Two years ago this week, I got my freedom back…

I was given clearance by my doctor to go wild, resume living freely if you will.

I was cleared by my doctor to “go wild,” resume living freely if you will. This was six months after I broke my leg on the ski trip I’d been dreaming of since I first skied at 21 and became immediately obsessed. I spent the next fifteen years getting good—really good. Every ski movie had heli scenes, so a multi-day heli trip became the goal. I just had to be good enough, and have friends good enough, to get the invite.

Some of you may know Melissa and I actually met skiing at Powder Mountain during a Summit Series event. We’d both attended six of the same events but didn’t meet until the timing was right. I became tight with the Summit crew who owned the mountain—it worked because I could keep up.

Moral of the story, they invited me on their annual heli trip(finally) and i was so excited to get to do it and do it with the boys.

Day One. High alpine all high avalanche conditions, steep 42 degree trees it is… 42 degrees or so. Great, lets send it, but I made sure my DIN was turned up. I don’t want to screw up the day losing a ski. DIN on 12.

Morning: Stellar — What heli dreams are made of.

Afternoon: Perfect run with three small cliff bands. Daryn and I waited our turn on the third band. He waved me ahead. I jumped, landed, took two turns…and my left leg whipped around. Snap. It felt like my foot was sideways, facing downhill, and broken. Pain off the charts—unbearable.

“YOU GOOD?” they yelled.

“No,” I groaned back.

They were 300 feet below in deep powder. The chopper was busy with the other group, so they had to hike up. Woof. I actually thought, I’d better be really hurt; otherwise I’ll look like a little bitch for all this commotion. Looking back, I wish I’d just bruised my ego.

They reached me, popped the ski off—felt like a hundred shards cutting my leg. It was –10 °F. They dug a flat spot for me to lay in. Four guys moved me. “Oh, fuck, don’t do that again. I’ll stay here forever.”

They called it in. Fifteen minutes later the guide’s radio crackled:

“Hey, there isn’t a good path for a sled. This may take a while.”

I begged for meds. Denberg had one Advil. I took it. An hour in, I realized how cold –10 really feels when you’re sprawled in the snow. It started dumping. First time in my life I didn’t want fresh powder.

At the two-hour mark the sled appeared above us. They belayed it over two cliffs and literally anchored it to Daryn for the third. The boys formed a human wall so falling snow wouldn’t hit my leg. Lets hear it FURDA BOYS.

Loading me: hell. Sled ride: hell. Thirty minutes later we hit the tiny chopper. Four guys loaded me. Quick stop at the lodge for my gear, back in the air. Ten minutes later we were over a lake, visibility ¼ mile, dusk settling in. Pilot said, “Not sure about this.” I replied, “I’m a pilot—it’s a bad idea.” Losing a leg beat dying in a crash.

Four guys carried me to the med cabin. My foot was ice-cold; I worried about frostbite. They had morphine—hallelujah—but needed a doctor’s sat-call to OK it. Took forever. They cut my right boot for practice, then ripped the bad one off two hours later after they realized the odds of a successful boot cut were low & my meds had kicked in. Felt like my leg fell apart—glass shards inside my skin. Good news: no compound fracture, no frostbite. Morphine finally hit; the boys visited, then left for dinner. Nothing like being in the med hut while they’re having a great time.

Next morning, bluebird. Tiny heli to Williams Lake, then an ambulance to Kamloops—three hours south. (I’d never heard of Kamloops; now I have.) While trying to figure out if I could get back to the USA for surgery docs slipped ketamine in the IV to reset the leg & make a point that I wasn’t going anywhere after they did an MRI and showed that I had a spiral fracture through the ankle joint — broken in 12 places.

Surgery was 48 hours post-break. Titanium rods and screws. Mom and my sister—absolute angels—came up to get me. I was grumpy and ungrateful but later apologized; family showing up is a blessing.

Two days later we drove to Vancouver, then flew to Boise. Ran into my buddy Dave in the airport—good omen.

Back home: doc says eight weeks non-weight-bearing. Ok - not end of the world - we will figure it out.

I parented Rip, ran two businesses, and cooked dinner on a knee scooter. Fell a couple of times—painful but no re-breaks.

A month goes by — “this may take longer”

Then another deviated-septum surgery (second in two years). One sneeze turned my face into a blood fountain. Told Melissa to call 911; thought I’d bleed out in the kitchen. Didn’t die, but it wrecked me. No more cooking—microwave only. Ouch..

Week 12: “You can walk—in a boot, on crutches. It’ll hurt. Come back in a few weeks.” Tried walking—unbelievable pain. Tried flying my plane—couldn’t finish pre-flight. Sat in the cockpit for 30 minutes, defeated.

Another visit: still not cleared. Fuck.

A few weeks later — healing slow - not cleared for more — fuck.

One more visit - same thing.

Finally—this week two years ago, six months post-break—the doc said, “It’s not fully healed, but you’re good to go. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d walk again.”

Horror on my face. Also relief he hadn’t told me sooner.

“Jump off a 40-foot cliff in two days—good to go?” I asked.

He glared. “If you can box-jump without crying, fine.”

FREEDOM.

Two days later: 40-foot cliff into Payette Lake. Three days later: wakesurf. Leg screaming, but life felt back.

———

Two years after the crash, here’s the short version: I got soft, got mad, and got to work.

My weight: I’d lived at 188 lbs forever. Post‑surgery I ballooned to a puffy 205—weak, slow, miserable. Running? Out. Skiing? Agony. Lifting was the only thing that didn’t feel like a dagger, so Melissa tossed me the Ladder app and I set one rule: become the strongest version of myself, period.

• 342 workouts later (190 last year, 152 and counting this year)

• Mandatory deal: four sessions a week, two of them legs

• Results: 195 lbs, plus 15 lbs of muscle, body‑fat mass sliced from 62 lbs to 34—and the cut isn’t done yet

Current 8‑Rep Benchmarks

Lift

Weight

Bench

195 lb (goal 225 × 4 by EOY)

Hack squat

385 lb

RDL

315 lb

Leg press

748 lb

Overhead press

155 lb

That 195 on the scale now is nothing like the old 205—completely different animal.

Life in Motion (Even When It Hurts)

• Season after the break: skied four days, cried every run—pain and joy all mixed together. Metal in my leg means I’m benched until it comes out.

• Added another kid and moved to Phoenix. Climbed Camelback, limped for a month.

• Walking still stings, running’s a joke, lifting hurts—but in a productive way, so I keep doing it. When Rip wants to run bases, I hobble around with him anyway.

People ask if I’ll ski again. Honestly, right now I dream of sprinting across a soccer field with my kids. Powder can wait.

My Friend Will says I’m too old to chase PRs. Melissa asked the same thing right after the crash(totally fair question). My answer hasn’t changed: I want to know what I’m capable of.

In reality the truth is now in the middle - I’ll push until progress stalls—or until it risks my health, my family, or our dreams—then I’ll pump the brakes. But quitting? Not an option.

Today I caught my reflection in a dressing‑room mirror and almost didn’t recognize the guy staring back. Strongest I’ve ever been. Most present I’ve ever felt—with my family and in the work that lights me up. The road’s still bumpy: some days walking makes me want to cry. But gratitude beats pain every time.

Two Years Later—The Scoreboard

• 12 fractures

• 2 hours in –10 °F snow

• 1 heli evac

• 1 ketamine trip

• 2 surgeries

• 342 workouts (so far)

• +15 lbs of muscle

• Body‑fat mass: 62 lbs ➜ 34 lbs (and dropping)

• 2 incredible kids

• 1 cross‑state move

• Countless mental battles

• One life I’m proud of—pain and all

Here’s to freedom, to whatever’s next, and to anyone chasing the edges of their own limits.

Thanks for riding shotgun on this saga.