I Chose the Mountain

written by

R. Lance Fenske

At twelve, Lance Fenske survived a night of unimaginable violence that would shape the course of his life. Not long after, he discovered bourbon, beginning a decades-long struggle with addiction and the ghosts of his past.

But Lance's story is not one of simply surviving.

At forty-two, he found sobriety—and the mountains. What began with climbing in Colorado became a worldwide pursuit of summits, taking him from the Rockies to the Himalayas, Africa, South America, and beyond.

Along the way, he discovered something he had been searching for all his life: freedom.

I Chose the Mountain is a story of survival, addiction, adventure, love, and transformation—and a reminder that no matter how difficult the climb, the next step is always yours to choose.

I CHOSE THE MOUNTAIN - an excerpt

I sat upright in my bed as sleep disappeared with a jolt.

“BOB, STOP IT! BOB, PLEASE.” As I rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I saw my father in his bathrobe by the piano, swinging the hatchet, like chopping a tree. My mother stood swaying, arms over her head, trying to block the swings, blood splattering her slip.

“DAD, STOP IT.”

Unhearing, my father continued to swing, connecting with a pumpkin-like sound. I punched him with a fist, hard as I could in the back. My father turned, wild eyed, and raised the hatchet. I wheeled through the room, through the kitchen and out the back door. I jumped over the fence and ran around to the front of the house.

As I walked toward the Ingram’s house, my mind vibrated, over and over, “Go back!” I ran back to the front door, opened it slowly and looked around.

Nobody.

As I crept through the living room I heard water running in the bathroom.

My mother was in the tub, pressing her wounds with a washcloth and water. Large slabs hung from her head, gashes on her arms.
I looked in the mirror, said, “Shit, what will happen to him now?”

“Don’t swear!” my mother scolded me. “He’ll probably have to go to a hospital.”

“Where is he?” I walked to the kitchen. My father lay in a pool of blood. “I think he’s dead.”

Prologue

A warm breeze swept across the patio. I sat sipping my morning coffee, my fiercely loyal companion, Chase—my golden retriever—at my side. I gazed out over the reef as slow waves tumbled from the whitecaps, gently drifting toward the dock, shimmering beneath the rising sun.

That morning, from our sea-facing condo on the north side of Ambergris Caye, my wife of thirty years spoke with conviction. “It’s time,” she said, “to share your story.”

A story of triumph, after years spent reclaiming a life that was upended too early—before I had the tools to understand it. A life spent searching, unraveling, reaching—through bottles and beds that proved empty, through three marriages that served more as placeholders than partnerships. A life shaped by a decades-long relationship with alcohol, and a quiet, persistent ache for something more.

What I eventually discovered was not outside myself, but within: something sacred, waiting to be named and understood. And now, at eighty-one years old, I’m offering you this story—this account of what it means to rebuild, to heal, and to finally become whole.

This is what happened when I chose the mountain.