Clear Lake, Oregon – “Two Miles on a Bum Ankle and a Bad Idea”

There’s a fine line between a family adventure and a wilderness disaster. At Clear Lake, I found it and stepped directly on it with the wrong goddamn foot.

It started like any good misadventure: blue skies, cold air, and the illusion of control. I had my Nikon slung over one shoulder, my youngest son riding high in the pack like a giggling goblin king, and my oldest trailing behind, camera in hand, full of youthful wonder and caffeine. We were out to hike the perimeter of Clear Lake, test some glass, and maybe teach the boy something about f-stops and patience.

The lake looked like a postcard pulled from a Nordic fever dream. Silent. Still. Trees like ancient witnesses frozen in reflection. It begged to be photographed and we obeyed.

About halfway around, the trail changed its mind about existing. Snowdrift. Ice patch. Bad footing. I didn’t see the slick spot in time. One misstep and gravity did what gravity always does: it reminded me who was in charge. I went down hard, twisting my ankle with the kid still strapped to my back like a sack of potatoes.

No screaming. No panic. Just a white-hot pulse of pain and the immediate, soul-chilling realization: We still had two miles to go.

My oldest, bless his chaotic Gen Z heart stayed calm. Found two sticks for a makeshift splint while I hissed curses into the wind. I tested the leg. It held. Barely. Every step felt like chewing broken glass, but I had a one-year-old on my spine and a teenager watching every move. Quitting wasn’t on the table.

We limped onward, crunching snow and snapping branches, surrounded by trees that didn’t give a damn. The silence got louder. The lake mocked us with its serenity. But the lens still called. I stopped twice to fire off shots, because the pain was already mine, but the photograph? That was for everyone else.

That day didn’t end with a summit or a sunset. It ended with grit, duct tape, and a long car ride full of silence and low-grade throbbing.

But when I look back at the photos, I don’t see pain. I see survival.

I see a lesson carved into muscle and memory.

You don’t always capture beauty from the perfect vantage.

Sometimes, you crawl to it, limping, laughing, and limping some more.