Taylor Van Roekel
It started when I was little, gazing up from the valley floor, watching little specks spider their way up El Cap. A sort of fascination/border-line obsession with adventure sports has coursed through me since then. I love climbing. All of us do. But paired with my passion for writing, I enjoy telling the stories of climbing. Not the flashy sends and big names, but the personal bests, new routes and local crags. That’s what I like. So here I am, giving voice to the everyday athlete, breathing life into our sport on a daily basis. My name is Taylor VanRoekel. I’m a student and a climbing instructor at University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point. I love climbing, skiing, reading, writing, being active, playing with my dog Smudge, long walks on the beach and living my life according to only the finest rap music. Enjoy!
Feb. 2010 Thanks Mr. Fox
-This is the worst feeling, this one right here
I knew I was going to fall. That wasn’t the problem. It was how.
-Let go Taylor, you’re gonna have to.
The rock was chossy and un-hewn, looking more like a ruined temple than a climbable face. The route wasn’t particularly hard, but that wasn’t the issue. Each bolt was planted above a ledge of some kind, making every fall a calculated drop, allowing enough slack to miss the jagged little platforms.
-It’s ok man, just breath!
‘Funny’, I thought. The sky was melting down to dusk orange and I could just see above the tall trees surrounding the bluff.
-TAKE!
It happened quickly. Before I even knew what went down. The only solid foothold was also conveniently right where my last clip had been. My right ankle caught, sending me ass-up in a sort of upside-down whipper, slamming my head into the rock.
-Good thing I had the helmet!
I yelled down to my belayer and good friend Rob. Now being the only sport climber at the crag rocking the baby blue helmet wasn’t so lame anymore. The noise it made bouncing off the fossil filled rock was sickening. Like a gunshot. My ankle hurt. It had twisted on the draw, and I told myself to remember a few items and figures to perform a self-check for a concussion. Beer dulled my shock a little. I kept climbing. After-all, getting back on the horse is always the best cure. My friends were tempted to share my helmet, after witnessing my accident, and they all swore to cop one when we returned home. On our way out, we sat down to watch a friend attempt one more send.
-Holy Shit, a Fox!
I hadn’t seen any girls that day, so I was intrigued. But standing still and calm on the trail was a beautiful red fox. He, or maybe it was a she, padded closer, then turned and walked into the bushes behind us. We sat still for moments after. None of us had seen a fox that close, aside from the dead ones on the roadside.
-It’s a good sign
So it was. I had just survived a serious potentially life-threatening fall. If that isn’t good luck, then I don’t know what is. We watched the sun set from the top of the bluff, and retired to a local McDonalds before the haul home. Needless to say, that was the most memorable day of climbing I’ve had. The best worst day. Or maybe it was the worst best day? But one thing stuck with me. I had never worn that helmet before that day. Thanks Mr. Fox.
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