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Visitors received multiple air raid alert notifications on their phones throughout the weekend. Soldiers on leave quietly blended into the crowd, while organizers directed all profits from this year’s festival to a fundraising initiative supporting Ukraine’s Azov Brigade. Unlike last year, however, no Russian drones or missiles crossed the sky above the campsite on their way toward .

The volunteer-run festival was launched in 2023 by about 15 friends who had spent more than a year climbing together after becoming fascinated by Yosemite’s climbing culture.

has long been regarded as one of the birthplaces of modern rock climbing, where climbers built a counterculture around sleeping in tents, living out of vans and spending months on the granite walls of the valley.

“We realized climbing could be much more than just a sport,� said festival co-founder Dmytro Isaienko, 39. “It’s about a specific way of life — in nature, camping, on the rocks.�

Isaienko and his friends wanted to challenge the perception that climbing was reserved for elite athletes. Their first festival attracted about 150 visitors. This summer, attendance grew to more than 500, most of them beginners or amateur climbers.

Organizing the festival during wartime has given it a broader purpose, Isaienko said. He believes creating places where people can gather, learn new skills and spend time together has become a way of sustaining one’s well-being through a prolonged war.

“You need to get away from the war for a while,� he said. “Leave Kyiv and come spend some time here together, a little longer than usual.�

A climbing community grows even as war grinds on

On the rocks below, instructors help complete beginners fasten their harnesses, chalk their hands and search for the next hold on the granite wall. Whenever someone reaches the top of the 25-meter (82-feet) cliff — often for the first time — spectators, instructors and climbers break into applause.

Among the festival’s newcomers was 21-year-old Liliia Karpach, who traveled from Ukraine’s western Lviv region for her first Stoned Climbers festival.

“I decided to come because it had been a very long time since I’d climbed on real rocks,� she said. “I also wanted to meet the community in person and get to know new people.�

She said climbing is mental as well as physical exercise, and hopes others will give it a try.

“If you’re really nervous about coming on your own, invite some friends,� she said. “Even if neither of you knows how to climb, you’ll have a good time together.�

Helping first-time climbers gain that confidence is one of the most rewarding parts of the festival for instructor Andrii Lamei, 24.

While belaying a young woman during her first climb, he calmly talked her through the most difficult part of the ascent. As she climbed higher, her movements became more confident. After reaching the top, Lamei encouraged her to pause before descending.

“Look around,� he shouted. “Enjoy the moment. You made it.�

“Climbing helps you work with stress,� Lamei said. “It helps you manage stressful situations in everyday life.�

He dreams of climbing outside Ukraine one day but, like most Ukrainian men, he cannot leave the country while wartime travel restrictions remain in place.

“I want to go across the border to visit Yosemite, to visit Norway's mountains, but I can’t,� he said. “But maybe this is how I’m forced to enjoy what I have here.�

For Isaienko, that is precisely why festivals like Stoned Climbers matter.

While many Ukrainians have put parts of their lives on hold during the war, he hopes the community taking shape around the cliffs shows that new traditions can still emerge.

“This is a festival for everyone,� he said. “Including people who have never tried climbing before.�

And each time another first-time climber reaches the top, the applause rising from the rocks below suggests that, little by little, that community is growing.