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Melanie Lincicum

Conquering My Everest

By 29029 Everesting

February 10^th, 2023

I’ve done enough marathons in my life that they’ve started to lose their appeal.

Been there, done that.

The logical next step may have been an ultra-marathon, but knowing I was getting older, that wasn't something I was interested in doing.

I wasn't content with becoming complacent either. I needed something to push my limits and fuel me.

In 2018, I heard about 29029. It sounded like an adrenaline rush!

It sounded exactly like the something that I was looking for.

You don’t really know until you’re there.

29029 Snowbasin was a completely uncharted experience for me. It was the first time 29029 was held in Utah, and it was going to be my first time hiking up a mountain in search of Everest.

It was completely uncharted, which is exactly what excited me about it.

My first ascent felt anxious and tense - nerves were still in full effect. The group of climbers felt quiet and calm. Maybe everybody is feeling the same way. I kept climbing, one foot in front of the other.

My second ascent is when it felt like I started experiencing the community on the slopes. The first-ascent jitters were out of the way - now we were free to start chatting and connecting. I genuinely enjoyed the chance to get to know the people I was surrounded by as I continued my ascents throughout the first day.

As night fell in Snowbasin, I turned in for the night.

Why?

Because I was absolutely terrified of it! Seriously, I needed a teddy bear and a blanket or something. My fear of the dark was real.

On account of not hiking overnight, the second day was a struggle. To make it to the finish - to achieve my goal - would require a whole lot of struggle.

I had to dig deep, starting first thing in the morning, and continuing right up until mere minutes before the cutoff time in the evening.

I barely made it, inching across the finish line without time to spare.

My first thought when I crossed the line was more anti-climatic than most.

“Wow, that was cool,” I thought to myself. Then I hopped in the gondola and headed down.

It wasn't until later, under deep reflection, that I realized the impact 29029 had on me. I had learned a lesson in perseverance. It had reinforced in me the need to stick with it, no matter how bad the it was.

Things can always be worse, so don't get caught up in it, and instead persevere forward.

It was such a profound experience hard to put into words, and I wondered what else the mountain might gift me if I came back for more.

When registration opened for 29029’s first event in Idaho, I signed up.

Little did I know, I would need to lean heavily into the lessons I learned in Snowbasin before even getting to the start line in Idaho.

Sun Valley was breathtakingly beautiful, but I had other things on my mind: mostly the near-lethal dose of chemo that was running through my system.

In the early lead-up to the 29029 Idaho in 2021, I had been diagnosed with cancer.

The chemo protocol I was on had the nickname red double because of its severity. It was injected directly into my heart, the aggressiveness of it intended to kill the cancer.

It was going to be a long, arduous battle for my health, but I didn't want to miss 29029.

I had made a deal with my oncologist: she would give me medical clearance to participate if I promised to keep an eye on my heart rate and stop if anything seemed concerning.

I wanted to be back at 29029, and that’s what I did.

I walked into that event in 2021 feeling defeated. To be that bald - that sick - was pulverizing.

But feeling defeated wasn’t going to help me climb, so even while feeling incredibly weak, I leaned into a feeling of gratefulness.

I was grateful to have caught the cancer when I did. While it was late-stage, I was probably weeks away from it turning really bad. Instead, I caught it at a time when there was still hope.

My ascents weren’t quick, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other, pushing through the steeps and through the heat, toward the summit.

In the afternoon, it started to become clear that it wouldn’t be safe for me to continue. My heart rate was sky-high, and my body felt awful.

I didn’t mope.

Even if I’d only finished a few ascents, I had proved to myself that I could persevere. When I had every excuse imaginable to not show up, I still did, and I gave it all I could. I was super proud of my effort.

After the decision to stop climbing, I had one more choice to make.

I could go home, tail tucked between my legs, or I could stick around and continue to take in the amazing community that is 29029.

I chose the latter.

I chose to stay and contribute to the amazing community that is 29029. Just because my climb was done didn’t mean everybody else’s was. I wanted to help them get there.

In 2022, I had the chance to come back to 29029 on my own terms. I wasn’t at 100% - I would be just 3 months out of treatment by the time 29029 Whistler came - but that wasn’t the point.

I was there to experience a 29029 mountain again. I was there to experience the supportive community again. I was there to continue proving that I had the ability to persevere through hard things.

Maybe most importantly, I was also there to conquer my personal Everest: hiking in the dark.

Hiking through the night was a huge mental demon for me. I can’t explain why, it just was. It took me off the mountain in Utah, but I wasn't going to let it do the same in Whistler.

That didn't mean I wasn't scared shitless, because I was!

I don’t know why I’m afraid of the dark. I don’t know why I’m afraid of the spooky forest sounds. I just am.

But in Whistler, I chose to confront those fears. I set out with a goal, and I wasn’t going to let fear stand in my way.

It was scary, uncomfortable, and nerve-wracking, but I pushed right through it. When the sun set, I kept climbing.

Achieving a goal feels amazing. Proving to myself that I could persevere, through cancer and through climbing mountains was a great feeling. Accomplishing the goal of hiking through the night felt event better.

Yet nothing felt quite as good as what came next.

I met a gentleman during those night laps who had lost his wife to cancer less than a year before. We hiked together, and as the sun was rising, our conversation turned to what his wife was like.

That connection - that deep conversation that only a community like 29029 could facilitate - was better than anything else I experienced on that mountain. He was sharing his story - being heard - and I was there to listen.

It was better than achieving my goal of night hiking and better than the stunning mountain sunrise. Connection and community bested it all.

In Whistler, I finished six ascents. It wasn't Everest, but it didn't matter. I had come back to a 29029 mountain on my own terms and given it my all.

I hiked through the night. I kept pushing. I didn't stop until time had run out. And I connected further with the 29029 community.

The only word I can think of to describe that community is unbelievable. It simply doesn’t seem possible that a community can have such an impact on people’s lives, but it does.