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Lance Friedman

Do One More

By 29029 Everesting

February 21^st, 2026

It’s usually late when it happens.

The lodge is quiet, the music is low, and the mountain has a way of shrinking your world down to one choice.

Do I go back out, or not?

I’ve seen that look on people’s faces at 29029.

The thousand-yard stare, jaw set like they are trying to negotiate with their own legs as the idea of quitting gets louder.

I’ve seen that look, and I’ve also been the person with that look.

And it’s always broken by somebody from the 29029 community, stepping in with a smile to start a conversation.

I have a Black Bib now. I’ve climbed nine 29029 mountains, and when people find out I was at the very first one in 2017, they inevitably ask, “How did you first find out about it?”

I started following Jesse Itzler online after reading his book, Living With a SEAL.

One day, he posted about this brand new endurance event: the first-ever 29029 in Stratton, Vermont.

I was intrigued.

I booked a call with a guy named Marc to ask about the event.

I was already hooked, and told him I wanted in, I just didn’t have a tent-mate.

“Can you help with that?”

Then the conversation wandered.

I told him about my dog, the road trips I do with him, my life… And when the call finally ended, I remembered thinking that, from their perspective, it must not have been a very good sales call.

We talked for 30 minutes, and I’m not even signed up!

But eventually, I got an email.

They had found me a tentmate.

I was in.

A few weeks later, a package of 29029 swag arrived with a handwritten note from Marc.

That’s when I started to realize this wasn’t just another event.

In Vermont, I checked in on the day of the event and started walking around the tents, taking photos. I’ve always enjoyed documenting and collecting those little moments.

Jesse was there, talking to somebody else in 29029 gear. It was only a few hours before the event, so I could only assume they were dealing with some last-minute logistics, but I couldn’t miss the chance.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I know you’re probably busy, but I just wanted to say I read your book and I loved it.”

Then I turned to the guy beside him and took a guess.

“Are you Marc?”

He nodded.

“I’m Lance. We spoke over the summer. Thank you for taking the time to explain everything to me. This event looks great, I’m excited to be here!”

I started to step away, because in my head, they were clearly doing important last-minute things, but Marc stopped me.

“Hey,” he said. “How was that road trip you took with your dog?”

I was floored. I couldn’t believe he remembered that from one rambling conversation months ago.

When we parted ways, I found myself realizing that this was clearly an event where people didn’t just pay lip service to caring.

A man on a ladder speaks into a microphone to a crowd of people outdoors. Many wear vests with numbers, under a clear blue sky.

That first event looked a little different than 29029 now. The gondola couldn’t run overnight, so the event was spread out over three days of climbing.

Day 1 felt pretty good.

Day 2 felt harder.

I wasn’t hungry, wasn’t thirsty, and I didn’t feel good. Because of that, I wasn’t eating or drinking. Thankfully, back then, the mountain closed for a break overnight.

And on Day 3, I felt better, and I finished my final ascents.

Back then, the final ascent included carrying a huge flag to the top and planting it at the summit.

It became obvious pretty quickly that many people were too spent to care.

But me?

I wanted to plant my flag.

I rode that high for weeks.

I came to that first 29029 for the novel, pioneering experience.

But then something happened: I realized I needed to come back.

I thought it was the challenge, but over the years, I’ve started extracting something else from 29029: stories.

One year was warm and sunny.

Another, snowy, cold, and wet.

That second kind of year is when I first saw someone spend a full 36 hours on the mountain with no real break.

And that’s when it clicked for me.

It was more than simply a physical test.

It was a mindset test.

Snowy scene with yellow and red flags marking a path. Buildings and a cell tower are visible in the background. Overcast sky.

Lance stands smiling on a snowy, foggy mountain, holding a red

I started arriving at every 29029 mountain I climbed with a plan. It was simple: hit a certain number of ascents before I’d let myself sleep.

Sun Valley in 2021 put that plan to the test.

It was 11 pm, and I’d only reached nine. The plan was ten.

It wasn’t fast, but I got that one done.

On the gondola ride down, I started ruminating about the next day.

Five more to go… How? How do I do that with how I’m feeling now?

At 1:00 am, I was spent, sitting in the lodge by myself.

I might need one more tonight if I want to finish tomorrow...

I was 60/40 on whether I'd get back out there.

Then Marc walked in.

“Lance, how are you doing?”

I told him I was deciding whether I should go to sleep or not.

As we talked about the challenge, it ended with him saying, “You have to do one more.”

Five minutes later, with that mental nudge, I was back on the mountain.

No sleep yet.

And that is the part of 29029 I’ve really come to love.

Those moments when you look into someone’s eyes and help them believe they can get a little more out of themselves than they thought.

I climbed one more ascent at night in Sun Valley, and it was enough to prove to myself that I wasn’t 60/40 anymore.

I was locked in.

Even if I only got a couple of hours of sleep, I was getting a Red Hat.

Although it feels great to earn it, the Red Hat isn’t the actual meat of the event for me.

It’s somewhere in the middle.

The messy middle.

The part where you want to stop, quit, and throw in the towel.

The most vivid version of that came in Snowbasin in 2022.

Wall of small wooden tiles, some with triangle symbols, intersected by a metal pipe in black and white.

The gondola was shut down for hours while thunder and rain battered the mountain.

I found myself caught out on the mountain, mid-ascent, freezing cold, soaked, and with a headlamp that ran out of batteries.

When I finally made it to the summit, I took refuge inside with dozens of other participants as we waited for the gondola to restart. Every warm spot near the fire was taken, so I sat in the corner, teeth chattering.

Miserable.

When the gondola finally restarted, I decided I was done.

I’m quitting.

I waited until the line of people getting on the gondola was nearly empty, then headed over.

Somebody from the gondola car ahead of me poked their head out and said, “come ride with us.”

I didn’t want to.

I wanted to sit alone and be grumpy about the conditions. But I also didn’t want to be rude.

The gondola car I begrudgingly stepped into was filled with mostly spectators, who were supporting the young participant sitting in the middle of the seat. It was Eddie Perez, the 18-year old who had fundraised his way to the mountain.