I didn't set out to build a mentorship practice. I set out to ride a snowboard, and the mountain took care of the rest.
I've lived in North Lake Tahoe for 6 years now, and been on my snowboard for more than 12 years. In that time, I've taught first-time riders how to strap in, coached athletes through advanced progressions, guided adaptive students who redefined what I thought was possible, and trained the instructors who teach everyone else. I have a stack of snowboarding certifications — AASI Snowboard Level 3, Advanced Trainer, Freestyle Specialist, Adaptive Snowboard Specialist, Children's Specialist — and none of them are the reason I do this.
The reason is what happens on the mountain when I make a connection with who is in front of me.
What I kept noticing
A pattern showed up early. A student would arrive for a snowboard lesson wanting to learn a trick, or to ride steeper terrain, or to keep up with their friends. We'd work on the technical skill. Some of them would get it, some of them wouldn't — that's how it goes. But the ones who had breakthroughs almost never had them because of the technical coaching. They had them because something else happened in their head, and the body allowed the technique to follow.
A rider who couldn't commit to a turn was almost never lacking the skill. She was hesitating. And once we figured out what the hesitation was — fear of falling, fear of looking stupid, a pattern of waiting for permission — the technique came through in ten minutes.
I started paying attention to this. I started learning how to work with it. I also did a 200-hour yoga teacher training, partly because I wanted the physical practice for myself, but mostly because yoga gave me a vocabulary for what I was already exploring: attention, breath, presence, working with discomfort instead of against it.
By the time I'd been doing this for seven or eight years, I realized I'd stumbled into the thing I actually cared about. I wasn't teaching yoga or snowboarding. I was teaching people how to meet themselves under pressure; the mat or the board was only the vehicle to get us there.
The gap I couldn't stop seeing
At the same time, I watched a lot of people — friends, family, clients — try to do this kind of work in other ways. They hired coaches. They went on retreats. They went to therapy. Some of it helped. But I kept seeing the same gap: people were doing the inner work mostly on their own, behind closed doors, and then trying to take the lessons back out into a world full of challenges. It was like studying a textbook for a physical exam of strength and endurance.
The mountains don't let you fake it. You can't intellectualize your way up a ridgeline. You can't out-reason a cold morning. You either show up or you don't, ready, or not.
I thought: what if the mountain was the classroom? What if the curriculum was built around what the terrain was already teaching? What if someone was there to name what was happening in real time, and help you carry it home?
That's the program I wanted to exist. Nobody was running it. So I started building it.
Why "Altitude"
The name is a double meaning I couldn't let go of. Altitude, literal — we work in the mountains. Altitude, figurative — we're trying to help people rise into a bigger version of who they can become. The word captures the thing. Elevation in both the outer and inner world.
My philosophy, in the shortest form I can write it:
My goal is to provide us with opportunities to grow, deepen the connection with ourselves, and create meaning and an elevated sense of being in our lives. Through adventure, discussion, play, and challenge, we can develop wisdom that elevates us into becoming the best versions of who we can be.
Who I work with now
Two main practices.
Summit to Self is a 12-week online cohort for teens and young adults 13 and older. Five participants per cohort, meeting weekly as a group plus a weekly one-on-one with me. It's the program I wish I'd had when I was younger — structured, peer-supported, built around the questions that actually matter at that stage of life. And with a mentor who knows that these questions exist beyond the scope of athletic activity, be it baseball, soccer, or snowboarding.
Ascents are in-person sessions in North Lake Tahoe. Families, or groups of teens. Multi-day experiences where the Sierra Nevada becomes the mentor and I'm there to help you make sense of what the terrain is teaching.
There's also private one-on-one mentorship for people who want something custom. That starts with a conversation. Wherever you are, wherever you want to go, I want to be there to help you on that path.
Why I'm writing to you
If you made it this far, you're probably considering whether this kind of work is for you or someone you love. My honest answer is: I don't know yet, and neither do you. That's what the first conversation is for.
What I can promise is this. If we work together, I will take you — or your teen — seriously. I will meet you where you actually are, not where you think you should be. I will challenge you in ways you choose. And I will help you carry the lessons home, where it actually matters.
The rest, we'll leave to the terrain.
— Al