Last week, after six months of fundraising and training, the moment I’d been preparing for finally arrived. As I drove north on I-5, Mount Shasta emerged from the horizon, a snowcapped giant towering 14,179 feet into the California sky. My stomach flipped with nervous energy.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—I had already conquered what felt like the real summit by raising $26,000 as part of a Breast Cancer Prevention Partners [1] (BCPP) team that raised a total of $180,000. Part of me questioned if I even needed to climb this “ginormous volcano,” as my 5-year-old so eloquently put it. But sometimes the journey teaches us lessons we never expected to learn.
[2]Trust at the base
Upon arrival, I settled by the beautiful Lake Siskiyou, its waters inviting and its view of Shasta breathtaking. I met my guides—three burly mountain men from Mount Shasta Guides. Their professional demeanor, akin to seasoned medical staff, immediately put me at ease. I couldn’t help but “interview” them. “How many times have you summited?” I asked. One had scaled it 14 times, another for eight years, and one had just returned from the top the day before. I felt a surge of relief and confidence, knowing I was truly in expert hands (and that if needed, I could be carried down).
[3]The power of love and community
The night before our ascent, my daughter Brielle’s video message echoed in my mind. “Mama, you are going to get braver and braver as you start climbing up the volcano!”
Brooke, my other daughter, was less enthusiastic, more annoyed. “I’m going up that volcano with you, Mama!”
My friends’ thoughtful audio messages provided a trove of encouragement, from a Des’ree rendition to silly facts about Shasta soda, guided meditations, and the joyful cheers of our children—all tucked away for when the going got tough. But it was the story of the talisman that truly captured the spirit of why we climb.
[4]The sacred talisman: A story of legacy
Twenty-two years ago, BCPP founder Andrea Martin was battling cancer and couldn’t make the climb herself. She entrusted a beautiful emerald talisman to a friend, who, reaching base camp, passed it to another teammate. That teammate, unable to continue, handed it off again, until finally, it reached the summit. When the talisman returned from its journey, Andrea wore it during her final weeks of life—a symbol of strength, community, and the power of what we can do when we collectively come together.
This year, in a moment that gave me chills, that very same talisman was given to my teammate Claudia, a 22-year breast cancer survivor. She carried it to base camp, and when she couldn’t continue, she passed it to Jo, a three-year breast cancer survivor and mother, who carried it to the summit and brought it safely home once again.
[5]Resilience on the ridge
My personal journey to the summit became a meditation on resilience. Starting our ascent at 3 a.m. under a vast, star-studded sky, I felt a profound spiritual connection to nature and connected to something larger than myself. The mountain tested me, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.
When freezing 50 mph winds had me clinging to a shear wall, I drew strength from memories of sailing in the harsh winds of the San Francisco Bay. With each frustrating “false peak,” demanding another steep climb before revealing the true summit, I thought of labor and birth—breathing, pacing, trusting the process. As worries about thin air and reduced oxygen set in, I recalled free diving in Thailand, swimming without breath for three minutes underwater.
These moments of struggle became windows to gratitude. I realized how full and beautiful my life has been, how each challenge had prepared me for this moment. The mountain wasn’t just testing my physical limits, it was revealing the depth of experiences that had shaped my resilience.
[6]The summit moment
At 14,179 feet, surrounded by rocky terrain and whipping winds, I shouted the names written on my prayer flags into the sky. We cried, we hugged, we celebrated—honoring the lives of those whose names were written on our prayer flags, sending love from the mountaintop to survivors below, and remembering those who have passed. This is why we climb.
Mount Shasta holds ancient mysteries. Folklore speaks of the Lemurians, an ancient civilization dwelling within the mountain, opening portals for those who might hear mystical bells, charging crystals in the mountain’s streams. Whether you believe in such magic or not, there’s something undeniably powerful about climbing Shasta, feeling connected to both earth and sky.
[7]The real summit
As I glissaded down Mount Shasta on that final day, sliding through snow with pure joy, I understood something profound. The $180,000 we raised for breast cancer primary prevention wasn’t just a fundraising goal, it was hope made tangible. Every dollar is a step toward a future where prevention saves more lives.
The physical summit was beautiful, challenging, and transformative. But the real summit—the one that truly matters—is the collective effort to prevent this disease from stealing more mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends from the people who love them. This climb reminded me that we’re all carrying talismans of hope, passing them from one person to the next, ensuring they reach heights we might not achieve alone. Together, we summit mountains that seem impossible to climb.
Laura Dobbs Gillan is an Alameda resident who offered this story to the Alameda Post as an example of how local residents can make meaningful contributions while inspiring their communities. Breast Cancer Prevention Partners [1] (BCPP) is a local nonprofit that has championed 20 laws to protect the public from toxic chemicals linked to disease.
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