Just a week before leading one of the most challenging and transformational climbs of the year—summiting Mt. Belford and Mt. Oxford in a single day—I was in a hospital bed.
What was meant to be a five-day misogi across the Sneffels Traverse turned into something else entirely. At 11,000 feet, my body began to shut down. Pneumonia set in. My blood oxygen saturation plummeted into the 70s. I was forced to pull out, and I ended up hospitalized.
I failed that misogi. Not because I lacked the will, but because the mountain—and my own body—had other plans.
A few days later, still weak and uncertain, I found myself preparing to lead a new group of climbers—the BELFOX team—on a transformational journey through The Climb. Twelve individuals had come with open hearts and strong intentions. They were trusting me to guide them through something big.
I was scared. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to participate in the summit attempt at all. My lungs still ached. My energy was unreliable. But we moved forward.
We started the weekend with the essentials: good food, deep conversation, and a powerful induction ceremony that grounded us in our “why.” The next day, we moved together on an acclimatization hike, giving our bodies and minds space to settle into the altitude—and the challenge ahead.
Then came summit day.
That morning, I stood at the trailhead in the dark, still questioning whether I had it in me. The trail felt unknown. But I wasn’t alone. Our team was ready. And even though I didn’t feel strong, I knew what I had to do.
So I took the first step.
We hiked under stars—clear, ancient, and steady—our headlamps carving out just enough light to move forward.
The trail was steep and silent. We moved through dense forest, and time blurred.
But then, something began to shift.
The trees thinned. The darkness faded. Light began to break.
As we climbed higher, the trail opened into a vast view of the Missouri Basin, kissed by morning light. We saw the distant switchbacks climbing Belford. The mountains that once seemed remote were now within reach.
With each step up the steep ascent of Belford, the world opened more.
Peaks that had been invisible just hours before revealed themselves. And when we finally reached the summit, we were gifted with a 360-degree panorama—unobstructed, vast, and humbling. It was there, on that summit, that a quote I once read by René Daumal returned to me like a whisper on the wind:
“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again… so why bother in the first place? Just this: what is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen.”
“There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up.”
This is the truth the mountains teach us—not just about elevation, but about life.
We all begin in the dark. We all face doubt, hardship, and fear. We rarely know what the path will look like when we’re at the bottom. But when we have the courage to keep climbing, clarity comes. Not all at once—but gradually, as the trees thin and the light returns.
And when we reach those summits—literal or metaphorical—we gain a kind of vision we carry back down with us. A perspective that helps us navigate the lowlands of life, even when things feel unclear again.
That day, I didn’t just summit Belford and Oxford—I learned that leading with vulnerability is still leadership. That climbing while scared is still courage. That healing and grit can coexist.
So if you’re in the forest right now—lost, doubting, uncertain—remember: keep climbing. The view at the top will guide you long after you descend.
Clarity lives on the other side of effort.
Keep climbing!