The other day, as I was helping my son move a deer stand, my mind wandered back, taking me all the way to my early twenties, out in North Todd. Back then, I had this young, bold dream—to be a wildlife photographer, capturing the raw, untamed beauty of the deer and landscapes that felt like home. I remember one particular fall when I finally saved enough to buy a Nikon 35mm camera, complete with a powerful 200mm lens. That camera felt like the key to everything I wanted, a heavy, promising tool in my hands, and I’d venture out any chance I got, scanning fields and tree lines looking for wildlife to capture in my lens.
One day, I’d seen a deer just gracefully gliding across a beanfield from my backdoor and decided right then that the next day, I would get a try to get a close-up photo. To get the best view, I took my homemade climbing stand up a tall, weathered telephone pole on the edge of field, every inch feeling like I was climbing towards a dream. I had been perched up there for what felt like an hour, the world stretching out around me, the silence deep and calming. Then, just as I was letting my mind drift, I spotted a dog trotting through the field with that steady, unhurried trot of a creature on a mission. I watched intently as it moved closer, then paused when it reached the very trail I had taken to get there. Nose down, it sniffed, catching my scent and following it with uncanny precision, drawing closer and closer until it reached the base of the pole I was sitting atop.
There I was, looking down at that dog, who was sniffing and snuffling, clearly curious but uncertain. I could just imagine him wondering where I was. And then—right then, without warning—the old stand gave way beneath me. I dropped straight down as if I were the target in one of those dunking booths at a fair. My body fell through the air, and the poor dog, startled out of his wits, jumped aside just in time as I crashed to the ground. I hit hard, and for a moment, I was stunned, lying there in a heap, feeling as though I’d somehow managed to compress my whole spine like an accordion. I’d probably lost two inches of height in that fall, I remember thinking as I dusted myself off, shaken but grateful to be mostly unhurt. The dog, meanwhile, had already bolted, running off like a rabbit, no doubt convinced I was some strange human apparition sent to spook him.
Fast-forward several years, and there I was again, high up in another deer stand in North Todd, this time bow hunting. The afternoon was one of those clear, golden, impossibly beautiful fall days, the kind that makes everything around you feel sharper and more alive. I was dead still and trying not to disturb even a leaf, when, for reasons I still can’t explain, I stepped back. And suddenly, I was falling, plunging down through the air. In moments of real danger, time slows to a crawl for me, every split-second stretched out in eerie clarity. As I dropped, I knew I had to twist and somehow get my legs under me, or else I’d come down flat on my back. Somehow, just as though I was some sky-bound diver at the Olympics, I managed to rotate my body and hit the ground feet-first. The impact jolted through me, and as I crumpled back, I lay there on the cool, unyielding earth and started laughing in disbelief that I was still breathing and, for the moment, thought I was mostly fine.
But when I tried to stand, I quickly discovered I was wrong. My ankle was pulsing with a sharp, insistent pain that radiated all the way up my leg. Grabbing a sturdy stick nearby, I used it as a makeshift crutch, clenching my teeth as I struggled to carry my bow and backpack. Each hobbling step toward my truck, parked a good 500 yards away, felt excruciating, and by the time I finally reached it, I could barely stand on that leg at all. I drove home, where my family had to help from the truck to couch. But, with no health insurance and the hardheadedness of a young man, I convinced myself that I could handle it. I wrapped it tightly with two Ace bandages, improvising a sort of cast, and decided that time and patience would heal me. For weeks, I struggled on crutches, then graduated slowly to a cane as the sharpest pain finally dulled.
It was only after those long, achingly slow weeks that I realized my ankle was locked. It wouldn’t bend no matter how I tried. So, reluctantly, I went to a doctor. He shook his head, explaining it had probably healed improperly. It would need to be broken again and set with pins if I wanted it to heal right. But without insurance, I couldn’t see how that would work. So, I decided I’d just keep pushing on. Slowly, though, my ankle did begin to loosen—just a little at first. Around that time, I started working for Knight & Hale as a videographer, and knew in the fall we would be elk hunting out West. I knew if I didn’t get into shape, that hunt would be impossible. I took up running, starting small, going for just a few minutes each day, and slowly building up. Over the weeks, I worked up to running for a full hour, and as I kept going, something amazing happened. My ankle, which had felt like a rusty hinge for so long, gradually loosened up until it moved fluidly, like a well-oiled machine.
I’ve taken my share of knocks out there—stranded in a blizzard on a island, bitten by a rattlesnake, lost in endless stretches of wilderness, even shot through the arm on a camping trip. Each of those close calls left a mark, a reminder of the risks that come with chasing a life out in the wild. But I wouldn’t trade them; those moments taught me courage, patience, and just how far I could push myself. Now, when I look back, I see a life filled with stories that, scars and all, I wouldn’t change for anything.