Unlocking new granite descents on the Sunshine Coast

I picked up this quote from an old rock climbing partner, but life in the Coast Mountains, surrounded by granite, quickly taught me otherwise and I eventually embraced the techy granite slabs that Squamish and the Sea to Sky corridor offer.

After I became comfortable climbing the featureless rock, it only made sense to try descending it, too. Isn’t riding down a rock slab a bit like reading a climbing line in reverse? As mountain bikers visiting the region quickly learn, there are a plethora of incredible confidence-building granite ribbons scattered throughout our established trail systems. It’s easy to learn to love the slab.

Adventure, for me, has always been best found off the beaten path. I grew up poring over topo maps of Vancouver Island in search of new trails to run or peaks to bag and let that thirst for adventure carry me all over the globe. But a foot injury sidelined me in 2016, leaving me with serious FOMO in Squamish, so I chose to escape, heading to the more-remote northern Sunshine Coast. Finding a great community there, I turned to satellite imagery and ever-improving mapping apps in search of new granite and larger backcountry topography. I’d spent a few previous seasons dipping into the wild in the infamous Eldred Valley and suspected there’d be plenty more rock there to discover.

Sandwiched in the mountains between Powell Lake and Jervis Inlet, coastal climbers had been exploring the Eldred for decades. I’d heard grand stories of new routes and big walls in the adjoining south and a huge descent more than 2,000 metres to the west.

Daniels River Valley from Powell River climbers and knew a few moto-trials riders had been exploring granite slabs closer to town. So as soon as my foot healed enough to allow it, I followed some local beta and hike-a-biked the backside of a climbing route I’d ascended a few seasons prior. At the top, I found myself staring down a 1,400 m granite ridgeline with views of Hotham Sound and the Strait of Georgia. I was in slab heaven! The riding conjured memories of skiing volcanoes, and I felt myself craving another carving turn as I descended over the final roll and into the forest below. I immediately hiked back up for a second lap, pondering and itching for more, thinking, There must be longer, rideable slabs on the higher, inland peaks. What opportunities lay deeper in these mountains?

Scouring a few maps, I took note of a large granite ridgeline with riding potential atop the formations known as Super Unknown and Red Alert Wall. Local aviator and all-around legend Jason Rekve agreed this zone may go, but finding other keeners willing to junglemountaineer their bikes and kit up 2,000 metres of coastal bush would be challenging. Plus, I was still recovering from surgery, so I challenged myself to put my usual human-powered ethos aside and assembled an experienced team ready to heli-drop into what I hoped would be the heart of a new granite playground. Local rider Andrew Shostak joined Revelstoke-based Matt Yaki and photographer Ryan Creary to get tires on the ground that summer.

After countless hours studying contour lines and satellite imagery, I knew the granite rolled to vertical or near-vertical in many sections. In case our descent line landed the group in a hairy situation, my pack included rope, harnesses and an anchor kit to offer an escape. A Hughes 500 helicopter dropped us on the leeward side of some of North America’s tallest walls. After traversing a long ridgeline (with a bit of afternoon scrambling) we gained a south-facing spine—a 500 m concerto of steep, heart-pounding descent that delivered us on a final precipice, where it felt as if we were hanging above the forest below. Our bellows of joy echoed through the valleys as we picked our way down, carving from one dihedral to the next until the slabs gave way to vertical relief.

Adrenaline still pumping, the helicopter plucked us off our precarious pickup spot and bumped across the valley to an adjacent ridgeline, which had previously been ridden yet offered plenty more options to unlock. With three unique summits and myriad lines to explore, we ascended a nearby ridge to gain a better perspective of this incredible landscape. What we discovered was not only exponentially more vast, but also offered huge relief across all aspects: a ridgeline to the north, a bowl of slab descents to the south and a huge descent—more than 2,000 m—to the west. We’d found the playground I’d been hunting for, and I immediately began scheming how to share it with others.

As word got out, fellow Vancouver Island rider Darren Berrecloth called to plan a video shoot with some of his sponsors on this new slab paradise. (Footage from the trip was eventually released in a highlight reel called The Granite Fringe.) As I couldn’t join due to still battling that injury, I continued to work out how to further open up this unique riding area and how to share it with guests. It wasn’t a simple process, and is one I won’t likely repeat.

Nationally, 90 per cent of the Canadian landscape is royal domain—in British Columbia it’s closer to 95 per cent. This means these areas can be explored by any person or non-commercial operator; however, some areas may also be leased for use by logging corporations, mining operations, fish farms, hunters and trappers.

I grew up on Vancouver Island, where logging and railway companies have limited access to vast amounts of this public backcountry Crown land. There, locals hoping to fish or kayak freshwater streams, explore forests or ride bikes across connecting ridgelines often run into locked and gated resource roads. I recall, at a young age, witnessing blockades and protests on these lands to protect the last remaining old growth forests (many of which are still at risk). Across this province in particular, there has historically been a tricky balance between conservation efforts to slow further deforestation or other resource extraction, and the privilege of accessing these remote areas via private resource roads.

After spending a few years exploring this Sunshine Coast slabriders’ paradise, I submitted my first tenure application to commercially guide mountain bikers through a 2,000-acre section in early 2018. The subsequent six years have been filled with detailed map submissions, consultations, assessments, wildlife analyses, First Nations outreach, management plans, resource tenure overlap negotiations, flight path approvals, flora/fauna outlines, risk management strategies, conflict reports and more. Waits were endured, hoops were jumped though and bureaucratic nightmares endured.

The other, more enjoyable, side of this process was returning to the location to ride and track potential terrain as well as move endless rock to forge an updated emergency egress line. This task required plenty of physical labour and old-school navigation on foot, combined with endless mapping and topo-line hunting to link improbably long descent lines down slabs and ridges into the rainforest canopy and logging roads below.

I love to share wild places the way others have shared them with me. My new company, Flow State Guiding, is about reconnecting people with the power of these sacred spaces and with that joy I first felt while riding these slabs, marrying the experience of bagging peaks while climbing and the freedom of movement enjoyed on two wheels. In communities that have historically relied heavily on resource extraction, I will be overjoyed if I can contribute to driving a different kind of economic engine. The more people are willing to get off the beaten path and open up a different side of adventure, the better their recreation value will be.

On this particular sliver of Crown land, I feel blessed with how that tricky mix of industry, recreation, preservation and appreciation has all come together. After more than half a decade chasing a dream, my last trip to this incredible slab land included Jorge Ackermann, Jonathan Hamilton and photographer Jimmy Martinello, all of whom were heroic in their unwavering support and gargantuan efforts to unlock a last uncharted ridge. Our stoke level was high, each of us eager to explore the next ridgeline in seamless harmony with each other and the landscape.

Perhaps my friend was onto something with his old adage about slab climbing. But gifting a new climber a techy pitch of granite, a new surfer their first closeout set or a skier their first icy descent may spark a curiosity to experience our landscape in a new manner. It may offer someone that necessary push to explore beyond the daily grind and ultimately find a way to enrich their lives and those around them. It may just instill a lasting desire for those with curiosity to discover and share their own sacred spaces.

Check out www.flowstateguiding.com for more info.