From single-pitch crags to the Piz Badile, Andrew Taylor shares his journey of learning to climb with a stoma.

We are not very good at talking about toilets and what we do in them. Though we all do the same, some of us do things differently. What follows incudes necessary details about what comes out of us, how it comes out of me, and how I manage this in the mountains. Everyone with a stoma is different and has their own experiences. These are mine. I made some mistakes, and I’m sharing so you don’t have to make the same.

^{Andy seconding the first hard pitch  - Sam Hawkins}

Rock climbing and mountaineering have been a part of my life since attending Belper High School in Derbyshire in the 1980s. The school produced lots of adventurers and climbers, Alison Hargreaves and Nigel Vardy most famously, but plenty more too. Including me.

Following an accident in the spring of 2011, a series of scans offered an explanation for some long-standing bowel symptoms I’d been dealing with. My bowel was inflamed and scarred and not working as it should. I had surgery to remove the bad bit of bowel, but this led to even more scarring, a total bowel obstruction and unimaginable pain. Further surgery was required, this time to remove the now totally blocked bowel and a ‘resection’ to staple the good bits together.

I was warned I may need to have a colostomy or ileostomy, often simply called a ‘stoma’. I had a vague impression of what this meant. I was terrified of yet further indignity and embarrassment. I Googled, and found a couple of people who were open about their ostomy surgeries, one of whom was a climber. One piece of advice resonated immediately: ‘When you go in for surgery, take your climbing harness and ask the surgeon to position your stoma to fit around it.’

^{Pre-op with the potential sites for ileostomy and colostomy marked out - Andrew Taylor}

The pre-op nurse had never had this request before: ‘The surgeon will do what he can. We can’t guarantee a stoma will work in that position. Everyone is different on the inside, you know.’

By this time I was feeling very different on the inside.

As it transpired, the surgery did result in an ileostomy and, luckily, it was placed where we had planned.

The many tears, the pain, discomfort and further indignities of the post-op recovery came and went, along with deep depression around what this change would mean for me. With brilliant support from my partner and wider family, I gradually built up the strength to walk, and to walk further, and then to walk uphill, and then to climb.

Everyone with a stoma is different, but for me, managing a stoma was weird, inconsistent, humiliating. It dominated everything in those first months. I had fixed an embarrassing problem of occasional incontinence by becoming permanently incontinent and constantly, exhaustingly, self-conscious. Dehydration and electrolyte imbalance is a particular problem with an ileostomy. ‘Drink plenty and eat crisps’ was my doctor’s advice.

Climbing regularly with the same partner meant I didn’t have to have too many ‘I need to tell you something’ conversations. On one new route in the Moelwynion, Sam casually shouted up: “Does it matter that your bag fell off?” Looking down I could see it had landed on a ledge just above his head. An unusual kind of ‘near miss’. A quick down-climb and my bag was back on. Sam was a few centimetres away from a direct hit to the head with a bag full of shit…

Somehow Sam kept saying yes to climbing with me and more new routes followed.

Finally fit, I felt ready to get back to the Alps, and to tackle a route that had long been on my wishlist: the Cassin Route on the northeast face of the Piz Badile.

Living now in Scotland, my training involved shunting easy routes at Dumbarton Rock. 30m of easy rock 10 times. Quickly nudging up to 20-30 times a session. I rehydrated with electrolyte solutions and was meticulous in when and what I drank.

August arrived. We drove through France and Switzerland and arrived at the marvellous Camping Acquafraggia. The weather was set fair for 5 days. It was on.

We ate in the hut, but continued on to the bivouac sites below the start of the North Ridge. From here I was managing rehydration with electrolyte / energy gels and water.

The bivouac proceeded as alpine bivis do. Wake and sleep, wake and sleep. Stars and moon progressing through the sky in snapshots.

4am alarm. Up, and eat – muesli bar, energy gel. We were moving early, but still weren’t first on the face. Sam took the first easy rock pitches to below the Diedre Rebuffat and I led the deidre before we switched to simul-climbing for the next 150m or so. Water supply fine, more energy gel.

Sam – the stronger climber – took the three crux pitches above the big ledges. This was feeling hard. I was struggling. Sam pushed through these pitches brilliantly but I was slower again now. Both dehydrated, I led the deep v chimney of the upper crux (It’d be a thrutchy HVS in Wales for the record.) Some fresh graupel in a deep section of chimney filled water bottles and we pushed on. We were both tired and slow now. More water, more energy gel.

More steep, thrutchy stuff followed. Sam led a pitch, I led a pitch, both properly unsure of how we were still moving, but both somehow managing. Some pegs were pulled on. With headtorches back on, I led a final pitch to the ridge. Moving together along the ridge took longer than it should. By the time we reached the highest point on the ridge we realised we weren’t going to find the hut and a bivouac spot was picked.

This bivouac did not proceed as bivouacs usually do. We both probably slept a little, but at around 2.30am there was a pop as I shifted positions. The energy gels had done what energy gels do and sped things up. My stoma output had rapidly increased. Pressure had built up. Medical adhesive is brilliant, but it follows the laws of physics. The pressure had released, the bag adhesive had blown and a large portion of the contents of my bag had spurted out. Very liquid, very quick to cover almost everything I was wearing.

‘Shit!’ Literal and everywhere. Unhealthy ileostomy output, corrupted by energy gels and green with bile, is foul stuff. My training had not included trialling dietary elements. A major oversight. Somehow I cleaned what I could and reapplied the spare stoma bag I had.

Daylight came with a sunrise clear and pure. We reached the summit spike and then the hut, where we slept.

We were up by 10.30am, heading back along the ridge. The abseils went very smoothly – the new abseil points are carefully planned, but Sam’s attention to detail here was fantastic.

There is a point where the ridge abseil takes you immediately over a large overhang onto the northwest side. Sam went down, clipped the next belay, and I followed. Going over the lip I pivoted sideways, my ileostomy bag caught on the edge and was dislodged. I attempted a quick fix, and continued down. My bag was, by now, properly coming off and my only remaining spares were back at the bivi.

So here we were, Sam and I. Poor Sam. I apologised too many times. Around 500m of abseil remained, only I now had an entirely unprotected ileostomy trickling vile, greenish liquid out into the world, through my shirt, down my leg.

Stoma output is very acidic and soon the unprotected skin around the stoma was beginning to blister. I was so angry with myself – so much training, so much preparation, yet I had neglected something which even in day-to-day life I manage carefully. Big, BIG learning point. Always plan mountain diets, and always test them in advance.

The last few abseils led us down to the start ledge and then to the bivi kit. By now I was streaked with green bile, but I had given up apologising out loud. Sam had managed the abs pretty much single-handedly and had somehow coped with my physical and emotional mess. If you have a stoma and you want to climb, you need a partner like Sam.

I quickly found my spare stoma bags and other kit and got immediate relief. We’d been obsessing about a hut dinner all the way down, but instead we simply lay down and slept.

The stars turned, the moon rose and set, and breakfast time came. Sasc Fura breakfasts? We had two each, with coffee. Heaven.

So why have I shared all this? Essentially, I don’t want others in the same situation to feel a stoma is the end of their climbing. I want to demonstrate what is possible, and share some of my stoma-specific learning so others can avoid my mistakes.

Was this the first ileostomy ascent of one of the classic north faces of the Alps? I can’t say it was, but I can’t find other reports. That’s not the point of course. The point is that climbers come in all shapes and sizes, with disabilities and impairments, and with various ways of emptying bowels and bladders.

Since my surgery, Mick Fowler has been public about his colostomy, and is still doing Himalayan first ascents. That’s fantastic! There are a handful of other climbers who are public about their ostomies. So part of my purpose also is to try to find others in my position who want a similar challenge in the future.

What’s next for me? Rock has always been my thing, not ice. The great north faces of the Alps may be where I look. I’m going back to a list of dream routes I made long before I had a stoma. So – a call out to the stoma climbing community – Beckey-Chouinard on the South Howser Spire anyone? Lotus Flower Tower? New routes on the granite of the English Mountains, Labrador?

And look, I promise, this time I won’t be taking any energy gels.

Andy is an advisor to the Adventurous Activities Advisory Committee and instigated the production of guidance for outdoor instructors on managing toileting in the outdoors. Of course, this includes managing people with ostomies, and will be available in early 2025.

Andy can be contacted at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.