I admit I’m not a big hiker. I don’t tend towards monotonous, repetitive activities. I like novelty, adventure, exploration—and most of all, variety.
I can’t figure out why my son is now so obsessed with the idea of climbing summits, but after our near-death experience in the Pyrenees—snow, no gear, and sleeping in an abandoned sheep barn—he is addicted.
This time it was Mauna Loa. The Big Island of Hawai’i itself is actually the largest volcano in the world. She reaches 13,681 feet above sea level and 16,400 feet below.
He wanted to climb it, and my hiker friend proposed we do it together. My son is visiting from France, and I know this is a way to connect with him on an epic journey.
I shared the full grueling adventure in some stories on my Substack (links below), but today I want to dive deeper.
Endurance. Yes. For me, endurance represents my dad making me run cross-country on the canals in Arizona in the mid-day heat when I was little. It means cross-country skiing when we were six, when all we wanted was to find a bunny hill for the thrill of a little speed.
The first time I climbed a mountain with anything on my back I was nearly 30. In Castelluccio in Italy, it wasn’t a big hill—maybe 1,500 feet—but man did I suffer. I could not see what the hell was the interest in climbing slowly up a hill just to get to the top.
Ok, there was a magnificent lake over the ridge, gorgeous and only reachable by foot.
My first climb back in 2011- Castelluccio, Italy.
I asked my Italian friend at the time how he did it. “You just focus on each step,” he said.
Right. That sounded utterly boring. What is there in each step? The end feels so far away, and it hurts. My stomach hurts, my calves hurt, I’m sweating, and this thing called a backpack is heavy and uncomfortable.
I like to dance, to feel my freedom, to change movement constantly. I like to snorkel, free dive—constantly changing pace, depth, and my visual environment. Hiking? Oh god.
So here I was again, wanting to find a way to connect with my son. I had already surfed with him this time—notwithstanding my fear of being raked across the coral. We free dive together, which I love. He beat my record this time: 30 meters, nearly 100 feet on one breath. So unfair. I was left in the background at only 27.5 meters.
And now, he wanted to see the summit. I was going to show this kid I was up for the challenge.
Mauna Kea the sister volcano in the distance with the observatory at 11,000 ft
I won’t go into the details, but this hike meant going across a road that had been closed since the 2022 eruption, which covered the path with jagged, razor-sharp ‘a‘a (a type of lava) for over 1.5 miles. Meaning: we began with an excruciatingly slow and necessary “full presence” hike—2.5 hours just to get across to a trail that pretty much just went uphill, over stretches of moonlike lava with zero greenery, bushes, or water. A false step meant cutting your leg open with no chance of rescue.
At least the ‘a‘a was interesting—every step required adapting my footing, preparing for the collapse of lava underneath, finding balance. Fun? No. But it felt like an extreme sport.
Then the endurance part came. Two days of uphill hiking in high altitude, meaning everything that’s normal in your body is altered. Each step is heavy. Each breath takes effort. Nausea and headaches become byproducts.
There wasn’t much distraction besides endless stretches of lava—smooth, black, or cracked. There were maybe seven different colors and densities, but for seven miles uphill on a long straight road, not too interesting.
At a certain moment, there’s no use fighting anymore. I had agreed to this trip. The end wasn’t anywhere near in sight, and the landscape only reminded me of how far I had to go. My podcast lasted a while, until my brain couldn’t even thinkanymore.
At a certain point, all I could feel was the weight of my 40-lb sack and the heaviness of each footstep. I’d force in a full breath up to my upper thorax. It hurt. My chest clenched.
Why did I do this again?
I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t think. Just look down at the ground and be present with each step. Just keep going. Just breathe. Just keep going.
We eventually made it to the first stop—a dilapidated abandoned trailer. The following morning we continued, this time across a crater and up toward the top.
Our bodies couldn’t handle more than 20 minutes at a time. Almost systematically, we collapsed for 5–10 minutes, removed the bags, laid flat on the earth, and thanked God we made it that far.
The altar at the caldera where we laid our prayers of thanks for the safe arrival
My son is driven by goals. The way was marked by piles of stones called ahu (cairns). He said that each time he arrived at one, he couldn’t wait to get to the next. He would speed ahead of us, just so he could rest longer at the top of each hill.
If we had turned around short of the summit, he would have considered all of it a waste. For me, my journey was to accompany him and push the edges of the familiar for myself.
I wanted to find something novel in what appeared monotonous and useless. Why climb a mountain just to go back down? Why move forward if you only return?
Now I get it. I glimpsed the feeling in the Pyrenees, testing my physical capacity to the limit—but this was beyond anything I had ever pushed myself to before.
If childbirth is a 10, this was a prolonged 8.
When we reached the top, laying down in the wooden shelter next to the caldera was heaven.
Putting down 40 lbs and knowing I didn’t have to pick it up again until tomorrow was the greatest gift.
Staying at the top of a volcano, with a blanket of stars, the Milky Way above, and by chance—Kīlauea erupting in the distance, illuminating the southern sky in pink glow—was pure magic.
If I had flown up here in a helicopter, or driven up in a jeep, I could never have appreciated this scene the same way.
I earned it. I gave sweat, stamina, my deepest breath and aching muscles to be here—with my son and dear friend—on the top of one volcano, watching another. Sitting in the pure uniqueness of a scene no one else on the planet was experiencing in that moment.
It was just for us.
The black lake of lava stretched before us, bordered by 600-foot cliffs. 1.5 miles across and 3.8 miles wide. A vertiginous vision of another world, still steaming—a portal to the inner earth.
She was powerful, and I had prepared my body to receive her.
The next two days of descent were dotted with moments of gratitude. The downhill incline felt like balm. My whole body rejoiced as the altitude dropped and my lungs could take fuller breaths.
Now I could see variety in the lava layers—the glitters of gold, the rainbow reflections. This was heavenly.
My son was elated. He had been to the top. He held the Mauna Loa 4,139 meters sign proudly, ready to post it to his feed. At 15, he is formulating his identity day by day.
By the bottom, I could feel every muscle. My body pulsated. I was alive, well, and beaming with life—even as I collapsed in fatigue.
We had made it. We had endured.
The next days, I felt magnificent in my body. My arms looked more toned. My abs and obliques more defined than ever.
It was a deep sense of accomplishment—as if I had just returned from another planet, survived the unfathomable, and reappeared transformed.
As if I had received some sort of vibrational upgrade at the top of the volcanic portal.
Two days later, I repeated what had once felt like an epic journey: swimming a mile across Kealakekua Bay, then hiking the two-mile trail with its 1,500-foot ascent up to Captain Cook—all in one stretch. Just two years ago, that hike alone left me winded, exhausted, and on the edge of heat stroke. This time, the whole thing felt like a breeze.
As I age, I value more and more the incredible abilities of my body. I care for her more than ever as I witness her capacity to achieve what once felt unfathomable.
I am finding the jewels in what once seemed monotonous and boring—and discovering the ultimate test of extreme mind power.
To be with the pain, the aching muscles, the shortness of breath, the tattered shoes—and still find the strange ecstasy of each part of my body moving in a perfect mechanical symphony.
Our shoes, ripped apart by the sharp lava fields
I push beyond my will, beyond control, and surrender to the present.
It is not about finding the easiest way, or the most fun way. It is about revealing, from the inside out, the incredible potential of this human body—and our ability to overcome whatever we set our minds to.
I am both humbled and empowered by this journey, and blessed to share it with my son.
As a somatic therapist, I feel compelled to close with this reflection: Where we place intention on our physical actions is where energy flows.
If your intention is to transform your life, go and do something that pushes your edge—it will teach your body you are capable.
If you push too hard already, see what it’s like to go slower. If you doubt yourself, try an activity that challenges you and that you can succeed in.
Each time you exercise, tell yourself what you are sending that energy toward—whether it’s a new job, a quality you want to grow, or something you wish to manifest. Use the physical action to instill, in your cellular memory, that you are capable.
Today I look in the mirror and see this body, this vibrant health at 47, and I am moved by gratitude. I want to embrace life in a full-bodied way until the day I decide to let go.
I thank this body for her ability to experience pleasure, pain—and for continuously leaving me in awe.
Kilauea's eruption glow in the distance on top of Mauna Loa
Wishing you well on our collective journey towards raising consciousness. - Carly
“Mauna Loa isn’t just a mountain—it’s a portal, the risk of a curse, and a teacher. At 13,250 feet, the summit drew me into a story far larger than myself, one that asked me to question what it means to truly complete a journey.”