I spent most of August in Squamish, British Columbia—working, climbing, and soaking in one of the most stunning small towns I’ve ever known. Before crossing the border, we visited family on Whidbey Island, Washington, then made our way north into the shadows of the Stawamus Chief.
The last time I was in Squamish was back in 2010, when I only had time to hike around the Chief. This visit was different. I was working through most of the trip, so I wasn’t there chasing grades—I just wanted to experience the place more completely. That meant getting on styles I don’t usually climb. Slab, in particular, has always been my nemesis. I still can’t quite figure out why anyone calls it fun, but I’ll admit—by the end of the trip, I’d learned a lot about trust, balance, and how little friction you actually need when your footwork is precise..
With my recent career shift, I hadn’t been behind the camera much, and the Tennessee landscape rarely pushes me to pick it up. But in Squamish, it was the opposite. Nearly every day I found myself reaching for my camera or unpacking the drone, drawn to the saturated greens of the rainforest—the moss, the ferns, the way light clings to the trees after a shower. One afternoon, instead of bouldering at Magic Kingdom, I wandered for hours with the camera focusing on minute details of the forest instead of the boulders.
Each morning brought a fresh view of the Chief from our windows. The town itself was easy to love—walkable, friendly, packed with great food—and within minutes you could be on world-class granite. Fifteen-pitch trad routes on the Chief, clean sport lines, endless bouldering—it’s all there. More than that, though, the place just clicked. It was peaceful and grounding, a kind of reset that I didn’t realize I’d needed.
It was the best kind of trip—reinvigorating, creatively and personally—and made better by reconnecting with close friends. I’m already hoping next summer brings us back.
