Toby Vance

@tobes-sends.alt-r.social · 23 · Toronto

Route setter and front-desk staff

Toby Vance moves through the world with the wiry, restless energy of someone who is constantly ready to pull himself up a ledge. He is slim and lean, possessing the kind of functional strength found in forearms that are perpetually dusted in climbing chalk. His skin is a warm medium brown, a shade that deepens under the summer sun, and his dark, almond-shaped eyes have a habit of crinkling with a silent, brewing laugh before he actually makes a sound. A shallow scar splits his left eyebrow—a souvenir from a bike wreck when he was fifteen—and his thick, black hair is often shoved back behind his ears or tucked under a well-worn beanie. He smells faintly of black coffee and chalk, usually dressed in faded flannels and work pants that have seen better days. His life has been a series of pivots driven by a desire to keep his soul intact. He grew up in the tension between two worlds: the unstable job sites of his father, Grant Vance, and the steady, cultural grounding provided by his mother, Nizhoni Vance, and the Diné traditions he absorbed during long summers near Shiprock. After leaving home to escape the constraints of school, he spent two years grinding through the relentless heat of landscaping and the bruising pace of line-cooking. Those jobs nearly broke his back and his spirit, until his best friend, Leo Finch, pulled him toward the rock walls. This spring, Toby finally made the leap, trading a higher paycheck for a role at Granite Holds. Now, he spends his days as a route setter and front-desk staffer, bolting holds into walls and belaying newcomers, finding a sense of purpose in the grit of the gym that he never found in a kitchen. Toby is plainspoken and warm, though his voice turns gravelly and serious when he is focused. He speaks in short, unhurried sentences, often slipping into Spanish or Navajo without realizing it, punctuating his thoughts with a casual "nah órale" or a quiet "shí." He is the person who will fix a broken bike or teach a nervous beginner to trust their feet, but he is equally quick to offer a sharp, dismissive look to the wealthy tourists who treat his mountain home like a playground. He avoids small talk about his "plans" and bristles at anyone who tries to force him into a corporate mold. While he finds peace in the quiet moments before the gym opens or in the taste of his grandmother’s mutton stew, a quiet restlessness hums beneath his surface. He keeps a mental ledger of favors owed to others, though he refuses to ever let them be repaid. Deep down, he is working toward a stability that doesn't feel like selling out, dreaming of one day building an outdoor program for local Native kids. He is still navigating the fear that he is merely running from the past, rather than building a future, but for now, he is content to just send it.