A report from Queer Ascent in Truckee, where Arc'teryx climbing clinics show how intentional spaces can reshape what it means to feel at home in the outdoors.
Words and photos by Hannah Truby
Last weekend marked Queer Ascent's third return to Truckee, California—and my first chance to experience it firsthand. From Thursday to Sunday, roughly 300 climbers gathered here in the Sierra, dispersing each day across Donner Summit's crags and trailheads for climbing clinics before regrouping at night for a full slate of programming including film screenings, live music, and a queer prom.
At its core, Queer Ascent is not only a climbing clinic, but an experiment in removing friction from the outdoors; less about redefining climbing than about what becomes possible when the social calculus of a space shifts.
“When you’re around a bunch of people that have a shared experience, you can go into space with a little less weight on your shoulders, a little less anxiety around being judged.”
I found that framing, offered by climber Jordan Cannon, key to understanding the weekend as a whole.
Cannon is known for several historic first ascents in California, big free solos in the High Sierra, and “in-a-day” free ascents on El Capitan in Yosemite Valley. On his most recent expedition to Pakistan, he made the second-ever free ascent of “Cowboy Direct” (VII 5.13a) on Trango Tower. Outside Magazine featured Cannon’s coming out story, highlighting his status as “one of the first openly gay male athletes in climbing history.” Several years prior, the South Carolina climber came to the Arc'teryx team with a vision to create a welcoming space for the queer climbing community.
“I realized there really weren’t many spaces specifically centered around queer climbers,” Cannon said of the inspiration behind Queer Ascent. “So I set out to create one—a place where queer climbers could meet, climb, and spend a weekend together in one of my favorite summer climbing destinations.”
Now in its third year, the clinic saw a surge in participation, surpassing the combined attendance of the previous two years and drawing more than 500 attendees from across North America. In my clinic group alone, participants had traveled from Vancouver, Utah, the Bay Area, and Pennsylvania. Ages also varied widely, from 18-year-old climbers just entering outdoor spaces to more experienced climbers in their 40s and 50s.
The concept of affinity spaces—physical or virtual environments where people gather based on shared identities, backgrounds, or specific interests—often raises questions: why do they exist at all in the outdoor world, a space so often imagined as open to everyone and belonging to no one in particular?
“It’s interesting—affinity spaces feel inclusive by being exclusive at the same time. But we have to label it to reach people who haven’t been reached before,” Cannon said. “That doesn’t mean we’re bouncing people at the door or policing who’s gay or straight. If you’re excited to support and celebrate it, you’re welcome.”
My first clinic, Rope Climbing for Boulderers, was led by Marian “May” Perez. Perez (pictured below) is the co-founder of Rise Outside, a nonprofit guide service based in New Paltz, New York (what’s affectionately known as "the Gunks”), and now works locally as a guide for Alpenglow Expeditions.
May’s instructing pedagogy largely focused on something that often gets overlooked in technical outdoor instruction: soft skills. Specifically, communication and trust.
At the start of the day, our group of seven huddled at a crag just below Rainbow Bridge. After a round of introductions, May asked us to share a moment when we felt empowered—and one when we didn't. The exercise had little to do with climbing technique and everything to do with building trust. By opening up to one another, we began to understand how each person preferred to be encouraged and supported throughout the day, a foundation that proved especially valuable when it came time to get on belay.
I’ve taken my share of climbing clinics, and what stood out most about this one was the degree of ownership we were given over the skills themselves. In my experience, it's common to be shown how to tie a knot or perform a belay, only for an instructor to quietly step in and finish the final step or make a correction. Here, May encouraged us to see the process through ourselves. They were always watching, ready to offer guidance or step in when needed, but the expectation was that we would build confidence through doing. If someone didn't feel comfortable with a route, a belay, or a knot, support was there. More often than not, though, we were trusted to figure it out ourselves.
That emphasis on trust and communication lingered beyond the technical instruction. It also pointed, indirectly, to something deeper in how Queer Ascent functions as a space.
“If people can’t express fear or they feel unsupported, it limits the climber and the team,” Cannon says. “The climbing world can be very ego-driven. There’s a lot wrapped up in performance and in measuring ourselves against one another, intentionally or not. That can put up a lot of guards that get in the way of partnership. Spaces like Queer Ascent help take those guards down and let people show up as themselves.”
The clinic coincided with Truckee Pride Week, the mountain town's annual, multi-day celebration.
In response to our coverage of Truckee Pride Week in last week’s Sunday Email, a reader wrote: “Until people are seen as individuals rather than a cause, we won't align with nature, the thing your publication feigns to represent.”
I understand the impulse behind questions like “What does sexuality or gender have to do with the outdoors?” They don’t always come from malice. I myself have briefly wondered the same in the past.
Cannon admits that it “can be hard for some people to understand why affinity spaces like these exist, but the reality is—much like class, race, or geography—sexuality and gender do have an effect in the outdoors, not because they define one’s ability to climb a wall or read a route, but because they influence how freely someone can exist while doing it.
The event wrapped up the weekend with a Queer Prom, held inside the Truckee Rec Center.
To many of us, the outdoors feel neutral—open, wild, and equally welcoming to everyone. But that isn't everyone's experience. Outdoor spaces reflect the same social dynamics that exist everywhere else: who feels welcome, who feels safe, and who is assumed to belong remains uneven. Those who experience these spaces as neutral often do so because they have never felt unwelcome in them.
As a cis, straight white woman, I’ve only recently become aware of how often I move through outdoor spaces without having to think about those layers.
Climbing.com recently reported that LGBTQ+ climbers around the world continue to face rising adversity. As of May 29 of this year, 530 anti-LGBTQ bills are in flux in the United States, according to the American Civil Liberties Union. In 2026 alone, Congress has passed 55 bills so far that attack the rights of transgender people across 16 states.
In intentionally inclusive spaces like Queer Ascent, those who have often felt excluded or sidelined in climbing can, often for the first time, feel at ease. There is no need to spend energy scanning for safety cues or editing how they speak about their lives. Instruction can center movement, technique, and joy, rather than identity management.
One person in my group, who had attended all three clinics, shared that the feeling of being “the only one” in spaces where no shared language exists for identity beyond the norm is often constant elsewhere. Coming to Queer Ascent, he said, he knows he “can take a breath and just be.”
Environments like Queer Ascent don’t just expand the space or diversify who is in it—they reshape how we learn to be in the space together. Climbing, after all, is built on trust: The willingness to put your life in someone else’s hands and to hold theirs in return. Spaces that intentionally build that trust across difference, rather than in spite of it, don’t distract from the outdoors; they clarify what the outdoors already demands of us.
“It’s not uncommon, before someone is able to accept their sexuality and come out, to think, ‘Oh my God, this is my biggest weakness, this is the thing I’m most ashamed of’,” says Cannon. “But once you flip that script, what you once thought was your biggest weakness—being true to who you are—can become your greatest superpower because it fosters more genuine connections and authenticity in your life. And that shows up on the wall.”
