For a group of elite paraclimbers, success is measured not just in routes climbed but in resilience, stoke and community.
Words & photography :: Laura Szanto
“I make a good koala, and you make a good tree,” Olivia jokes to her husband as she clings tightly to his back during our steadied approach to the crag. Around her, friends fall into an effortless rhythm of support: “I’ll grab your walker,” Carly says, already reaching for it. “And I’ll take your bag,” Emily adds, hoisting it around her shoulders.
Scenes like this unfold quietly across North America’s paraclimbing community, where camaraderie is as essential as harnesses and chalk. Rock climbing challenges every athlete who ties in, but for these women the sport is layered with a series of logistical, physical and social hurdles that many climbers never have to navigate. And yet it’s in moments like this one—on the trail, before the cameras roll or the crowds appear—that the deeper story reveals itself: a story not of limitation but of adaptation, teamwork and a shared determination to reach the rock on their own terms.
The athletes moving along this trail—Emily McDermott, Ellie Rubin, Seneida Biendarra, Carly Proppe, Morgan Loomis and Olivia Conforti—didn’t arrive in each other’s lives by chance. They first crossed paths in the competitive paraclimbing world, a small but growing community where shared challenges and victories became the foundation of the friendships unfolding here today.
The Long Way Up
It was a hot, sunny day in Squamish as we walked along the busy highway toward the crag. The air shifts with every passing car, each one rushing by in a sharp, breathy whoosh. Suddenly, Morgan stiffens.
“I can feel the familiar fear,” she says. “The visceral memory of being struck and thrown through the air.” In November 2022 she was involved in a tragic motorcycle accident that led to the amputation of her lower right leg. “My life changed overnight in a way that was both physically and emotionally devastating.”
At the crag, Morgan sits alone, drawing deep breaths to steady the storm inside. The earlier trigger still grips her tightly for the moment but slowly releases its hold as she reflects on radical acceptance: “I’m here, and I’m doing my best.”
“I can feel the familiar fear: The visceral memory of being struck and thrown through the air.”
Once she slips into her harness and clips her first bolt, a different Morgan takes over. Cheers from below melt away with focus, and fear gives way to flow. With each steadied move, she reclaims her confidence, shifting everything back into a place of focus and stillness.
Morgan isn’t the only one being tested on the approach to the crag. Seneida, using a hiking pole to help guide her way, struggles over the winding path, slipping on slick rocks and tangled roots, even taking a tumble once. She chuckles at her slight misfortune, and the other women offer steady verbal guidance, helping her find her footing.
Seneida received the diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa at age 17. She went from a world once wide and sharply defined to a narrowing tunnel of sight, one that has steadily constricted over the past few years. Her disability isn’t immediately visible, which leads to challenges in a variety of settings where people often assume she can see. When we arrive at the wall, I hold out the quickdraws. Unaware that she can’t see them from that angle, we both stand there, hands outstretched, hilariously missing the obvious.
Morgan’s life changed in an instant, but Seneida’s condition unfolds gradually, shadowed by uncertainty. “It’s impossible to predict how things will change in the coming years,” she says, “and that unpredictability can feel deeply destabilizing.”
Seneida deals with this pressure by getting out to climb as much as possible. In sharp contrast to the clumsy hike earlier, Seneida thrives on the wall, accelerating upward with impenetrable confidence—her grin flashing down to the group below as if to say: “This is where I’m meant to be.”
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“It’s impossible to predict how things will change in the coming years, and that unpredictability can feel deeply destabilizing.”
As we reach the base of the wall, Olivia shares her story. Much like Seneida, she lives with a degenerative condition—one that has reshaped her relationship to movement, both on and off the wall. Since her diagnosis of hereditary spastic paraplegia at age 11, she has felt the slow decline in her leg strength and mobility. On the approach to the crag, she rides piggyback on her husband, a mode of transportation that has now become her norm.
She visited a few climbing gyms as a young child, usually for birthday parties, but didn’t start climbing regularly until age 17. In the early years, she could still walk to the base of climbs. Then came the cane. Now it’s a walker. “Approaches to different crags outside have become increasingly more challenging,” Olivia reflects. “But I had this sense that I could coordinate my legs on the wall better than I could on the ground, and there’s something very freeing about that.”
When she climbs, Olivia moves very methodically, placing one leg at a time with deliberate precision. Her tenacity is unmistakable, and even in the slowness there is grace. What many don’t see is the scale of effort—a single route can take her up to an hour. Each ascent demands extraordinary patience, along with deep reserves of physical and mental strength.
“I had this sense that I could coordinate my legs on the wall better than I could on the ground, and there’s something very freeing about that.”
Joining us at the crag are Emily, Carly and Ellie, who each have congenital upper limb differences. This term encompasses a wide spectrum of differences, but with these three climbers it means there has been a variation in how their hand or arm has formed while still in the uterus. Emily is missing her right arm below the elbow, while Carly and Ellie are missing their left arms below the elbow. Working with a single hand, each woman faces distinct challenges at the crag, constantly adapting their movement and discovering creative ways to clip quickdraws into bolts.
“Sometimes you find the right position, and other times you get shut down,” Emily says, “because the clipping position is simply not possible.”
Ellie adds that one of her biggest challenges is her height. “I’m 4-foot-11 and I’m missing a hand. So my reach can be really limited. I learned very early on, almost intuitively, that I needed to have good, precise, technical footwork, often in conjunction with high feet.”
Having to adapt to challenges highlights a broader issue Emily sees in climbing spaces: the assumption that certain things simply can’t be done. “At almost every new gym, I hear the same debate: ‘You can’t belay with one hand,’” she says. “But it actually opens the door to a bigger conversation—where those limits come from, and how gear and techniques can be adapted to work safely in ways they weren’t originally designed for.”
“I learned very early on, almost intuitively, that I needed to have good, precise, technical footwork.”
Carly adds that, with gyms in particular, one of the biggest hurdles is the constant feeling of being underestimated in spaces that weren’t designed with her in mind. “Our society is inherently ableist,” she says, “and there are a lot of oversights when it comes to climbing and the disability community. It can feel discouraging when every place you go to climb isn’t set up for you.”
Despite their limitations, these climbers share a deep understanding of struggle and what it means to support one another. The people who cheer, belay and swap beta are not just climbing partners, they’re family.
The term “paraclimber” refers to athletes who compete, while “adaptive climbers” are any climber with a physical, sensory or cognitive disability. All paraclimbers are adaptive climbers, but not all adaptive climbers are paraclimbers.
The first international paraclimbing competition took place in Yekaterinburg, Russia, in 2006. In the two decades since, the once-small collection of adaptive climbers has blossomed into a vibrant, supportive international community accepted by World Climbing (formerly the International Federation of Sport Climbing), the official governing body for all climbing competition.
One striking example of recent progression is the Adaptive Climbers Festival at Kentucky’s Red River Gorge. Since its inception in 2018, the festival has expanded from 25 participants to more than 300 athletes and volunteers, offering dozens of clinics led by adaptive instructors and prioritizing access through scholarships and transportation support.
“I have been to the festival the last two years,” Carly says, “and each time it’s been a fostered environment of support, love and passion allowing space for climbers with disabilities to come together, learn and celebrate with one another.”
Ellie agrees and adds, “The para community makes me feel so seen and known in a way that’s very rare around disability.”
Looking ahead, paraclimbing will make its Paralympic debut in 2028. “It’s amazing,” Carly says. “I’m excited by how this sport is bringing people together all over the world.”
While paraclimbing is growing at an unbelievable rate, there’s still significant room for progress. Adaptive athletes are calling for added media coverage, financial support, more competitions and less disparity in prize money compared to able-bodied climbers. Emily laughs as she reflects on a past climbing competition where winners received, “a jar of honey, a chocolate bar and some flowers.”
There’s a nuance and complexity in balancing the demands of climbing while navigating life with a disability, but with traumas and setbacks these climbers dig deep to create a world where they successfully place on the podium, create deep connections with their community and continue to accelerate in their climbing ability. Theirs isn’t a story that asks for sympathy. It’s one that calls for recognition and celebration.
“My motorcycle accident led me to paraclimbing,” Morgan says. “Led me to purpose, and to a vibrant and supportive community. Failing hurts but failure teaches. Healing, too, follows no straight path. But I try to be gentle with myself, to honor where I’m at, and to keep doing the best I can. I can’t control what happens, but I can choose how I show up—on the wall, in life and for others.”
The Climbers
Carly Proppe
A registered nurse based out of Kelowna for the last seven years, Carly is a left-hand congenital amputee who placed 5th at the 2024 IFSC Para Climbing World Cup in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Ellie Rubin
Raised in the Southeastern US and now based in San Francisco, Ellie is a seasoned competitive climber and five-time World Cup medalist. A left-hand congenital amputee, she balances her career as an occupational therapist with rigorous training sessions and weekend escapes to new crags with friends.
Seneida Biendarra
A three-time US Paraclimbing B2 champion, Seneida is also a Black Diamond ambassador from Reno, Nevada, who works as tent and sleeping bag product developer for Cascade Designs. She’s been diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, a genetic condition that makes cells in the retina break down slowly over time, causing vision loss.
Morgan Loomis
The current US National Paraclimbing Champion in her category (and a Paralympic hopeful), Morgan has a degree in psychology and works with teens in mental health. She is a right-side below-knee amputee and says climbing has been a powerful outlet for healing, growth and community in her life.
Emily Mcdermott
Emily is a climber based in Revelstoke, BC. She is a right-hand congenital amputee and embraces competition and climbing as a way to access some of the most challenging and creative routes, pushing limits and refining techniques—all the while whispering to herself, “I do this for fun.”
Olivia Conforti
Originally from New Jersey, Olivia made the US National Team in 2023 and hopes to participate in future Paralympic events. She now calls Kelowna home and is pursuing her master’s degree in social work. Oliva lives with hereditary spastic paraplegia, a degenerative neurological condition.
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