Climbing Cotopaxi with ROMP and La Sportiva

The clouds finally lifted, revealing Cotopaxi for the first time since we’d arrived at Los Mortiños, our beautiful lodge to acclimatize in the highlands. From where we stood, we could see the refuge, our next destination, perched far up on the mountain, and even higher, the summit towering above at a casual 19,347 ft. The moment I saw the sheer scale of it, my stomach dropped. Cotopaxi was huge; far bigger than what I had imagined from the comfort of my reasonably sized mountains in Montana. In a few days, we were attempting the summit.

Just hours earlier, our group had been in Quito, Ecuador where we had spent the past few days exploring and helping out at the Range of Motion Project (ROMP), a non-profit that provides prosthetic care for amputees in need and the whole reason why my team was in Ecuador to climb Cotopaxi.

Walking into the Range of Motion Project clinic felt like stepping into the heart of their mission: restoring mobility. People were being fitted with new prosthetics, employees grabbed parts we’d brought to build out limbs, a dad who arrived on crutches left with a new leg and was able to hold his son’s hand while walking out for the first time in who knows how long.

As it sunk in, a few of us started to tear up. I remember thinking, this is why we are here. To support people regaining their mobility, their independence, and their lives. Something we all had the privilege to do and had maybe taken for granted.

Each year, ROMP brings together a team of adaptive athletes to climb a major mountain, raising funds for amputees in need of care while demonstrating what is possible when people with disabilities have access to the mobility technology they need. This year, I somehow found myself on the team, sent by La Sportiva.

I had never been above 12,000 ft. and now here I was, staring up at Cotopaxi (19,347 ft) and the neighboring dormant volcano Rumiñahui (15,489 ft).

Rumiñahui was our acclimation hike and practice climb to prepare us for Cotopaxi. We woke up early and drove to the trailhead. I was nervous but also buzzing with energy and curious to see how far I could go. 

The hike was pure magic. We moved through wildflowers, leaned into high-alpine wind, sang, laughed and ate endless snacks. And all day, Cotopaxi sat within view, watching over us.

The final scramble of Rumiñahui was steep and loose. We ditched our poles, put on helmets, and clawed our way up, one arm, leg, and prosthetic at a time. Standing at 15,000 feet for the first time felt surreal. I was totally okay! And in that moment, I finally believed: I CAN CLIMB BIG THINGS! 

The hike was hard, but celebrating mobility with people who understand its importance is one of the greatest joys I have experienced in my life. We were ready.

The next day, we drove up Cotopaxi and hiked to the refuge at 15,700 feet, a glowing gray building stuck to the side of the volcano like something out of a dream. Another new high point for me.

It was beautiful. It was also where I promptly got altitude sick.

I tried to ignore the nausea, hoping it would magically disappear if I didn't directly engage it. That did not work. I could not keep anything down. I knew this was bad and if it continued, I would not be allowed to attempt Cotopaxi. Things were not looking good.

Then something in me hardened and I knew I needed to pull it together. As a two-time childhood cancer survivor, nausea and I have battled through far worse. If I could get through chemotherapy twice, I could get through this.

I went upstairs to the bunkroom and meditated. I visualized myself climbing with the team, and celebrating at the top. I ate tiny bits of food, willing myself to keep them down. And little by little, my nausea lifted.

I was ready to return to the group. Since I had missed a few meals, it was time to play catch up. I started eating everything I could get my hands on. Pete, my climbing partner, generously shared his extra snacks and my energy came roaring back. My laugh and smile returned. The team knew I was ready. I could feel the sigh of relief.

That evening, we ate an early dinner, packed our bags, went to bed, and woke up at 11 p.m. to begin climbing by midnight.

I was roped up with two incredible humans: Pete McAfee, an amputee mountaineer who had summited Cotopaxi before, and Chicki, a trusted ROMP guide of 11 years. I knew I was in the best hands possible.

We moved slowly at first, saving energy. The first hour felt peaceful, just me, Pete, and Chicki chatting in the dark, the crunch of gravel underfoot, our headlamps dancing on volcanic dirt. Then we reached the glacier. It was crampon time.

I stepped my La Sportiva Nepals into the metal frame and strapped them on. It felt like stepping into a new version of myself. I had never used crampons before and had limited experience with ice gear. 

Once we hit the ice, everything sharpened. The glacier got steep, intimidatingly steep. Every foot placement mattered. Every kick of a crampon, every press of an ice axe. It demanded precision… but something about the rhythm felt almost meditative.

Somewhere around four hours in, it clicked: This is why people climb mountains. The focus. The quiet. The uncomplicated presence.

For the first time in a long time, my mind felt still. I knew this would not be my last mountaineering experience.

To my surprise, our little rope team was one of the first to reach the summit. We just kept moving forward and summited a bit after sunrise at 6 a.m. We’d climbed thousands of feet in six hours.

It was time to celebrate. 

Standing at 19,347 feet felt like embracing my eleven-year-old self who had just been diagnosed with cancer, the girl who wondered whether having a disability meant her world would shrink. Turns out, it expanded. 

We rallied the team in whiteout conditions, staying long enough to snap a summit photo. Howling winds, zero visibility, water freezing in our bottles. And still, my glass was completely full. I felt proud, powerful, and deeply connected.

We had just demonstrated something bigger than a summit, we showed what is possible when people with disabilities have access to the mobility technology they need. And I had just shown myself that I could climb big things.

The way down was… challenging. It was starting to warm up and the snow was slippery. My footing felt less certain on the steep sections, and I kept slipping, but with Pete’s patient coaching, I found my footing and my way.

Somewhere on the descent, the storm lifted, and I could finally see what we had just climbed. The terrain blew my mind. Sometimes it is a blessing to not know exactly how steep the mountain is until after you climb it.

Back at the refuge, my heart felt impossibly full, gratitude for ROMP, for La Sportiva, for my community and everyone who helped make this trip a reality.

I had just accomplished the biggest climb of my life with people I cared deeply about for a mission that means the world to me.

At ROMP, we ask, “What’s Your Mountain?” because not all mountains look like Cotopaxi. Sometimes a mountain is getting up and out of bed in the morning. Is learning to walk on a new prosthetic. The courage to try something new or apply for a different job. The strength to try again. When I first heard La Sportiva’s motto, “For Your Mountain,” it resonated with me deeply for the same reasons.

Everyone has a mountain.

I feel honored, humbled, and incredibly joyful to have climbed a literal mountain to reflect that message back into the world. This journey pushed me mentally, physically, and emotionally. Fundraising challenged me. Training stretched me. Traveling alone to a different continent scared me. And I loved it.

Thank you, La Sportiva, for believing in me and supporting this adventure, and for supporting mobility access for amputees across the world. This year, Cotopaxi was my mountain. Whatever yours is, I hope you climb it.