If you’ve ever walked the rugged hills of the Canary Islands, you’ll know how unforgiving the terrain can be. Steep ravines, jagged rocks, and cliffs that seem to appear out of nowhere. For centuries, local shepherds had to move across this landscape daily, following their goats and sheep. Walking wasn’t always an option. And that’s where the shepherd’s leap, salto del pastor in Spanish, comes in.
It isn’t just a curious trick or a bit of folklore. It’s a way of life that made survival possible in a place where the mountains rarely play fair. Imagine carrying a long wooden pole, taller than yourself, then planting it into the ground and vaulting over a ravine. Not quite flying, but close enough that you’d probably catch your breath watching someone do it.
The pole, called a lanza or garrote, isn’t just for leaping. Shepherds used it to climb, to steady themselves, even to slow a descent down a slope that would otherwise have been suicidal to attempt on foot. Some say it almost becomes an extra limb, something you can’t separate from the person once they know how to use it properly.
I’ve seen people try it for the first time, and honestly, it’s terrifying to watch. There’s this moment where they hesitate, staring at the drop, weighing the risk, before finally committing. The more experienced jumpers, though, make it look oddly graceful. One second they’re on one side of a rocky gully, the next they’re landing softly on the other, as if gravity had briefly looked away.
Of course, today most shepherds don’t rely on it the way their ancestors did. Quad bikes, paths, and modern fences have replaced much of the need. But the tradition hasn’t disappeared. In fact, it’s become something people practise deliberately, to keep the heritage alive. There are clubs and associations where younger generations learn the technique, often with a sense of pride, as if to say: this is ours, and we don’t want to lose it.
Part of me wonders if the skill would have survived at all without that deliberate effort. After all, leaping off cliffs with a stick doesn’t exactly sound like a pastime that would thrive in the age of smartphones. And yet, when you see it up close, it feels strangely timeless. There’s a raw practicality about it, yes, but also something artistic, like watching dance performed in the most dangerous setting imaginable.
Some call it a sport now. Others insist it should never be reduced to that, because for their grandparents and great grandparents, it wasn’t a game. It was work, necessity. Both views are probably true, and perhaps that contradiction is what keeps it interesting.
If you ever find yourself in the Canaries and stumble across a demonstration, take a moment to watch. The shepherd’s leap isn’t just about crossing land. It’s a reminder of how humans adapt when the land refuses to bend.
