What arborist work taught me about falling.
The knot held.
The branch didn’t.
I remember that rope going tight across my chest like a seatbelt, the world spinning, spurs skidding against frozen bark. The chainsaw swung away from me. Somewhere below, someone swore.
Or it was me. (It’s always me).
I used to climb trees for a living.
Not in the fun, whimsical way. I mean ropes, harness, chainsaw, knots you try to trust. Arborist work. Tree removal, storm cleanup, cabling, rigging, the whole thing. For nearly six years.
The shitty part was I was terrified of heights. Still am, mostly. But I did it anyway.
Not because I was brave. Just because I needed the job. Or maybe stubbornness. Or a misguided path. Or something to keep my father off my back.
And then I stayed.
And then oddly, I started to like it.
Some mornings I’d be halfway up a frozen maple with no feeling in my fingers, trying my best to tie a a knot by muscle memory alone. Skin splitting. Wind cutting. Thinking, “I do not get paid enough for this.” (And I was right). But I kept climbing. Because after a while, fear becomes familiar. Not gone. Just part of the wear and tear on your life.
There’s an odd love that grows in the middle of that fear. Something physical and direct. You work, you sweat, you solve. Trees are puzzles. You figure out how to get up, what to cut, where it’ll fall. Where you won’t. No guessing. No pretending. Just you, gravity, and your will power.
I had some close calls. I nearly fell once, at eighty feet. A limb that split wrong. A long freefall swing until the rope caught. The hum of adrenaline that doesn’t wear off until long after you’re back on the ground.
I also had moments where I paused, high up, and saw an ambulance go screaming past in the street below. Lights. Sirens.
And something in me clicked.
That’s what I should be doing.
The thought didn’t make sense yet. But it stayed.
I’d been thinking about becoming a Paramedic.
Something about it felt better.
Helping. Moving. Meaning. Pressure. Purpose.
So I applied to school.
And then I kept climbing for three more years.
There’s irony in it.
I went from being scared on a rope to being scared walking into dark homes with sick people.
But the fear is different now.
Same tree, different branch.
Back then I was scared of falling.
Now I’m scared of failing.
That work taught me some things. That fear is fine. Paralysis isn’t. That doing hard things doesn’t make you fearless. It makes you stubborn, but in a needed way. That life’s allowed to be ironic, and should be.
I miss the trees. Sometimes. Often. Always.
The hard work.
But I don’t miss the cold.
I don’t miss the numbness.
I climbed to survive. I stayed because I learned to love it.
And I left because something deeper, and scarier, was waiting for me on the ground.
And I don’t think I could’ve become a medic if I hadn’t climbed first.
Now, I watch new medics start their own climb. And I recognize the look.
Dedication
To my family, who taught me grit.
To my old crew, who taught me knots.
And to that walnut tree, who taught me how to hold on, and when to let go.
Ghosts of the Navigator 