By Matt Hirschberg, MTI Contributor
I’ve occasionally been questioned about my approach to climbing. I’ve spent a lot of time on guided trips instead of apparently “earning” summits the hard way.
It’s an easy criticism to make. From the outside, it can look like buying outcomes instead of putting in the time, uncertainty, and suffering that are supposed to confer legitimacy in the mountains. The comparison often goes straight to Everest—people spending enormous sums on guided expeditions so they can list a summit on a résumé.
That criticism deserves to be addressed directly—and honestly. I also think it’s usually framed too simply. To even have a useful conversation about guided climbing, the framing needs to be more precise.
Where the Conversation Breaks Down
Most conversations reduce climbing into two buckets: guided or DIY. That framing breaks down quickly.
DIY itself has layers. There’s fully independent climbing, where everything—from planning to execution to rescue contingencies—rests on you. There’s also climbing that’s technically independent but supported logistically, whether that’s huts, porters, fixed camps, or shared infrastructure.
There’s also another path that doesn’t fit neatly into either bucket: climbers who deliberately seek instruction and then climb independently. Courses, workshops, and skills-focused trips aren’t about summits at all—they’re about systems, judgment, and competence. In that model, instruction and execution are separate phases, and the responsibility for applying what’s learned still rests entirely with the climber.
All of these approaches can be honest. All can be legitimate. All still demand accountability. Guided climbing isn’t one thing either, which is where the discussion often goes off the rails.
Ethical vs Unethical Guided Climbing
The strongest criticism of guided climbing is valid—when it’s aimed at unethical guiding. Unethical guided trips remove accountability instead of building it. The classic example is climbers showing up with no meaningful experience—sometimes having never even strapped on crampons before arriving on an 8,000-meter peak. Oxygen is used excessively and opaquely. Support staff are underpaid or exploited. Trash is left behind. The mountain becomes a commodity, and the client’s only real responsibility is writing the check. That is a shortcut. And it deserves criticism.
Ethical guided climbing looks very different. It involves prerequisites and screening. It involves guides who turn people around—sometimes well below the summit—without apology. It emphasizes environmental responsibility and fair treatment of staff. It demands honesty about style: guided versus independent, oxygen versus no oxygen, fixed lines versus self-supported.
It’s also worth saying that most guided clients don’t fit the caricature. Many are experienced, capable climbers using guides for access, logistics, or mentorship—not because they’re incapable of doing hard things on their own. Organizations like IMG, RMI, and Alpenglow operate in this lane. They don’t eliminate risk, and they don’t guarantee outcomes. They provide structure, mentorship, and exposure while still requiring effort, preparation, and humility from the climber.
Lumping those two models together under “guided” flattens the discussion and lets the real problems hide in the noise.
The Cost
There’s also the obvious question of money.
My most recent Mexico Volcanoes trip through RMI cost roughly $4,300. Denali will be closer to $12,500. Ama Dablam approaches $25,000. These are not small numbers. Could it be done cheaper? Absolutely. Whether that’s wise is another question. If you’re going to use a guide service, I view it the way I would choosing a brain surgeon. You can prioritize price, or you can prioritize competence—but rarely both.
Independent climbing can reduce those figures, but only if you ignore the time required to plan logistics, secure permits, manage risk, and absorb the inevitable friction. Once you value your time, the math shifts. What’s right? That depends on what you’re optimizing for.
Where I Disagree with the Critics
This is where my view diverges from the loudest criticism. I fundamentally disagree with the idea that paying to learn from people who’ve come before you—either to gain experience or to increase the odds of coming home alive—is “cheating.”
To me, that’s not a shortcut. It’s apprenticeship.
In most serious pursuits—aviation, medicine, the trades, the military, business—you don’t start by figuring everything out on your own. You learn under people with experience. You pay for instruction. You observe decision-making in real environments. You compress learning not to skip the work, but to avoid repeating avoidable mistakes. Mountaineering doesn’t exist outside that reality, even if we sometimes pretend it does.
And in my case, context matters. I’m forty-five. I don’t live in the mountains, and I didn’t start climbing in my twenties. I have ambitious objectives ahead and, realistically, fewer peak physical years in front of me than behind me. It would be naïve to pretend that time isn’t part of the equation. Hard objectives don’t get easier with age.
But my choice to learn through guided expeditions isn’t about racing the clock. It’s about compressing the learning curve responsibly. Throughout my career, I’ve moved from novice to competent to expert by studying under people who’ve already done the work. To me, that isn’t a shortcut. It’s a strategy. Guides don’t carry you up the mountain. What they do—when it’s done ethically—is expose you to terrain, systems, and decisions that would take years to encounter safely on your own. What you do with that exposure is still on you.
There is, however, a real difference between guided and independent climbing that shouldn’t be minimized: risk ownership. On a guided trip, ultimate responsibility for go/no-go decisions rests with the guide. Weather calls, turnaround times, route selection—the burden sits on their shoulders. On an independent climb, it sits on yours.
Some would argue that independent risk management is the essence of mountaineering. I understand that argument. The psychological growth that comes from owning life-and-death decisions is different.
At this stage in my climbing, I’m not interested in pretending I have judgment I haven’t earned yet. High-consequence terrain demands more than confidence; it demands experience. Guided climbing, for now, allows me to gain that experience and develop judgment. Over time, that will mean taking on more of that responsibility myself.
Of course, none of that happens automatically. Guided climbing only becomes apprenticeship if the climber treats it that way. You can show up, clip into the rope, follow instructions, and collect a summit photo. Or you can pay attention. You can ask why decisions are made. You can study pacing, terrain choices, turnaround calls, and risk tolerance.
The guide doesn’t determine whether it’s apprenticeship. The client does. The money doesn’t buy growth. Intent does. For me, this discussion isn’t theoretical.
What I’ve Actually Learned Along the Way
Over the last year, I’ve taken a Mountaineering 101 course, climbed Mount Washington in winter multiple times, tagged the summits of Hood and Rainier, and climbed several high peaks in Mexico, including Iztaccíhuatl and Pico de Orizaba—the third-highest mountain in North America. Most of that time was guided. Some of it wasn’t. The lessons haven’t been abstract.
I’ve learned how rope teams force different decisions in crevasse-ridden, technical terrain—what risks get taken and how fast you move. I’ve seen hard turnarounds enforced well below the summit—and understood why they mattered. I’ve learned how conditions, not just fitness, often dictate outcomes. I’ve felt the difference between being strong on the ascent and paying for it on the descent.
I’ve also learned how my body behaves under load at altitude—what happens to my appetite, my pace, my sleep, and my judgment as elevation stacks up. I’ve learned how fueling mistakes show up hours later, how small pacing errors compound, and how staying healthy through a climb is often less about toughness and more about discipline and restraint. Training matters—but only if it translates when fatigue, cold, and thin air start narrowing your margin.
I’ve also learned the limits of DIY the hard way.
On Ajusco (Cruz del Marqués), the highest point in Mexico City, I chose to climb independently as preparation for higher objectives. I got complacent, ignored my GPS when it told me I was off-route, and assumed I knew better. I didn’t. We got lost, a companion injured his knee, and we only made it down safely because another group heard my whistle.
That day taught me as much as any guided climb. It also reinforced something important: independence doesn’t make you virtuous. It just increases the cost of your mistakes.
The Value That Rarely Gets Mentioned
When people criticize guided climbing, they rarely talk about what actually happens on most ethical trips. They don’t talk about watching experienced guides manage deteriorating weather before it becomes an emergency. They don’t talk about learning how conservative decisions early in the day prevent catastrophic ones later. They don’t talk about seeing ego shut down calmly and professionally.
They also don’t talk about the people. Yes, there’s almost always one difficult personality in a group. But there’s also camaraderie, shared suffering, and quiet respect built through long days and early mornings. I’ve formed relationships on guided trips that I expect will lead to independent climbing down the line—not instead of it.
The Other Extreme
On the other end of the spectrum is a kind of righteousness that can creep into alpinism. Arguments about “clean” style and “honest” ascents are constant, even among elite climbers. Draw the line in a different place and someone will tell you it doesn’t count. Style matters. Honesty matters. But purity tests can turn into gatekeeping quickly.
Even within elite alpinism, there’s no universal agreement on what’s acceptable. Oxygen, fixed lines, support, speed, soloing—every generation redraws the lines. Pretending there’s a single, uncontested path to legitimacy doesn’t survive much scrutiny.
Where This Leaves Me
I’m not pretending my approach is above criticism. It isn’t.
What I am saying is that I’m not chasing summits as résumé entries. I’m chasing judgment, experience, and long-term growth. Guided climbing—done ethically—has been one tool for accelerating that process while managing risk as I move toward larger objectives.
Those larger objectives are already mapped out. Ecuador. Aconcagua. Denali. Alpamayo. Ama Dablam. My goal is to stand on the summit of Ama Dablam for my fiftieth birthday—not because it sounds impressive, but because I want to test the edges of what I’m capable of. Arriving as an asset to the team matters. So does proving to myself that growth doesn’t have an expiration date.
I’m not jumping straight to the biggest expedition I can buy. I’m stacking preparation—skills courses, fitness cycles, progressively harder climbs. The goal isn’t to purchase a summit. It’s to earn my place on the rope team.
Over time, I expect my path to evolve. As familiarity and competence increase, independence becomes more attractive. That doesn’t invalidate the guided phase. It grows out of it.
Maybe the real question isn’t whether guided or DIY climbing is “right,” but whether a climber is honest about their style, accountable for their decisions, and actually growing from the experience. That standard is harder to measure—but probably the one that matters most.
At this point in my climbing, “earning it” means having the skills and fitness to make it to the summit and back safely—pushing myself to the edge of my limits, not beyond my competence, and showing up prepared enough to contribute, not just consume.
At the end of the day, everyone has an opinion. Climbing has changed my life for the better, and I’m grateful for that. However you choose to engage with the mountains—guided, DIY, or somewhere in between—get out there and do the work honestly. You’ll be better for it.