About DENALI
North America
Continent
6190
meters
TBD
Summited
20,310
feet
Denali: The Ultimate Test of Strength and Endurance
Rising 20,310 feet above sea level, Denali is the highest peak in North America and one of the most physically demanding climbs on Earth. Located in Alaska’s remote wilderness, it’s often considered the hardest of the Seven Summits—not because of altitude alone, but because climbers must carry everything themselves. No porters. No Sherpa support. Just you, your team, and over 100 pounds of gear dragged uphill in sleds and packs.
Fewer than 50% of climbers reach the summit each year—with weather delays, extreme cold, and the sheer physical toll turning many around. Winds can exceed 100 mph, and temperatures can plummet to –40°F. Every step requires strength, strategy, and mental resilience. Denali doesn’t hand out summits—it demands everything you’ve got and then some. Sounds like an adventure to me...Climb Higher!
Day One: From Missteps to Base Camp Magic
We’re off to an unforgettable start—because, of course, I mistook my hotel name in true “brain-fried from travel” fashion. I landed in Alaska at midnight (2 AM Utah time), called for a shuttle, and proudly did not get on the van that said “Lakefront Hotel.” Why? Because I was sure I booked the Lakeside Hotel. Spoiler alert: that hotel doesn’t exist.
After 20 minutes of standing in my comedy of errors, the Lakefront driver returned, called my name again, and this time I listened. One ski bag, two duffels, and a suitcase later, I navigated the long hallway to my room like a half-awake pack mule. Finally got to bed, though sleep was hard to come by. Denali was waiting.
The next morning began with a powerful, full-circle moment: I met my friend Monte in person for the first time. He’s the brilliant wordsmith who helped craft my keynote—the one I’ve delivered on stages around the world—and now he’s working with me on my TEDx talk for this fall.
After breakfast, I met my guides—Matt Park and Kaylee Walden—absolute pros and the kind of people you want by your side on a climb like this. We grabbed last-minute supplies, loaded up the car, and drove three hours north to Talkeetna. At the ranger station, reality set in: this mountain is no joke. The briefing was direct, intense, and unforgettable. The number of slides dedicated to frostbite injuries almost had me turn around before we started. Denali demands respect, and it earns it fast.
We were clouded out for a bit, but eventually got the green light to fly to base camp. And wow—arriving felt surreal. The weather was kind, the views were stunning, and we wasted no time carving tent platforms into the snow and building camp.
And then… dinner. Not your typical freeze-dried packet night. Thanks to some thoughtful planning and a pre-stashed cooktop setup at base camp, we had the luxury of real food. I’m talking burgers, sweet potato fries, and a fresh salad. Yes—salad on a glacier. That’s not a typo. It was delicious, a rare moment of culinary bliss before we began hauling gear up the mountain.
Fun fact: 962 climbing permits have been issued this season, but only about 200 climbers are on the mountain right now—and fewer than 20 of us are at base camp. No summits yet. The season is just beginning.
This climb doesn’t offer guarantees.
But we didn’t come for easy.
We came to rise.
Day Two: Whiteouts, Weight Loads, and a Whole Lot of Gratitude
First night at base camp: decent sleep, but three people in a four-person tent makes for some creative body origami. I’m a side sleeper—which apparently isn’t a thing up here unless you're into sleeping like a pretzel. Also, full confession: I haven’t quite graduated to trusting the pee bottle system yet. So yes, I took the long, cold walk of shame in the middle of the night. Humbling. Character building. Also… freezing.
We woke up to a lot of snow. The kind that would normally have me canceling meetings to go ski fresh powder. But here, it meant breaking trail. Every track from yesterday? Gone. Buried in silence. This is the kind of morning where resilience gets real, fast.
We loaded up and moved into a total whiteout—sky, snow, and ground all blended into one. Visibility was near zero. Each step felt like a question mark. This haul from base camp to Camp One is the heaviest load of the expedition. We’re carrying everything: food, fuel, gear… and that includes the weight of going private. With no support team, we each bear the full burden. My sled? Relentless. My body? Tired. But my resolve? Solid.
From here on out, we’ll use a carry/load system, which means we shuttle gear in stages to make the weight more manageable. But this first stretch? It asks everything from you—and then asks again.
Gratefully, we made it onto the mountain just in time. Planes are now grounded for the next few days, and had we been stuck in Talkeetna, my tight schedule might’ve ended the expedition before it began. I don’t take this for granted—we’re here, while many teams are still waiting to fly in.
Camp One is now home. We dug out our tent platform in fresh snow, set up camp, and celebrated with a hot meal while snow kept falling. Forecast says six more inches overnight, but the cloud cover keeps temps slightly warmer—so we’ll take the win.
Final highlight? I brought my Theragun Mini. After a day like today, it’s the unofficial camp currency. Recovery is survival out here.
Denali doesn’t ease you in—it throws you into the deep end. And that’s exactly why we came.
Day Three: Whiteouts, Wipeouts, and Bagel Sandwiches
We woke up to—surprise!—more snow. Clouds hung low as we packed up for a carry day: a trip up to Camp Two with gear, then back down to Camp One to sleep. Yesterday’s brutal haul left our bodies sore and our spirits tested. Today’s route is steeper, so splitting the weight isn’t just smart—it’s survival.
They say Denali is the hardest of the high summits, and I believe it. I’ve climbed Everest. This feels harder. No porters, no fixed ropes, no mercy. Just you, your breath, your load…and a mountain that doesn’t flinch.
The trek up Ski Hill was slow but steady. Lighter loads helped, but my body’s still in recovery mode. Progress is progress—and every step forward is one closer to the summit. Or maybe just to another whiteout.
Because yep, it was another whiteout day. The fresh snow erased the trail completely. No tracks. No wands. Just us, a compass, and a whole lot of “I think it’s this way?” We had to stop constantly to check bearings—and yes, we got turned around more than once. When everything around you is white, and the horizon disappears, your senses start to lie. It’s disorienting, humbling, and a reminder that experience matters. Thankfully, Kaylee and Matt have that in spades.
We reached Camp Two after a long, steep push—tired but proud. The final climbs into camp were no joke. It’s a wild feeling navigating vertical terrain you can’t even see clearly. And yet, we made it. That's the magic of teamwork, grit, and good gear.
Speaking of gear, we buried our cache at Camp Two (which means digging a snow grave for half our stuff so we don’t have to carry it twice). Honestly? Sometimes, I wanted to burn my gear instead of burying it. Especially after hiking in the snow. all. day. long. Nothing stays dry. Nothing stays light. But that’s Denali.
Skis have become our secret weapon. Coming down from Camp Two was way easier on skis than it’ll be for the snowshoe crowd. We’ll switch to boots higher up, but for now? We glide.
Oh—and food! It’s amazing what the body craves at altitude. Bagel sandwiches for breakfast were a win. Sounds simple, but they’re incredible. Hunger makes you a food critic with low standards and high appreciation. Tonight? Curry. After we pass 17,300 feet, it’s all freeze-dried, but we’re lucky enough to have custom meals from my friend Belldon Comb—super clean, nutrient-packed, and honestly, better than any other option out there. Never underestimate the power of good food in keeping morale high.
Final thoughts for the day?
There’s a quiet confidence that only the mountain can teach you.
It’s earned in storms.
In wrong turns.
In laughing at your bagel sandwich like it’s a Michelin-star dish.
And in trusting your team, your legs, and your purpose.
Day Four: Whiteouts, Waist-Deep Snow, and the Wisdom of Ravens
This morning started cozy—hot cocoa and muffins before tearing down camp and packing the sleds. It felt almost normal… until we stepped outside into yet another whiteout. Fresh snow overnight erased any sign of yesterday’s trail. Again. It’s wild how fast this landscape resets—like waking up in a blank canvas every day and having to draw your path.
As we started up the mountain toward Camp Two, we heard—and felt—a massive avalanche in the distance. Not near our route, but the low rumble vibrating through the ground was enough to remind us: this mountain has a voice, and it demands attention.
The plan was five hours to Camp Two. Spoiler: it took longer. A lot longer. Temperatures dropped, snow kept falling, and visibility never improved. This was hands-down one of my hardest days on the mountain. My legs are still buzzing. Every step forward felt like a negotiation.
When I stepped off my skis, I stepped into thigh-deep snow. Pulling sleds uphill in that? Brutal. At one point, the slope was so steep that my sled started sliding backward, dragging me with it. These are the moments that test you. Not just physically, but mentally. The “why am I doing this” kind of moments. And still, we kept going.
The blessing? When we finally made it to Camp Two, other Mountain Trip teams who’d already been weathered in welcomed us straight into their tent while we caught our breath. They saved us precious time and energy, helping us set up camp as snow piled around us—seriously, it was snowing over an inch every 10 minutes.
Tomorrow’s plan depends on the weather (as always). The upper mountain needs this fresh snow to settle and stabilize, so we’re staying patient. Denali doesn’t move on your timeline. You move on hers.
Fun fact of the day: We left a cache of gear back at Camp One—buried it in a five-foot-deep snow hole to keep it safe from ravens. Yes, ravens. These feathered masterminds are legendary up here. They’ve been known to unzip duffels and steal gear. Not kidding. Out here, even the birds are wild.
Tonight’s win? Quesadillas for dinner. And that might sound simple, but after a day like today, it's a 5-star restaurant win.
Also: major love to my guides Kaylee and Matt—they are absolute rocks. Calm, capable, and kind, even when we’re soaked, snowed on, and borderline frozen. The entire Mountain Trip crew is next level. Can’t imagine doing this without them.
Still no sun today, so no solar charging—going offline now to conserve battery. We’re safe, we’re strong, and we’re in it.
Day Five: Buried Tents, Mango Miracles, and a Masterclass in Patience
Last night, Mother Nature threw a tantrum. Snow dumped so hard we had to crawl out in the middle of the night just to unbury our tent. Waking up in the middle of the night on Denali isn’t exactly restful—but when the walls of your shelter start closing in, you move. Fast.
This morning, the winds were still howling sideways, and avalanche danger on the route above us kept us stuck at Camp Two. No movement today—just holding tight and trusting the forecast to eventually shift. These are the days that test your mental game more than your physical strength.
But here’s the win: I found the chocolate-covered mangoes I thought I left at home. That little bag felt like buried treasure. So today, I savored them like gold coins while the storm did its thing.
The sun peeked out for a few moments, teasing us, but no dice—we stayed grounded. So we did what you do on forced rest days: question every decision you made while packing. How many days can I wear these socks? Do I really need four shirts? Should I just eat all my snacks now to save weight later? (Answer: maybe.)
A ranger swung by our tent and gave us the best news we’ve heard in days: the weather should improve. If it holds, our guides will carry a load to Camp Three tomorrow, while I stay behind to rest and acclimate. Then Friday, we’ll all make the full move up together. From there, it’s a few days to adjust at Camp Three before pushing toward Camp Four. It’s a slow, calculated dance with altitude—and we’re listening closely to the rhythm.
The stillness today brought its own kind of progress. I finished an entire book. My face is peeling from yesterday’s windburn. My body’s been humbled. And still…I’m here.
Out here, not moving is sometimes the move.
We’re letting the mountain lead.
Day Six: Turning Points, Helicopters, and Holding Steady
Today was a sobering reminder of what’s at stake up here.
One of the guides on another team developed altitude sickness—serious enough that they’re coordinating a helicopter evacuation. We’re all sending up prayers for his safe return and fast recovery. It’s a stark reminder: altitude doesn’t care how strong you are or how experienced. This mountain humbles everyone.
The weather’s holding—for now—and we’re still aiming to move to Camp Three tomorrow. But the altitude is beginning to take its toll. One team tried to push up today and ended up retreating. Another called it quits altogether. Gear packed. Expedition over.
This is where Denali becomes more than a physical challenge. It’s a mental and emotional one too. Every decision, every step, every weather call—it matters. The mountain doesn’t just test your strength; it asks who you are when things don’t go to plan.
Our team is steady. Focused. Listening. No hero moves. No ego. Just one safe step at a time.
We're staying hydrated, resting, and keeping spirits high. And yes, still praying for good weather windows—because momentum and morale are easier to maintain when you’re moving forward.
Tomorrow, the climb continues.
Day Seven: Clear Skies, Thinner Air, and Our Best Day Yet
It’s Friday, and we’re finally on the move to Camp Three. After days of snowstorms, wind, and waiting, the weather opened up—and so did our momentum. The air is thinner up here, but the views? Worth it.
So far, this has been the best day on the mountain. We had clear visibility for the first time in days, and the landscape stretched vast and wild around us. There’s something about being able to see where you’re going that lifts more than just your legs—it lifts your spirit.
We arrived at Camp Three in good time and immediately transitioned into recovery mode: hydrate, refuel, and breathe. After setting up the tent, we’re drinking warm fluids, eating a hot meal, and taking it slow. Everything at this altitude takes more effort—just pulling your boots off can feel like a workout. So we’re pacing ourselves, letting our bodies adjust to the elevation, and giving thanks for a break in the storm.
After six days of total whiteout, thigh-deep snow, sled struggles, and tent-burying night shifts…today felt like a gift.
Clear skies. Cold air. And forward progress.
We’re not at the summit—but this? This was a summit moment.
Day Eight: Storms, Setbacks, and Steadfast Resolve
Today brought tough news: we may be stuck at Camp Three for up to a week. A storm is moving in fast, and movement higher on the mountain is off the table until conditions improve. We’ve shifted into hunker-down mode—mentally and physically.
The harder part? Matt, one of our incredible guides, isn’t doing well. We suspect a mix of altitude sickness and a stomach bug. He’s the kind of leader whose quiet strength grounds a team, so watching him struggle is difficult. We’re doing everything we can to support him.
The rangers brought us an extra tent so he could rest in his own space, and Kaylee and I spent the afternoon stomping out a fresh platform in the snow to set it up. It’s incredible how basic tasks become full-body challenges at this altitude. But we’re making it work.
Before the storm hit, we walked to a stunning viewpoint called “The Edge of the World.” For a few golden minutes, we had sunlight—just enough to snap some photos and take a mental snapshot of the beauty that still exists even in the waiting. Moments like that remind me why we climb.
Tomorrow, weather permitting, we’ll do a carry up the mountain to acclimate and stage gear for a potential summit push. The summit window is shrinking, but we’re not giving up.
Matt’s still not improving, and that’s hard. But Kaylee and I are holding steady and honoring the process. This mountain isn’t just about physical strength—it’s about decisions, timing, and knowing when to move and when to wait.
And above all, I’m not missing Jack’s graduation.
That’s my summit too.
Day Nine: Weather, Whispers, and a Widening Sky
We’re at Camp Three today, drying gear, charging what we can, and watching the clouds roll in—again. Another storm is expected to hit tomorrow. We're hoping it's a quick one because time is ticking if we’re going to have a shot at the summit before I need to exit.
It’s strange how stillness out here feels so full. We’re not climbing today, but everything still requires attention—your body, your mindset, your gear, your patience.
Matt—our lead guide and the steady heartbeat of our team—was evacuated by helicopter today. It was the right call. The safest call. But still, a hard one. Watching him leave shifted the energy instantly. He’s strong and will recover, but it changes things for us up here. Now, it’s just Kaylee and me.
Kaylee is incredible—smart, capable, calm—but she hasn’t led a Denali climb before. With just the two of us left, we’re looking at combining with another team to move forward safely. That’s the reality of big mountains: adaptability isn’t optional, it’s everything.
In the middle of all this, I found myself reflecting on the behind-the-scenes chaos of “mountain weather forecasting.” After days of watching seasoned guides debate weather like philosophers over ancient scrolls, here’s the truth: someone pulls the forecast from one source, someone else finds another, a third person chimes in…and eventually, everyone just pokes their head out of the tent and makes a call based on the sky. That’s it. That’s the system. Welcome to Denali.
Tomorrow is a rest day.
And yes—I’m running low on things to say, so if you’re following this journey: send me your questions!
What do you want to know?
What do you wonder about out here?
I’ve got time. And a whole lot of snow.
Day Ten: Summit Math, Soul Work, and Santa-Sized Calories
The reality is starting to settle in: we won’t reach the summit unless we get four perfect days of weather—two to go up and two to come down. And up here, the forecast changes faster than you can boil water. Windows open, then slam shut. Teams plan, then pivot. Most can’t keep up with how fast it all shifts.
Kaylee will have to make the final call, but we’re also facing another challenge—safety in numbers. With just the two of us left, it’s not safe to climb higher without joining another group. So far, that hasn’t materialized. And we’re still 6,000 vertical feet below the summit, which means two massive pushes ahead: one 3,000-foot climb to high camp, a night to rest, then another 3,000 feet on summit day, followed by a same-day descent. It’s steep. It’s technical. And we haven’t had enough time to fully acclimate at these higher elevations.
Camp Three has become a kind of holding zone—a second base camp. Teams gather here, waiting for conditions to shift, listening to the wind and checking forecasts that rarely agree. The higher you go, the longer you stay. The lower you are, the faster you move. Unless, of course, the weather traps you. And that’s what it’s doing now.
Still, there are moments of beauty. Gratitude shows up in small, human ways—sharing snacks with another team, swapping stories, passing around face lotion for windburned skin. These little acts become everything. I've been texting with my kids through my Garmin, and the questions they send remind me where my heart lives: “Can we get another cat?” “Can I have custom-made cleats?” These messages tether me to home in the best way.
We’re burning through calories like crazy. We eat constantly up here—not just because of hunger, but because food is weight, and anything we don’t eat, we carry. My favorite meals on the mountain are from my friend Belldon Colme. They’re clean, nutrient-packed, and truly the best thing I’ve eaten up here. I’ve been saving the last few for summit day—whenever that may be.
There’s also a lot of thinking. When you’re not climbing, you’re inside your own head. I think about my kids. About the years I have left with them at home. About what I’ve clung to out of habit, and what I might release. I think about friendships I want to pour more into. And yes—I wonder what people would say if something happened to me up here. The mountain doesn’t just strip away the excess weight in your pack—it peels back layers of your inner life, too. Every step becomes a conversation. Every pause, a reckoning. And if I could change one thing? I would’ve packed headphones.
More teams are turning around. A storm is rolling in, and the risk is too high for many to continue. But for now, we wait. Hope. Watch the sky.
The summit isn’t out of reach yet.
But it’s no longer the only thing I’m measuring this climb by.
Day Eleven: The Decision to Turn Back
I didn’t sleep much last night. The storm didn’t let up, and neither did the inner dialogue. But the decision is clear now: we’re turning back.
The newest weather report confirmed what we already suspected—there just isn’t enough time left. We need four consecutive days of decent weather to safely go for the summit: two to climb, two to descend. We don’t have them. And I can’t keep waiting. I have another summit to make—Jack’s graduation. That moment isn’t optional. That’s the one at the top of my mountain.
It’s not easy to walk away, especially after coming this far. My ego has had plenty to say: Just stay. You’re so close. Maybe it’ll change. But experience tells me not to gamble with a mountain like this. I didn’t come here to be reckless—I came to do this right. And sometimes, doing it right means knowing when to stop. Still, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
We’ll begin our descent tonight around 5 PM, when the forecast shows a slight break in the weather. It’s the only viable window we’ve got. We’ll make our way down in stages—retrieving the gear we cached earlier and stopping as needed to stay safe. If all goes well, we’ll reach base camp around 2 AM, pitch a tent, and rest. With any luck, a plane can get us out tomorrow.
I’m sitting in the tent now, letting the decision settle into my bones. There’s sadness, yes. But also peace. When you give your all, when you show up fully, the decision to turn back doesn’t feel like quitting. It feels like leadership. It feels like clarity.
Because this mountain will always be here.
But this moment with my son—that’s once in a lifetime.
I’ve learned again and again that the climb isn’t always about the summit. Sometimes it’s about the conversations you have on the side of a snowfield. The extra hand you offer to someone who’s struggling. The strength it takes to stay when you want to rush. And the courage it takes to leave when you know it’s time.
This expedition didn’t end the way I imagined.
But I’m proud of how I showed up.
I’m proud of my choice.
And I’m proud to be heading home.
Day Twelve: The Descent, the Debrief, and the Deeper Win
The decision to turn around is still sitting with me. I know it was the right call, but that doesn’t make it easy. I’ve spent today letting it sink in slowly, processing the grief in pieces so it doesn’t swallow me whole. My ego keeps whispering, “Just stay a little longer. You’re so close.” But I’ve done this enough times to know when it’s time to listen to the quieter voice—the one that says, “You’ve done enough. Come home whole.”
Last night, we waited for a small weather window and made our descent. At 1:30 AM, we arrived at base camp, tired but proud. We set up our tent in the dark and crawled into our sleeping bags to rest. This morning, we waited—again—for a plane, hoping the clouds would part just long enough to take us off the glacier. And finally, it happened. The plane came. I’m now in a car, heading toward Anchorage. Three hours to sit with everything this climb has given me, everything I’ve let go of, and everything that still waits for me at home. A red-eye flight tonight, and yes, a shower—or three.
The weather never gave us the four solid days we needed: two to climb, two to descend. Even now, the storm continues to rage, and more teams are turning back. It became clear that the summit just wasn’t in the cards this time. We waited as long as we could, but I also have a summit back home I refuse to miss: Jack’s graduation. Some moments in life come once. That’s one of them.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: the long game in life requires you not to push too hard in the short games. When the mountain doesn’t want to be climbed, you wait. Or you walk away.
And walking away doesn’t mean failure.
If we judge success only by the summit, we miss the point of the adventure. No, I didn’t tag the top. But I had Band-Aids for a guy named Bob. I shared snacks with a team that was running low. I listened to people’s stories and cheered on women who were chasing something big and personal and brave. The summit is a moment, but the mountain is full of them. And if we don’t stop to notice the wins along the way, we risk missing what really matters.
I came here to climb a mountain.
But I’m leaving with something even better: clarity, connection, and a more profound sense of what it means to lead myself, and others, through uncertainty.
This wasn’t the ending I planned.
But it was the one I needed.
And in that, I found my summit.
