008 Duke at the Top of Tug Hill

Long before I restored Victorian houses, built furniture, operated a sawmill, or created websites, I spent two important summers working as a logger in the forests of northern New York.

It was the first summer after I graduated from high school and the summer before I began college. I had grown up around the woods, equipment, and people who understood how to work with the land, but this was different. Now I was not simply visiting the forest. I was responsible for getting work done safely and correctly.

Learning by Doing

During that first summer, I spent much of my time cutting trees and skidding logs on my own. My uncle Carl believed that one of the best ways for me to develop real skill was to let me work independently.

He was nearby when I needed him, and my father also worked with us, but my uncle did not stand over me and explain every decision. He trusted me to observe, think, make judgments, and learn from experience.

Looking back, I realize he was teaching me much more than how to operate equipment or move timber. He was teaching me how to read the woods.

Every tree, slope, trail, and load presented a slightly different problem. You had to think ahead. Where would the tree fall? How would you reach it with the skidder? Could you pull the log without damaging another tree? Would the ground hold the machine? What might go wrong, and what would you do if it did?

There was rarely one perfect answer. Good logging required a combination of skill, patience, judgment, and respect for forces much larger than yourself.

A New John Deere 640 Skidder

When I returned the following summer, my uncle and father trusted me with a brand-new John Deere 640 skidder.

We named the machine Duke.

Duke was powerful, responsive, and incredibly capable. A skidder is designed to travel into difficult terrain, pull heavy logs through the forest, and keep working in conditions that would stop most other machines.

Operating one well is not simply a matter of pressing the accelerator. You have to understand traction, balance, slopes, cable placement, turning radius, and the way a load will behave behind you. A large log can shift unexpectedly, catch against a stump, pull the machine sideways, or change how the skidder handles on a hill.

The more time I spent operating Duke, the more the machine began to feel like an extension of my own judgment. I learned what it could do, what it should not do, and how to place it exactly where it needed to be.

I became very good with it, and I loved running that machine.

The Highest Point on Tug Hill

One day, my uncle was studying the topographical maps of the area where we were working. He pointed toward a small hill near the timber I was cutting and told me that it appeared to be the highest point on Tug Hill.

Tug Hill is not known for dramatic mountain peaks. It is an ancient plateau—a broad, elevated landscape of forests, wetlands, old roads, deep snow, and long horizons. Its highest point did not look like a towering summit. It was simply a rise in the surrounding forest.

But once my uncle told me what it was, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

The next day, I drove Duke to the top.

There was no work-related reason to take the skidder up there. No logs were waiting. No trail needed to be opened. I simply wanted to be able to say that Duke and I had reached the top of Tug Hill.

So we did.

The Curiosity to See What Is There

At the time, it was probably just a fun side trip during a day in the woods. Looking back, however, I see something familiar in that decision.

I have always wanted to see what is around the next bend, behind the old door, at the end of the forgotten road, or on top of the hill.

That same curiosity has followed me throughout my life.

It led me to explore historic houses and wonder who built them. It led me to study woodworking methods and learn how earlier craftspeople solved difficult problems. It led me to photograph unusual places, restore buildings, develop websites, operate a sawmill, and begin sharing the stories behind the things I discover.

Sometimes curiosity has a practical purpose. It helps us learn, build, repair, and solve problems.

Other times, curiosity needs no justification.

Sometimes it is enough to climb the hill simply because we want to know what is there.

Trust Must Be Earned

There is another part of this story that I understand more clearly now.

My uncle and father trusted me with a new and valuable machine because I had earned that trust during the previous summer.

Trust did not come from claiming that I knew what I was doing. It came from showing up, paying attention, working safely, solving problems, and gradually becoming more capable.

That is true in nearly every form of craftsmanship.

A person does not become a woodworker by purchasing tools. A person becomes a woodworker through repeated decisions: measuring carefully, observing the grain, learning from mistakes, understanding the material, and completing one project after another.

Skill grows quietly. Eventually, someone places a difficult project—or perhaps the keys to a new skidder—in your hands because they believe you are ready.

The View Changes Over Time

I do not remember whether there was a dramatic view from the highest point. Tug Hill’s forests can hide the horizon, and the summit itself may not have appeared much different from the surrounding woods.

But the memory has stayed with me.

A young man, a new John Deere 640 skidder named Duke, and a small hill identified on a topographical map.

At that age, I drove to the top because it sounded like an adventure.

Today, I recognize it as part of a much larger journey.

The woods were teaching me to trust my judgment, appreciate good equipment, understand responsibility, and remain curious about the world around me.

Keep Climbing the Hill

We often think important moments will announce themselves when they happen. Usually, they do not.

They may feel like an ordinary day at work, a conversation beside a machine, a mark on a map, or a short drive to the top of a wooded hill.

Only years later do we see how those moments shaped us.

There will always be another hill, another project, another skill to learn, and another place we have not yet explored.

We may not always know what we will find when we reach the top.

Sometimes the most important thing is that we remained curious enough to make the climb.

Every road through the woods leads somewhere—and sometimes the journey quietly becomes part of who we are.