth dirtbag life suited Toby, as did free soloing—climbing without a rope. Toby was never a sponsored climber, never well-known outside Australia, but he was a talented athlete with a magic about him. Over breakfast one morning near the city of Parramatta, Lucky told me about his formative on-sight solo route, Ferrets and Berts, rated 5. But the rope was unnecessary! It was unreasonable! On an extended trip to Mount Arapiles, in southern Australia, Toby picked fruit for farmers in exchange for food and did his first backflip off a rope swing into a reservoir. He loved the feeling of tumbling midair, and he started flipping compulsively off ever higher objects: fences, stairs, buildings. Six months later, when he returned to the Blue Mountains, climbing in any traditional way no longer interested him. In , Toby, then 19, traveled around the world, hitting the climber-vagabond highlights and sharpening his skills. He got tendinitis in his forearms and, while he was grounded, learned to cartwheel on a slackline. He shoplifted food in Salt Lake City and spent four days in jail. In Europe, Toby fell in love with a French girl. We were playing a dangerous game, and we both came close to losing. The route was the pinnacle of his climbing career. His tendinitis was returning so regularly and ferociously that he could no longer climb enough days in a row to progress. From our time climbing together, I would say that while Toby had a huge desire to enjoy life to its absolute maximum, he actually had a fairly low appreciation of the gift he had. Last year, when I saw news of his accident, I remember thinking, Well, shit, here it is—he finally pushed things too much. It was like a drug—just a taster was never enough. BASE jumping is far more dangerous than anything else we consider a sport. It has what statisticians call a crude death rate of 43 per , people. Regardless of the statistics, Lucky soon began trying new jumps no one else would dare try. But Lucky never achieved much notoriety outside of Australia. Neither Dean Potter nor Jeb Corliss, two of the most cutting-edge jumpers in the world, had heard of him before his accident. Smitten played in five Australian states, and clips aired on TV and in festivals in Europe. Many took the view that it was only a matter of time before he got injured or killed. I need a new name for these next years. He was 24 and working as a circus performer, traveling across Australia doing what he describes as a high-wire spider-man routine. Before choosing the name Lucky Chance, he considered Phoenix in Flames. He loved the ancient myth, the bird that dies in a fire of its own making and then rises from its ashes. When he turned 18, he had a phoenix tattooed on his back. His first six months as Lucky did not go as planned. He tore a muscle. His slackline snapped. The LEDs in his costume short-circuited. He lost his phone. A girl stood him up. He worried that his new name might be undermining his karma and tempting fate. But then his luck seemed to turn. By the summer of , he considered his luck restored, perhaps even augmented. The women working the desk at the Edge, a climbing gym in a suburban strip mall, are Googling Lucky and watching his YouTube videos. Behind them on the floor, Lucky, in his Edge work shirt, is putting up sport routes for high school groups. But as anyone with a Web browser can see, Lucky is a broken-down version of his former self, a former emperor of the air who now looks exhausted and walks like a golden retriever with hip dysplasia. Lucky grips the railing as he descends the stairs to find more footholds for gossiping high school kids. The other guys who work at the Edge bounce along on their toes, all smooth skin and popping veins. When his shift ends, he leaves immediately. Lucky has lived in limbo since the crash. He takes calculated risks. Three days after the fall, his mother and his sister, Melanie, flew to France. When they finally saw their boy, comatose in the ICU, he was swollen almost beyond recognition. It was very surreal. We could only touch his arms. The pressure inside his skull was 30 mmHg, two to four times normal—a dangerous situation, as high intracranial pressure can lead to crushed brain tissue, brain herniation, and damaged oxygen supply. He lay with his upper body elevated 45 degrees. Early on, James Pearson visited as well. Carol had a cold. That is not to say the fall broke his spirit. In mid-October, once he could sit in a wheelchair, he appeared to break free. Nurses found his bed empty and called security. Friends on Facebook rejoiced: Lucky had made a runner! A grand gesture! The trickster had survived! Lucky, however, deflates that interpretation. They had these donuts with no holes and Nutella inside. They were mighty good. When Lucky returned home to Australia last November, three months after his fall, he set about rebuilding his body and his life. He still quickly fatigued, both mentally and physically, but his work ethic served him well. He relearned to walk on an old elliptical machine and gained strength with a chin-up bar and an ancient universal weight machine. Lucky's world has contracted since his fall. Some of his close friends stuck by him, but the Australian BASE community has distanced itself, party because Lucky was always a little too interested in risk. They claim to revere safety, though promoting this message has required some political jujitsu over the years. His cognitive function seems quite good, considering. Lucky is adamant that his crash not be viewed as a tragedy. Maybe volunteer overseas, teach English, work in conservation—try to be of use. The question of who to be kept nagging Lucky during my last day in Australia, when we drove to the Blue Mountains, the place Toby started climbing, where Lucky launched off the Death Swing. He was trying to think of a new name. After breakfast we parked near a trail leading to the Three Sisters rock formation. A half-mile into our hike, a fence barred the track, announcing that it was closed. Still we walked on. Almost all BASE jumps are illegal. Lucky long ago made a habit of ignoring signs. He tottered wide-legged through puddles and over branches like an old man or a gremlin, experienced but wracked. You could tell he yearned for the freedom of falling, the freedom of not knowing what risks cost. His initial vote was the power to see two seconds into the future—too short to alter it. Then he changed his mind. The most useless superpower would be the ability to see the future but to be mute, unable to warn anybody. A few weeks later, I received an email from Lucky. Search Search. Photo: Andrew Cowen. Andrew Cowen. Published: Jul 16, Reversal of Fortune Maybe you've never heard of Lucky Chance—born Toby Benham—but the Australian climber, circus act, and all-around stunt monkey was testing the limits of BASE jumping in when he survived a horrible mountainside crash in France. Doing a double gainer off a cliff in the Blue Mountains, March Josh Caple Lucky remembers, or says he remembers, no details of that day.

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