Where Stories Hang in Branches
Holberg Road, is a rugged gravel road winding through the lushness of remote Northern Vancouver Island regenerating forests. It connects the communities of Holberg and Winter Harbour to Port Hardy. The area is steeped in history, with roots in forestry, pioneer homesteading, fishing, and mining. The road is also the gateway to world renowned San Josefs Bay and Cape Scott. Along the way there is a centuries old cedar snag that has been collecting dozens of shoes now amounting to hundreds, for longer than anyone seems able to agree on. The amazing Shoe Tree! A must see…
Ask the internet and you’ll get a neat, tidy “origin story”: “A resident of Holberg tossed a pair of shoes over a branch in 1989, and others followed!” It’s the kind of explanation that fits nicely into a tourism brochure… Clean white edges, clear dates, no loose ends. Cut and dry. But the North Island rarely offers tidy stories, and prefers folklore that hangs in a mist; ones that contain shifting colours, intrigue, and mystery excited by the flare of who’s relating the tale. And the Shoe Tree, on the north side of the wilds of Holberg Road 16 kilometres from Port Hardy British Columbia, stands as an enigma with its trunk and neighbouring tree branches full of boots and sneakers, sandals, and even a bra or two.
Another commonly told tale is that in the mid-1980s, a group of forestry workers, returning from a long shift, decided to play a practical joke on a fellow logger. They tossed his work boots onto a roadside tree beside Kains Lake, leaving him to retrieve them the next day. Instead of recovering them, the boots remained, sparking the idea among others passing by to add their own footwear to the tree. What perhaps started as a joke, or unrelenting hardship causing a logger to throw his cork boots away,, soon evolved into a tradition of mystery.
The “Shoe Tree” from humble beginnings alongside an industrial logging road gradually became a platform for self-expression. Residents, loggers, tourists, and even schoolchildren began to add shoes of all shapes and sizes. Some posted signs and most have long faded. Many have left messages inside the shoes; others decorated their offerings with paint or oddities. Seasonal footwear appeared around holidays, and travellers from across Canada contributed to the growing spectacle. Over time, the tree’s lower truck transformed, decorated by dozens of shoes nailed or stacked at the base, ranging from hiking boots, rubber gumboots, to ballet slippers, and baby shoes.
I remember seeing a collection of shoes in that tree in the late seventies. I was young then, driving gravel roads with the kind of confidence only youth and an old Toyota Land Cruiser can provide. The old cedar stood out in the open… and already a curiosity to be talked about around a dinner table, between tales of trout and mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. An old western red cedar, weather‑silvered and stately, with boots fixed to its bleached trunk, and stacked like cordwood at the base… hanging like strange fruit. I didn’t think much of it at the time. The North Island has always had its oddities, and a few boots in a tree didn’t seem worth puzzling over. Area hunting, hiking, and fishing consumed my attention. There was no excitement in discarded old shoes.
Years later the “shoe tree” came up in discussion during coffee with an retired likeable logger friend. He nodded slow and certain, and said he remembered shoes in that same tree in the late sixties. Back then, the surrounding forest was newly harvested and replanted. Holberg Road was full of activity, a lifeline for logging camps and crews…. a place where jokes and traditions took root without anyone writing them down. A blown‑out boot, a rite of passage, a prank after a long shift, or act of exasperation…. any one of these motivations could have been the spark igniting the tradition of leaving shoes behind. In logging country, humour has a way of weaving its way into everyday life. Small acts insignificant at the time give rise to reflective folklore years later… fodder for future generations to ponder.
That’s the trouble with official histories: they only begin when someone decides to write them down. The real story often start long before that, passed quietly from one generation to the next. The “shoe tree” was already part of the roadside for who knows how long, before anyone bothered to ask how or why it got there.
Today, the tree stands as a monument to all those unrecorded years. Hundreds of shoes, each pair with their own story, cling to its weathered bark; work boots, runners, flip‑flops, children’s shoes, even the occasional high heel. Some are sun‑bleached and cracked, others look like they were tossed up just last week. Imagine, the collective voices, the joy, the saddness, an anthology of hundreds of “origins”, an epitaph of forgotten souls that will never be known. They hang there together in the dust, rain, wind, and snow, gathering moss and amassing mystery and legacy. There is comfort in numbers.
When I drive past it now, I slow down. Not to solve anything, the North Island doesn’t reward that kind of thinking, but to appreciate the way one simple act of impulse grew into something very much larger that has lasted for years. A pair of boots tossed away by a person a half a century ago is now a tradition carried out by others unannounced through the decades. A landmark containing hundreds of stories that means different things to different people.
Maybe the truth is that the “Shoe Tree” doesn’t need an “origin story”. Maybe the tree’s charm lies in the fact that it refuses to allow a story to be pinned down. It’s a reminder that some pieces of local history live best in the space between memory and myth. The forest keeps its own record, and sometimes it’s written in humble leather work boots with frayed laces, and old stone monuments like the Marble Maria.
Whatever its beginning, the Holberg Road “Shoe Tree” stands as a testament to the wonderful character of the North Vancouver Island; rugged, humorous, a little strange, and full of stories that don’t mind being half‑told. And maybe, just maybe that’s enough.
Safe Travels
Gord
Photos © 2026 Christine Patterson