Author: Henry Cusack
There’s a magic that lives in the forests of the Canadian Selkirks. You feel it in the quiet hum of the moss, the way mist clings to the rocks, and the echo of stoke shared between friends deep in the woods. Last spring and summer, a small crew of us tapped into that magic and built something special. We called it The Shire—a name that stuck as easily as the moss we spent months scrubbing off those walls.
It started with curiosity. Scoping out cliff bands with our binoculars from the other side of the valley and exploring old forest service roads with under equipped vehicles. The next thing you know, we were bushwhacking through dense undergrowth with handsaws, wire brushes, and way too much optimism. The Shire slowly revealed itself: a small moss-drenched chapel of stone tucked away in the interior rainforest, holding both sport and trad lines that ranged from friendly 5.6 rambles to cryptic 5.12c crux-fests.
Most of the crew focused on developing routes—brushing, bolting, and battling vegetation day after day. But my closest friend and I had a different obsession. Just downhill from the main cliff, nestled among ferns and towering cedars, lay a boulder field that felt untouched. We had it to ourselves for a whole summer, and it became our playground, our project, and in a lot of ways, our little sanctuary.
The bouldering there is a pleasant contrast to the Revelstoke scene. Quick drying quartzite faces. Instant-classic V0 highballs with just enough spice. Blunt aretes that teach you humility. Mantling madness that makes you wish you did more pushups. And steep board-style problems that let you throw down like you’re in the gym—except you’re barefoot in the dirt, grinning like a kid on the first day of summer break.
Some days we’d climb until dusk, then sit on crash pads with shredded fingers and flasks full of tea, talking about beta, ethics and the meaning of life. Other days, we barely climbed at all—just cleaned, explored, and got swallowed up in that mountain air.
By the end of the summer, the moss had turned to chalk, and the trails were worn in. We decided to mark the occasion with a grand opening: a bouldering social that turned into something way bigger than expected. Word spread fast. Dozens of climbers showed up—some local crushers, others trying their first-ever outdoor climbs. And just like that, a community was born.
Now, every week, the bouldering social brings the local community together. Gumbies, veterans, and everyone in between come out to share beta, spot strangers, and cheer each other on. It’s become another safe place for our little climbing scene—and it all started with a few friends, some dirty brushes, and a bit of mountain magic. If there’s a lesson in all this, it’s that climbing isn’t always about the grades or the sends. Sometimes it’s about mossy hands, shared psych, and the joy of creating something for others to enjoy.
And while we’re proud of the climbs we developed, it’s the stories we made that matter most.