That night, he arrived with his younger brother and child, who spoke some English, and proudly brought us to his home. He told us about his work with Chevron — $500 a month, a fortune by local standards, yet foreign workers earned ten times as much plus housing. The inequality was stark. Still, he was proud to share the apartment he had just secured for his family, even though the only furniture was a table and a couch. His wife, children, parents, and sister all crowded in to meet us.

No one had been out the road there in weeks — not since the last rains, let alone the basin which hadn’t been visited since the year prior. Lake Eyre only floods about once a decade, and when it does, the desert transforms into a mud trap. The road could have been anywhere from soggy to impassable. But we had a satellite phone, the station’s number, and Wright Air on speed dial. We decided to go for it.

In that moment, I had no idea what was coming tomorrow, let alone in 2020—or in 2025, when I would decide I wanted to visit the lowest points on every continent. Back then, I was just a young woman grabbing at scraps of exploration wherever she could find them. Now, I carry the privilege of chasing those dreams fully. My former self would be astonished at how far I’ve come.

Local tribes consider Puncak Jaya sacred. But to keep the mine running, the Indonesian government has militarized the region — displacing, brutalizing, and even killing communities who resist. Trekking in is impossible not because of wilderness, but because of violence. For climbers, that means you fly in by helicopter, hovering over the scars of the mine and the human cost it leaves behind.

We moved through the night. At La Cueva, word spread that weather was rolling in. Rangers were already turning people around. But something clicked inside me. For the first time at altitude, I wasn’t the weak link. I wasn’t vomiting, gasping, or panicking.

On May 22, we boarded a plane for Russia. Everyone we knew thought we were insane. “You’re going to die,” they said. But when we landed, it was bureaucracy, not danger, that greeted us. Rocco was pulled into a back room and questioned, but it was polite, even kind. After a few hours, they waved us through.

The next morning, accompanied by seven men with machetes, we trekked into the rainforest. Nothing in Papua New Guinea is dry. The island breathes rain. The mud was endless. The forest was thick, lush, and alive.

Once inside the country, we found the opposite of hostility. People were excited to see Americans. From what locals told us, we were the only Americans to climb Damavand in two years.

Armed with new experience, we returned to Mexico. This time, we went unguided. I acclimated in Tlachichuca at 11,000 ft… and then caught COVID. I was devastated. I had trained so hard. I took Paxlovid, quarantined, and the second I tested negative, I set off for the summit.

By the time we reached Gilman’s Point, I felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Breathing was brutal. I begged for more medicine, but Omary shook his head: if I took anything else, it meant an immediate descent. I wasn’t ready to give up.