Back to the Yukon, 2018 What’s relevant here is that my deep fondness for animals is matched only by my utter intolerance for any injustice or cruelty inflicted upon them. And therein lay the root of the rapidly escalating disharmony between me, my putrid smelling employer, and the ragtag crew we worked alongside. Looking back, I still can’t quite comprehend how I ever assumed that people who made their living out in the wild would have an inherent respect for it. Call me naive, but I figured the wilderness would inspire reverence, not indifference. My first encounter with this particular species—the horses, not the hillbillies—was with the 40 hardworking steeds employed at the hunting conservancy. Their short but gruelling season involved hauling men, gear, and game between our four remote cabins.
There was no infrastructure up there to speak of, apart from a few narrow trails snaking through the wilderness. The entire area was completely inaccessible to any vehicle except a floatplane. Only the main cabin—a cozy and admittedly beautiful little retreat where I was assigned to live—was within reach of a gravel road. That gravel road eventually connected to a highway, which, after an eight-hour drive, led to Whitehorse, the charming yet remote capital of the Yukon.
As for the horses, they were brought in by trailer from their winter pasture in Alberta, where they had spent a luxurious nine months recovering from the gruelling previous season. However, not every horse was fortunate enough to make that journey. Only those deemed strong enough to survive another backbreaking term earned a ticket to Alberta’s Equine Club Med.
The less fortunate ones?
They were left behind in the Yukon—a convenient snack for the local wolves, bears, and wolverines.
An excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
🐎 The Day the Frontier Died for Me.™⚰️
They called it shoeing.
I called it what it was: animal cruelty disguised as cowboy tradition.
In a remote Yukon wilderness camp, horses were roped to trees, legs stretched, eyes wide, lungs screaming.
Prey animals forced into submission while so‑called outdoor specialists laughed it off — a ritual of dominanceperformed under the banner of “training.”
I’d come from flying over elephant carcasses in Kenya, hoping to make a difference.
And now I stood in the Yukon, watching horses tied down and tortured — for sport.
That wasn’t a rough job.
That was betrayal.
And no paycheck in the world could clean the stench of moral decay off that decision.
This wasn’t adventure anymore.
It was the moment I realized that switching sides doesn’t require malice — just silence.
That’s how it happens.
Not with hatred, but with habit.
And once you see it, you can never unsee it.
From What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
— a dark humor travel memoir where bush pilots, wilderness guides, and moral boundaries collide in brutal clarity.
💀 The Peace Before the Psychological Collapse™ 💀
The scene was perfect.
Alpine silence, glacial water, two horses grazing beside a Super Cub on floats.
The kind of photograph outdoor influencers dream of—but never stay in long enough to smell.
Because what followed this moment wasn’t peace.
It was engine vibration over mountain passes with parts falling off mid-flight,
the stench of my boss who’d declared war on hygiene,
and horse-handling "guides" who treated cruelty as a résumé skill.
I wasn’t just adjusting to rough weather and rugged terrain.
I was flying into a moral storm disguised as a backcountry dream.
Each gust of wind rattled the aircraft.
Each conversation with the crew rattled my conscience.
This wasn’t adventure.
It was a slow-motion betrayal wrapped in scenic camouflage.
And I was starting to realize—I wasn’t a bush pilot.
I was an accessory to a system that used wilderness as a stage to excuse abuse.
From What Could Possibly Go Wrong? — the book where the map lies, the plane leaks, and the horses know more than the men handling them.
The Quiet Resistance™
Not everything up there was cruel.
Not every moment was soaked in rot and engine oil.
Sometimes, it was this:
Nicole. A horse. A rare sliver of warmth in a cold, brutal place.
We were probably the only ones in that camp who didn’t see these animals as tools, trophies, or disposable muscle.
Maybe because we’d seen real suffering.
Because we’d stood knee-deep in elephant blood in Kenya, trying to save what was already being erased.
This horse looked at her with soft, wary eyes — the kind prey animals give to those they haven’t learned to fear.
And she looked back with the one thing this whole operation lacked:
Compassion.
This wasn’t a wilderness job anymore.
It was a moral stress test.
And moments like this were the only thing holding us together.
From What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
— the memoir where empathy doesn’t just survive the journey.
It fights back.
When in Doubt, Befriend the Only Other Sane Being™
They say the wilderness reveals who you really are.
I say it reveals who still has a soul.
Somewhere between aviation despair and moral implosion, I found this idiot.
The horse, not me. Though it’s debatable.
He didn’t judge my overconfidence, my smell, or my questionable emotional stability.
And I didn’t judge his massive nostrils, weird feet, or slight resemblance to a retired Scandinavian wrestler.
We understood each other.
Both of us had seen too much.
Both of us were tied to things we didn’t choose.
And both of us were counting the hours until we could finally run.
This is what survival looked like up there.
Not bravado.
Not violence.
Just a stolen second of peace between creatures who knew too much.
From What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
— where even the most ridiculous men find redemption.
Sometimes from a horse.
AFTERGLOW OF THE STENCH
The Smell of Betrayal in a Designer Wilderness™
They say the Yukon is one of the last true frontiers.
And they’re right—if you measure frontier by how many men still believe empathy is optional north of the 60th parallel.
I came here with a pilot’s license, half a dream, and the dust of Kenya still on my boots.
I had flown over elephant carcasses, stared into their hollowed skulls, and sworn I would never become one of them—the ones who take what they want and justify it with tradition, rifles, or romanticism.
And yet here I was.
Surrounded by spoiled dentists in Gore-Tex, pretending to be explorers.
Horse guides who treated pain like a tool.
And a boss whose body odor could qualify as a biological weapon under the Geneva Convention.
This place looked like paradise.
The photos? Perfect.
The floatplane? Scenic.
The horses? Quiet—for now.
But underneath it all?
A stench of complicity.
Of trophy hunts passed off as character building.
Of cruelty written off as cowboy culture.
And I realized:
I am not against hunting.
I am against cosplaying suffering for the sake of masculinity.
I am against taking life for ego and Instagram.
And I am done pretending that silence is professionalism.
No paycheck, no job title, no scenic sunrise is worth becoming the very thing I left behind.
This wasn’t the wilderness.
This was theater.
And I had seen enough.
