By Tommy Melli
I went back to Aconcagua knowing it would be tough for me — and it was. My pace made that obvious, and one stage without medication made it even more obvious.
I didn’t summit, but I got as far as I could, made real progress compared to my first attempt, and came back at peace with the decision. What I took home wasn’t just about the mountain. It was about Parkinson’s — how it really works, and how people understand it once they see it up close.
The Mountain and My Pace
In preparing for round two, I kept to my training regiment as much as I could. The only exception was when I had prostate cancer, but outside of that, I prepared seriously.
The trek was tough for me, exactly as expected. Walking with a guide made that even clearer, because I could see the pace difference between me and everyone else.
Early on we also trained at Cristo Redentor in a wind and snowstorm, alongside soldiers from Argentina and Chile. It was practical preparation for what the mountain can throw at you.
One of the most useful tools I had this time was the rope system with my guide — tied in front or behind depending on whether we were ascending or descending. It helped me stay steady and safe. It also made it possible for me to push closer to my limit than I could have on my own.
I know I wasn’t the only one feeling how difficult the climb was — I saw fatigue in other people on the mountain, too..
The conditions were part of the experience, and part of what makes the whole thing “fun,” like going to the bathroom when it’s 20 degrees below zero.
Summit Day: Impossible Math
People talk about summit day like it’s a question of motivation. On Aconcagua, it’s a question of timing.
The last refuge you’re allowed to depart from is Berlin. Getting to the summit from Berlin takes about 9–10 hours at a normal pace. Our group pace was closer to 10–11 hours.
At my pace, it would have been 13–14 hours.
And that’s before you even deal with the bigger problem: around 2 p.m., they start sweeping people off the mountain. Anyone who can’t make it in time gets moved off. They don’t want people stuck up there overnight.
So even if I could grind my way upward, the return timing would still be against me. It would have been an impossibly long day.
The only way it could work for me is if the Argentine authorities gave me permission for an extra day and a staging point closer to the summit than Berlin. I doubt that would happen, but you never know.
When I turned back, I was at peace with it. I had put everything I could into the attempt, and I had made real progress compared to my first time.
The first attempt, I didn’t get to camp above Plaza de Mulas. This time I reached Canadá and then Nido de Cóndores, and nearly reached Berlin.. Beyond Berlin, the plan was always that the rest of the group would go for the summit, and I would head down. I got to see all of La Travesía and part of La Canaleta.
What Parkinson’s Really Looks Like
One reason I keep doing things like this is because Parkinson’s is still widely misunderstood.
A lot of people are ignorant about it — not because they don’t care, but because they’ve never had to learn. And the illness can be confusing from the outside.
You can look normal. So people assume you’re fine.
But Parkinson’s isn’t constant. It’s progressive. And over time, the changes become undeniable. Compared with two or three years ago — including my first Aconcagua attempt — I’ve noticed a real difference in cadence, speed, and dexterity.
It shows up in the small things: buttons, zippers, anything that requires precision and timing.
And it shows up brutally when medication isn’t there.
On one stage I forgot my pills, and the drop-off was immediate. At 5,500 meters in altitude, my feet were “moving like a duck.” You can’t climb like that. My guide asked if I was tired, and I told him the best explanation I had: “I’m not tired — I’m off.”
He couldn’t understand it at first, but I think that after that experience, my guide began to understand how Parkinson’s works.
The Backpack Sign That Opens Doors
One of the best things I’ve ever done for Parkinson’s awareness is also one of the simplest.
I carry a small sign on the back of my backpack that says: “Ask me if you want to know about Parkinson’s.”
That card is a magnet.
It invites people to approach you, ask questions, and share their own connections. Almost everyone knows someone: a father, a mother, a brother, a friend. The mountain becomes an unexpected place for real conversation.
On both El Camino and Aconcagua, strangers asked to photograph the sign. That still surprises me. But it also tells me something: people want to understand, and they just need an opening.
I keep thinking about how to make that kind of awareness more common — not only for trekking and climbing, but for any activity where people with Parkinson’s can participate alongside others.
It’s simple, but it works.
What Changes When People Understand
Disclosure changes everything.
On a narrow trail, someone behind you can get impatient fast — especially if they’re young and moving quickly. But once they hear “Parkinson’s,” the whole mood shifts. The impatience disappears. Respect shows up immediately.
People ask questions. They pay attention. They treat you differently — in a good way.
And on the mountain, word travels fast. More than once, it felt like people knew what I was doing before I even arrived at camp.
The team dynamic changes too. When you tell a group early on that you have Parkinson’s, people naturally want to help. Sometimes they want to do things for you that you should be doing yourself.
That’s where I set a boundary.
Let me struggle until I ask.
Watch me try. If I need help, I’ll tell you. But don’t take the struggle away automatically — because the struggle is part of living, and part of learning.
It wasn’t so much that the expedition had a member with Parkinson’s, but rather it had a team dealing with Parkinson’s, because all of them felt the effects one way or another: reaching for a spoon, helping you stand, dealing with a zipper.
And that’s real life too. When you live with Parkinson’s, the whole family lives with it.
My Most Practical Advice: Exercise
I’m convinced exercise is at least half the defense against Parkinson’s. Maybe more.
I’ve seen it show up in small, concrete ways. Before the trek, the toes on my right foot would sometimes curl up like a cramp.
During two-plus weeks in the mountains, it didn’t happen once.
Not once.
So my advice to my fellow Parkinsonians is blunt: exercise like hell.
I can’t prove how much it helps. I just know it helps.
The Part Nobody Talks About: Family
At night, the messages I received from friends and read on social media kept me focused and moving forward. That support matters.
So do the donations that I see come in from friends and supporters. Research takes resources, and the road to a cure is still long.
I’m grateful — truly — to Santi, Fran, Juan and of course, Estela. Without them, I wouldn’t have had the fun I had or the joy I experienced on the mountain.
One of the best parts of the trip was waking up the next day and reliving what I’d done the day before, reviewing the photos I had sent photos to my sons, and the trip reports from the day before.
It wasn’t just my experience. It was something we shared.
Will I Go Back?
Since coming down, about 90% of the people I’ve interacted with have asked if I’m going to try again.
My first reaction is: probably not.
This time, compared with 2024, I felt slower. And I expect that in a couple of years I’ll be even slower. That creeping decline is part of the illness.
But…third time’s the charm?
I don’t know.
If the right conditions existed — and if some miracle changed the timing problem that blocks me — I can’t say what I’d decide.
Mostly I’m afraid that someone I love too much would try to divorce me before letting me do it again.
So…third time’s the charm?
I don’t know. Stay tuned.