My Journey Up a 14,000-Foot Mountain

At 68, I did something I never thought was possible.

For years, I could barely walk 25 feet without stopping to rest. Whenever I tried, my feet would drag and flop downward. It’s called foot drop, and mine was the result of a spinal cord injury I sustained during a training exercise in the Marine Corps. I relied on a walker and leg braces to get around, but my legs were weak. Once I fell in my driveway and couldn’t get up, so I dragged myself to the mailbox and used it to pull myself back up.

Over the years, I underwent six spine surgeries, including three separate fusions in my neck and lower back. Complications from one surgery damaged my nerves and left me in constant pain. I couldn’t tie my shoes or button my shirt.

Martial arts training, which I did earlier in life, taught me to hide my pain, so I never complained. But after nearly 30 years, I was depressed. What often circled in my head was, I’m useless. I’m a failure.

Last year, the pain got so bad I went to the nearby Rocky Mountain Regional VA Medical Center in Aurora, Colorado. The doctor told me that because of my spinal cord injury, I was eligible for treatment at the Spinal Cord Injury and Disorders (SCI/D) Center. That’s how I got referred to Dr. Liam Kiernan, one of the Center’s physical therapists. Someone scheduled me for physical therapy. I didn’t expect much, but I showed up. Thank goodness I did because those sessions and the people I met changed my life.

A few months in, Dr. Liam asked if I had any big goals. His question reminded me of a long-forgotten dream I had of hiking one of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks. When I mentioned it, Dr. Liam didn’t even pause. “Let’s start training for it,” he said. I was floored.

“There’s no way! I’m 68 years old and I can’t even climb stairs,” I said.

But the way he believed in me gave me a little hope. I agreed to try.

Dr. Liam created a plan and picked a target—14,272-foot Quandary Peak near Breckenridge, Colorado. I started training in November 2025.

Three times a week, we’d meet at 6:30 a.m. at the hospital, where Dr. Liam would unlock the doors. He’d stretch my legs, massage my back and neck and, depending on the day, use cupping or dry needling therapy. He’d guide me through walking and body-weight exercises, eventually adding squats and pushups. Some days, he’d attach cuffs below my knees that sent tiny electrical pulses into my muscles. Later, I used a newer device that sent electrical signals to my spinal cord through a patch on my neck. Dr. Liam said the treatment might help regenerate my damaged nerves.

Dr. Liam would also take me to the empty hospital stairwell for conditioning. I hated climbing stairs. I’d heave each leg up, pausing after every couple of steps to catch my breath. I’d think, There’s no way I can climb a mountain. But Dr. Liam would say, “You can do this.” So, I kept going.

By the end of January, I noticed a shift. I could get up off the floor by myself. I could climb stairs slowly but continuously for an hour. One day, I counted 800 stairs.

As I started feeling better, I joined Dr. Liam’s Wednesday afternoon open gym sessions at the SCI/D Center. I met other PVA members, and we encouraged one another. Sometimes, we talked more than we exercised.

Then, life tested me in a different way. In mid-February 2026, I lost my dog, Onyx, my companion for 13 years. Two weeks later, my home of 30 years caught fire, and we lost everything. My wife said that if Onyx had been alive, he wouldn’t have been able to get out of the house. “I know you, Mav,” she said. “You would’ve gone back inside to try to save him, and you probably wouldn’t have made it out yourself.”

We may not understand why certain things happen in our lives, but I believe God has a plan. Sometimes, the things we see as tragic also make us stronger.

At the time, I was devastated, but I kept showing up for PT. With my life in chaos, training was one routine I could hold on to.

By April, my training sessions extended from 60 to 90 minutes. One day, I climbed 2,000 stairs. Dr. Liam tracked my elevation gain.

We put my fitness to the test with real hikes, including Bear Peak in Boulder and the Manitou Incline near Colorado Springs, the largest staircase in North America, which gains 2,000 feet in less than a mile.

Those hikes gave me some confidence, but they were hard and left me exhausted. When we started climbing Quandary Peak early on the morning of June 16, I didn’t let on, but I had doubts about whether I could make it.

As we climbed, the trail got rockier. Every step became a challenge. I kept slipping and scraping my arms and legs. Soon, we were hiking alongside a cliff. Although I had hiking poles to help me balance, I knew one misstep and I’d be gone.

Two and a half hours in, at 12,000 feet, my legs seized with cramps. We stopped so I could catch my breath. By 13,000 feet, the mountain became even steeper and the trail disappeared under loose rocks and chest-high granite boulders. Dr. Liam kept scouting ahead to find the best route.

When he’d ask me how I was doing, I’d say, “Piece of cake.” But I was hurting.

I kept my head down and concentrated on each step. The mountain demanded all my strength. That last stretch felt like hours. I remember the moment Dr. Liam said, “Look up, Mav. You made it.” It was windy, cold and beautiful.

That day was emotional. After all my injuries, I had lost confidence in myself. Reaching the summit changed that. It shifted my perspective, and I realized I was capable of more than I thought.

None of this would have happened without the support of the SCI/D Center staff. They treated me not just as another patient but as a person they really cared about. They helped me believe I could do better, and I did.

To my fellow veterans, don’t lose hope, no matter how severe the injury or how heavy the situation may feel. We have endured things most people will never understand, and we carry a strength that doesn’t disappear just because life changes. We may be veterans, but we are all still warriors. Warriors never give up!