A Chance Encounter at a Jamaican Crag Reminded Me Why Representation Matters

Discovery Bay is where modern climbing in Jamaica began. Spanish climbers like Daniel Oury and later Juan Luis Toribio bolted the island’s first sport routes here, laying the foundation for what’s now a growing community.

Fifty-five sport routes ascend sharp, pocketed limestone, from gentle slabs to overhangs. When we arrived in Jamaica, Toribio, a leader in the local climbing scene, hadn’t visited the area in months, since he’d been busy bolting routes in India. So on our first day in the country, we made our way to St. Ann Parish, where Discovery Bay is located, to revisit a crag now partially reclaimed by nature.

 

The trail had become overgrown during Juan’s time away. We tiptoed through thick brush, slipped over loose rock, and bushwhacked our way forward. For many of us, this was our first glimpse of Jamaican rock—the start of something we’d spent months preparing for.

By “we,” I mean Clmbxr, the community I founded in 2019 to make climbing more accessible for Black and underrepresented communities. I never imagined my first trip to the Caribbean would come because of it. Ten individuals in the Clmbxr community signed up for something bigger than just climbing. This trip would be a mix of culture, coastlines and crags—a retreat rooted in movement and meaning. Although, if I’m honest, I know a few of us came for the vibes. It is, after all, Jamaica.

To make the trip happen, we partnered with Toribio, founder of JamRock Climbing. He’s been leading the charge to grow the Jamaican scene. In 2023, he launched @Jamrockclimbing and a WhatsApp group—now nearly 80 members strong—to raise visibility and bring locals into the fold. When I approached him about collaborating, we talked about building on the work already being done. Just last year, he filmed a project with Kai Lightner, amplifying the scene’s potential.

During our first day at Discovery Bay, the Caribbean sun beamed down on us, heat clinging to our backs like a second layer. The air was thick with humidity. Every movement left your fingers sweaty, your body drenched.

Still, there was magic in it. From the top of the wall, the turquoise ocean stretched past the tree line. It felt like being let in on a secret. We weren’t just visiting Jamaica—we were seeing it from a vantage point few ever do.

For some of the newer climbers in our group, that first 6a (5.10a) route represented a milestone. The rock felt razor sharp, the route stretched 35 meters up, and the third clip came just after a sketchy sequence that tested nerves and footwork. One climber came down after sending, eyes wide and adrenaline still buzzing. “I didn’t think I could do that,” they whispered, half-laughing, half-crying. That’s what climbing does—especially when you’re surrounded by people who look like you, who cheer you on, who believe in you even when you’re doubting yourself.

After a sweaty goodbye to Coral Spring, where we’d rented our Airbnb just 20 minutes from Discovery Bay, we headed east to Kingston. The 2.5-hour drive gave us time to swap playlists, nap in the backseat, and watch the coastline shift from wild beaches to bustling city streets. We checked into RaggaMuffin Hostel, dropped our bags, and enjoyed cold Red Bulls before rushing out to the Bob Marley Museum.

The tour walked us through the bones of Marley’s life—his studio, his family spaces, and the scars of the past still visible on the walls. You could feel the tension between struggle and peace. It didn’t feel unrelated to what we’d been doing on rock all week, moving through difficulty, trying to find our rhythm.

That’s when we learned about our next crag: Cane River Falls. Legend says it’s where Bob washed his locks. In the song “Trench Town,” he sang, “Up a Cane River to wash my dread…” In Rastafari, water isn’t just cleansing—it’s sacred. Water serves as a symbol of purification, of connection to Jah. For Bob, washing his locks here wasn’t hygiene—it was ritual.

Tucked just outside Kingston, Cane River Falls is owned by a local woman named Mona. You follow a winding path until you’re met with the cool rush of cascading water. It’s part crag, part waterfall, part sanctuary.

Climbing there felt surreal. One moment we were gripping pockets and clipping quickdraws. The next, we were diving into the water, laughing, catching our breath. It was humid, wild, and deeply Jamaican. The kind of place that makes you question whether going home is really necessary.

As we climbed, a group of locals wandered past and paused, eyes fixed on the wall. One of them stood watching me and Takiyah, one of the strongest climbers in our group, as we worked our way up a 6b (5.10c). Eventually, without saying much, two of the local Jamaicans asked if they could try. We didn’t catch names—they just slipped into harnesses, headed up the rock barefoot, and gave it a go.

That moment stuck with me. They didn’t ask if they needed climbing shoes. They didn’t question whether they belonged on the wall. They just moved. It reminded me that climbing is instinctual, something your body understands before your brain catches up. That right there is what we mean when we say representation matters.

For 10 days, we climbed, connected, and carved out space on the rock. In doing so, we reminded ourselves and others: We belong here, too. Not as guests or outsiders, but as part of the landscape and the future of climbing. Jamaica gave us more than just routes—it gave us rhythm, grounding, and a new horizon to dream from.

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