James Reed recalls the defining event of his career so far – a near death experience 12 years ago while climbing the Matterhorn with his son Harry

The first time I fell, it was like a scene from a thriller except, believe me, it’s no fun when you’re the star of the movie. I was edging myself cautiously across a snow slope when I lost my footing, slipped and started to slide towards a sheer drop, dragging [my mountain guide] Stefan, whom I was roped to, down with me. For a few moments, the suddenness of the fall and speed of the slide disorientated me. The crampons on my boots, spiked attachments that were meant to act as brakes, didn’t bite. Then somehow, I remembered the ice axe that had been secured across my chest. I turned the sharp end into the ice and as I slid pressed all my weight down upon it. The axe did its job and I managed to stop the fall, about a metre from the edge and the long drop below. Stefan was able to stop too thankfully. Time stood still as, side by side, we just looked at each other. Then, very carefully, we climbed back up to safety.

Even now, I vividly remember the feeling of being totally focused in that moment. It was as if my whole being knew that I had one job – to stop the fall. I now understand what people mean when they talk about a state of flow, or a state of absolute focus. I know it’s a bit of a cliché but, in life-or-death moments like this, everything really did seem to happen in slow motion. I was fully aware of each agonising second. I also felt another presence that I can’t explain, as if a gentle hand stopped me sliding over the edge.

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The next day, after we had finally decided to turn our back on the Matterhorn, to descend and go home, I fell again. This time I was abseiling. I found myself at the end of a long rope, having descended one cliff edge and then crossed a shallower slope to join Stefan. Unfortunately, the length of the rope and my unsteady weight at the end of it precipitated what is known as a pendulum fall. The person at the end of the rope is not suspended in a straight line from the anchor point. So the climber does not fall downwards, but instead swings uncontrollably. On a mountainside this can have disastrous consequences. Swept from one side to the other, the climber is at risk of colliding with every sharp piece of rock.

I tried to use my feet as brakes as I felt myself being dragged to the right but could not stop myself. After swinging for what felt like an eternity, I ended up dangling over a sheer drop. I could see that my right leg was broken. I knew this because my foot was pointing in the wrong direction.

Stefan managed to pull me back to a ledge before calling the air ambulance. Luckily the wind had abated by now and I was saved by an Italian mountain rescue crew. One of them was winched down from the helicopter to assist me. ‘My name is Roberta,’ she said. ‘Would you like to speak Italian, French, German or English?’ I thought she was an angel, and I still do.

During my recovery, there was plenty of time to reflect on this experience – in hospital, in bed at home, then in a wheelchair pushed by my wife Nicola (who may have been rolling her eyes). My instinct had been to call the expedition my double fail. Not only did we fail to get to the top of the mountain, we then failed to get to the bottom. When I thought harder, though, I realised that I had been given a second chance, or even, as I’d fallen twice, a third one. I had survived two near-death experiences in the space of 24 hours. This was not something that could be ignored.

Thinking about that first fall, even now, more than a decade later, still makes me feel nauseous. I came inches away from killing myself and my friend. The image is seared in my mind. The whole experience is like a film I mentally revisit again and again.

I have no doubt that my time on the Matterhorn profoundly changed me. Life, its value and its fragility became so much more vivid. I had a sense that I should now live differently. It wasn’t just that I promised Nicola that I would give up climbing. I wanted to make sure that I made the most of the time I had left, however little that might be. I became much more focused on my purpose as a person and, equally, on the purpose of Reed, the company I run. I felt a surge of new life and new energy, but where should I direct it? What was the problem or problems that most needed solving?

I became more acutely aware of how we, as humans, are so dependent on one another and started to think more intensely about what we might do for other people. I resolved to become much more involved in the activities of our charity, Big Give. And, after a while, after engaging with input from across our group, we settled on Reed’s company purpose of ‘improving lives through work’. This has been our guiding principle ever since. My work today is defined by my desire to deliver it, to be a purpose-driven business leader and to maximise our philanthropic impact through Big Give. I doubt I would have become so focused on how I might be able to help others if it hadn’t been for that ill-fated trip.

This is an extract from Karma Capitalism: Why Being a Good Business Is Good Business (Ebury Edge, £18.99) by James Reed. Buy a copy from bookshop.org here.

Or buy a copy from Blackwell’s here.