Bend, Oregon, was founded in the early 20th century. A small settlement grew around the Deschutes River, where traders and pioneers paused on their westward journeys. The river’s waters powered mills, and by 1910, timber became the backbone of Bend’s economy. Logging boomed, and trains carried lumber to build towns across the west. As the logging industry declined in the 1960s, Bend faced a choice: fade into obscurity or reinvent itself. Locals leaned into the area’s natural beauty. By the 1980s, Bend had become a hub for outdoor recreation. Tourists flocked to ski Mount Bachelor, raft the Deschutes, and hike Pilot Butte. Craft beer followed in the 1990s, solidifying Bend’s reputation as a destination for adventurers and beer enthusiasts alike.

In 2023, a young woman named Alice Finch lived in Bend. Alice worked part-time at the last Blockbuster, an iconic relic that attracted tourists and nostalgia seekers. When she wasn’t shelving DVDs, she climbed rocks. “Pilot Butte isn’t enough,” Alice told her friend Josh. “I need bigger walls, harder climbs.” Josh shrugged. “You’re good, but are you that good?” Alice decided to find out. She entered the Northwest Rock Climbing Championship in Portland. Against seasoned climbers, she surprised everyone, including herself, by winning. Her victory brought attention. She was offered free gear, trips to climbing sites, and a shot at international competitions. Her Instagram following doubled overnight. Alice felt like she’d arrived.

But success was not what she imagined. The trips were exhausting. The competitions felt hollow. Sponsors pushed her to post content constantly. One evening in Yosemite, Alice scrolled through her phone, searching for inspiration. She stumbled on an online climbing coach named Kian, who posted unconventional training advice and philosophical musings. His followers praised his methods. “Find the joy in the climb,” he often wrote. Alice sent him a message. “I think I’ve lost my way,” she typed. “Then climb for yourself,” he replied.

Alice decided to leave the competitive circuit. She called her cousin Leah, who lived in a small Oregon town she’d barely visited. “I’m done,” Alice said. “You just started,” Leah replied. “No, really. I’m coming to stay with you.” In this new town, Alice helped Leah with farm chores and avoided social media. She hiked and climbed alone, revisiting Kian’s videos for guidance. He often spoke in riddles. “The hardest move,” he said in one clip, “is the one you avoid.”

Leah’s family had mixed feelings about Alice’s stay. Leah encouraged her to take her time, but her parents called often, urging her to come home and “get serious.” Alice ignored them. By late summer, Alice had improved significantly. She felt stronger, more grounded. Inspired by Kian’s teachings, she decided to tackle a challenging route at Smith Rock State Park. She invited Leah to watch.

The climb tested her in every way. At one crux, she froze. Kian’s voice echoed in her mind: “The hardest move is the one you avoid.” Alice laughed despite herself. She pushed past her hesitation and finished the climb. At the top, Alice felt a rush of clarity. She wanted to share her passion with others, not through competition but by teaching. When she returned to Leah’s, she began drafting ideas for how to do this.

Alice realized that while she enjoyed teaching in person, her audience could be much larger if she streamed her climbs online. She had avoided live-streaming for years because of her dislike for performing in competitions, but this felt different. She wasn’t climbing to win; she was climbing to share what she loved. She set up a basic streaming setup using her phone and a small tripod.

Her first stream was from a small boulder field near Leah’s home. Alice climbed a simple route while narrating her thought process. “Okay,” she said into the camera. “The first thing to look for are solid handholds. See this crack here? It’s perfect for your fingers.” She paused to adjust her grip. “Next, think about your feet. Don’t just stick them anywhere—place them deliberately. It’s like solving a puzzle.”

The stream didn’t attract many viewers—just a handful of people stumbled across it—but one left a comment: “This is super helpful. Do more!” Encouraged, Alice planned her next stream at Smith Rock. She chose a moderate route and borrowed Leah’s GoPro for better footage.

The second stream was more polished. Alice began by showing the gear she used, explaining why each piece was important. “These shoes,” she said, holding them up, “are tight and uncomfortable, but they help you feel every little bump and edge on the rock.” She then demonstrated how to tie a figure-eight knot. “This knot is your lifeline. If you mess this up, you’re in trouble.”

As she climbed, Alice talked about managing fear. “Everyone gets scared,” she said. “The key is to breathe through it. Don’t fight the fear—acknowledge it, then focus on what you can control.” By the time she reached the top, dozens of viewers had joined the stream. Comments poured in. “This is amazing!” one person wrote. Another asked, “Can you do a beginner series?”

Alice was thrilled. She had found a way to connect with people that felt authentic. Over the next few weeks, she planned more streams, focusing on different aspects of climbing. One stream was all about footwork, another on choosing routes. She also did Q&A sessions where viewers could ask anything about climbing.

Her audience grew steadily. People from all over the world tuned in to watch her climbs and learn from her. Some sent messages saying she had inspired them to try climbing for the first time. Others shared their own climbing stories and asked for advice. Alice felt a sense of fulfillment she had never experienced in competitions.

One day, while streaming a climb on Pilot Butte, Alice paused mid-route to address her audience. “You know,” she said, “it’s funny how life works. I started climbing because I loved the challenge. Then I got caught up in winning and lost that love. Now, I’ve found it again, and it’s better than ever.” She smiled at the camera. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: climb for yourself, not for anyone else.”

After the stream, Alice sat at the top of the Butte, looking out over Bend. She thought about how far she had come—not just as a climber but as a person. She had learned to let go of others’ expectations and follow her own path. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been worth it.

Leah joined her at the top, bringing two cans of beer. “You’ve got fans now,” Leah said, handing her a can.

Alice laughed. “It’s weird, isn’t it? People actually want to watch me climb.”

“Not weird,” Leah said. “You’ve got something to say, and people want to hear it.”

Alice nodded, feeling grateful. She didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, she was excited to find out.