The smell of sap filled my nostrils, momentarily distracting me from my aching legs and quaky arms. I stared at the bark of the Douglas fir I was dangling from before gazing down at the tree branches surrounding me. My stomach dropped as I registered just how high I was—over a hundred feet off the ground, and I wasn’t even halfway to the top of the mammoth tree I was climbing.

It’s not every day that your camping kit includes a harness and a climbing helmet. You will need such gear if you’re camping with Tree Climbing at Silver Falls, an outfitter at an Oregon state park offering a bucket-list experience—sleeping in the canopy of a century-old tree. While scientists sometimes ascend trees for work—and forest-defense activists organize tree-sits to save them from logging—recreational tree-climbing opportunities in the US are hard to come by. Owner and founder Leo Rosen-Fischer says his business is the only one offering year-round tree climbing and tree camping on public lands.

As a kid growing up in Seattle, Rosen-Fischer loved scaling backyard trees with his sister. His Swiss grandfather was a climber, and alpine expertise runs in the family. “My parents taught me a love for mountaineering and climbing early on,” he said. Before starting his company, he worked as a rock-climbing guide and a legal clerk, but Rosen-Fischer wanted to do something out-there. His tree-climbing business began in the Seattle area, then moved to Deception Pass State Park in Washington and private land on Lopez Island. In 2021, he expanded to include Silver Falls State Park. “Never would I have ever thought as a kid that this is something I could do for a job,” he said. A tattoo of a Douglas fir now adorns his left calf.

Today, over a thousand people tree climb in the park annually. A half-day climb typically takes about four hours and starts at $149; only about 50 groups have spent the night, which costs $699 for two people. Many climbers come from nearby Portland and Salem, though others have come from as far away as Germany. “I think the best things in life are creating memories,” Rosen-Fischer said, “and hopefully this experience is so great, they’ll always be able to remember it.”

Every year, Silver Falls State Park hosts more than a million people, most of whom congregate around its waterfalls. Tree climbing here started as an experiment to help spread out visitors. “It’s a lot more popular than I imagined it would be,” park manager Chris Gilliand said. Park staff approve any trees Rosen-Fischer wants to climb, with an eye toward avoiding sensitive wildlife habitat. Nothing is drilled into the trees. “There’s some bark sloughing here and there, but otherwise the trees haven’t been taking much damage at all,” Gilliand said.

Scaling one of these living towers is a physical feat, though there is a battery-powered option to increase accessibility. To climb, participants use ascenders—mechanical devices that grip on to a rope when weight is applied. You move like an inchworm, repeatedly squatting and standing as you move your hands, then your feet, up in tandem with the ascenders. Experienced climbers make it look smooth, but I struggled to link together more than a few clumsy upward pushes without needing a reset. My backpack hung beneath my right leg, adding extra weight to heave upward. I tried to avoid looking at my feet dangling in the open air.

When we reached our nest for the night—just shy of 300 feet high, above a canopy so dense that we couldn’t see the ground—Rosen-Fischer and guide Megan Bonham got to work setting up our hammocks and preparing for nightfall. Climbers can pay a little extra for a rehydrated meal courtesy of a guide-operated camp stove, but I opted for my own squished PB&J sandwich. And what if nature calls? Using the bathroom wearing a climbing harness is simple for men—just unzip and go—but less simple for women, who are provided with a funnel and a plastic bottle. I stubbornly decided I’d just drink less water and avoid the hassle.

Climbing harness still on, I kicked back and got cozy in my sleeping bag. The setting sun painted the sky over the Willamette Valley shades of orange, pink, and purple. A smattering of stars peeked out before the almost-full moon lit the canopy with a wash of silver. A talkative owl kept us company, hooting from below. I’ve never been higher in a tree than an owl, I thought.

Though perfectly safe clipped onto the tree, I couldn’t shake dreams of falling, and I kept being startled awake—reminding myself that I hadn’t moved an inch before drifting off again, cuddled against the trunk. I awoke to a hot-pink sunrise streaking the sky and a serenade of birds, their songs filtering through the branches up to us. Like the owls the night before, the songbirds reorientated me in space. Though perched, I felt like the one flying.

We packed up and descended through dangling ropes of gray moss and lime-green lichen back to the forest floor hundreds of feet below. “Thank you, tree, for carrying us last night,” Rosen-Fischer called out. I shouldered my pack and hiked away, with one last glance up at the tallest place I’ll ever sleep.