Title: The Hat That Climbed the World

Some people carry a lucky charm. I carry a beat-up Boston Red Sox hat.

I've had this hat since I moved to San Francisco in 1997, but it’s never stopped being a symbol of where I’m from. Born and raised in Boston, being a Red Sox fan isn’t just a sports thing—it’s part of my identity. And somewhere along the way, that old hat became more than just a hat. It became my climbing companion.

It's been with me on every major climb—weathered, fraying at the edges, and sweat-stained beyond redemption. It’s seen everything from gentle alpine sunrises to punishing snowstorms. People sometimes ask why I don’t replace it. But that’s like asking why someone doesn’t replace a journal just because it’s full.

One of the most vivid memories I have with it was in 2020, on Mexico’s Mount Orizaba. We were camped high on the mountain. The wind was howling—easily 70 mph gusts. I stepped outside to pee, like you do, and before I knew it, the wind ripped the hat off my head and sent it flying into the darkness. Just like that, gone. I stood there, devastated. I knew how strong the wind was. The terrain was vast and unforgiving. It was just a hat, sure—but it felt like I’d lost an old friend.

The next morning, I was peeing again—this time with my climbing partner Alden—and I told him I’d come to terms with losing the hat. “It’s probably halfway to Puebla by now,” I said. Without a word, Alden took maybe five steps, looked down, and said, “Hey man, is this it?”

There it was—my Sox hat—caught gently in a little patch of sagebrush, like the mountain had decided to give it back.

It’s been with me ever since. And now, it's coming with me to the top of the world—Mount Everest. It’s tattered, faded, and smells permanently of sweat and glacier dust. But it’s mine. It tells my story—of where I’ve been, where I’m from, and the friends and adventures along the way.

Go Sox.