On my two-week introduction to mountaineering course there were ten straight men—and me. 

At first, I stayed quiet. Who has time for chit chat when you’re struggling with crampons for the first time? As we started to get the hang of our ice axes and four-season tents, we found time to talk about our lives. We talked about what brought us to this course. For me, that meant talking about my recent divorce. 

It’s scary to come out as queer to a group of strangers when you’re in the middle of nowhere. You hope most people have the decency to just move along when you say “she” and “ex-spouse” in the same sentence. But what if they don’t? There is no way to get away from people when you are literally tied together on a rope. 

I came away from that course with a great foundation in mountain skills. But it also gave me a taste of a hyper-masculine mountaineering culture where I did not belong. 

I hoped I could do things my own way some day. In a space where more people could be their whole selves. Where people could ask for help and be vulnerable. And where we could still climb hard. 

Six years later, I got a glimpse of what that could be like. 

I co-led an introduction to mountaineering workshop with the Alpine Club of Canada Vancouver Island Section. Our crew was spending the weekend at Hišimy’awiƛ, the new Alpine Club hut on 5040 Peak. My co-leaders were two friends and fierce supporters. 

And half of our students were queer and/or trans. 

Getting here was a journey of its own. Over the past few years, I had started to create safer spaces for queer and trans folks to learn to rock climb at our local gym. I had also started to lead day hikes just for our community. 

I always thought these kinds of opportunities didn’t exist on Vancouver Island because no one wanted them. But as my lessons and hikes quickly filled to capacity, I learned that was not true. 

During our workshop on 5040 Peak, we showed people how to move around the surrounding mountains safely. We tied knots, kicked steps, and built snow anchors. We rappelled down cliff faces. We showed folks how to stop themselves from sliding down snowy slopes with their ice axes. 

None of those things have anything to do with sexual orientation or gender. But everything the in between spaces does. When you are talking. Making food. Making decisions. Staring out over the endless blue hills after a gorgeous sunset. Swimming in freezing lake with your new friends and a few lingering icebergs. 

It’s in all these spots that you just want to be you and be understood, where the scariest thing happening is the mountain you are climbing, not the people you are with. 

A wise mountain guide once told me how he felt about the generation of climbers following him—people who were climbing harder stuff than he ever dreamed of. He said, “If you aren’t doing better than us, then we’ve failed you.” I think this applies to people we welcome into mountaineering communities too. We all need to keep doing better.