I DO NOT LEARN. It’s a problem, I admit. However, that, unfortunately, is one of my issues. You see, most people gain some wisdom through experience. I don’t. Some gain understanding by suffering through pain. I wouldn’t. I spent years crashing cars and breaking bones before even beginning to grasp the concept of painful consequences. Others learn from financial loss, memorising their mistakes after losing absurd amounts of money.
Not me, forget it!
I’ll enthusiastically blow my coins on the same idiotic ventures again and again.
To paraphrase the great Formula One driver Mario Andretti (and a few other wise fools):
“I spent 90% of my money on adventures, motorcycles, fast cars, and slow planes. The rest I squandered.”
It’s not that I’m mentally impaired or cerebrally handicapped. It’s not that I am completely oblivious either. At least, I don’t think so. I see the red flags, of course. But typically, I just elect to ignore them until the sky is so full of crimson banners you’d think I was at the heart of a socialist revolution or even a communist parade.
However, there are a few hard facts I’ve finally managed to grasp.
For instance, I’ve learned—after far too many attempts—not to date blondes. The last one ran off with my dentist. Blondes break your heart, and apparently, your molars too.
I’ve also come to understand—after numerous painful mishaps—that pulling wheelies and stunts in heavy traffic is generally frowned upon by both physics and the law.
And most recently, I’ve acquired the crucial insight to never, under any circumstances, go into business with religious zealots. Trust me, that’s a tale for another time, but suffice it to say, divine intervention wasn’t exactly on my side.
The point is, all those glaring red flags I’d willfully ignored when I accepted the job in the Canadian wild came back with a vengeance. And this time, they weren’t just flapping in the wind—they were biting me squarely in the butt.
Back to the Yukon...
It was only very late in life that I came to truly appreciate horses. In fact, I’ve grown rather fond of them in recent years—especially after witnessing the cruel and heartbreaking treatment these gentle creatures endured at the hunting lodge up in the Yukon.
Now, before I go on, let me be clear. I don’t idolize horses the way teary-eyed, eternally adolescent city splinters do. You know the type—the ones who flock to dude ranches and treat every neigh as a divine revelation.
Unlike them, I don’t expect a horse to solve the plethora of problems my cats have proven utterly incapable of addressing. And trust me, that’s quite the list.
Oh, but wait, girls—there’s more!
What never ceases to amaze me is the expectation that Prince Charming will gallop into your life when your "stage" is already occupied by two fluffy, neutered cats and a gelding.
The clues are in the words neutered and gelding. If you have a soft spot for castrated and docile companions, perhaps it’s time to stop daydreaming about a dragon-slaying macho knight showing up with a sparkling wedding proposal.
Ain’t gonna happen!
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but no dashing hero in shining armour is coming to set you free. Not because you can’t have it, but because, deep down, I suspect that’s not what you truly want.
What you’re more likely to end up with, though, is a perpetually whimpering, snivelling crybaby—a human gelding, if you will.
Just some food for thought, ladies…
Back to the Yukon.
You see, I have a soft spot for animals—all of them. That being said, let’s be honest: a two-pound tarantula isn’t particularly cuddlesome and it doesn’t quite tug at the heartstrings the same way a Labrador puppy of equal size does.
Believe me, I’ve had close encounters with both species, and while each has its charm, the puppy is undeniably easier to adore.
And no, it’s not just about the difference in textures
But again, that’s a story for another time.
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 grueling 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.
As a spectacular display of gratitude for their gruelling toil—and to help them through the brutal Yukon winter—the weary horses were generously provided with one bale of mouldy hay. Quite the retirement package, was it not?
In stark contrast, the sturdy horses freshly trucked in from Alberta were in excellent condition: well-fed, healthy, and, in their rugged way, even a little charming. But this wouldn't last. The short yet relentless hunting season in the unforgiving Yukon wilderness would change that dramatically. There wasn’t much forage to be found in those barren mountains, so over the course of just three months, each horse would shed an alarming 150–200 pounds.
I recall when I first visited this place in October for my interview. Among the many things that stood out were the skeletal frames of the horses. They were gaunt, malnourished, and visibly exhausted. It was a sobering sight, though at the time I naively assumed it was some sort of temporary aberration.
Upon my arrival for the job, the first task at hand was to shoe the new horses. This was handled by a cowboy on the team, a friendly enough fellow with a black hat and a bushy beard that evoked Wyatt Earp. Or so I thought. Later, I learned that the hat was no Stetson but a budget knockoff, and the beard wasn’t an homage to Tombstone’s famous gunslinger at all. No, it was grown strategically to camouflage some glaring dental deficiencies. Nothing like a little frontier ingenuity, I suppose.
Horses, like all social animals, live by a clear pecking order. To them, it’s imperative to quickly establish who sits atop the hierarchy and who languishes at the bottom. That structure brings order to their communal existence.
Perhaps I’m a touch old-fashioned, but I believe Homo sapiens used to function much the same way—back when Darwinism held sway, and only the strong and fittest thrived. The strong, in turn, bore the responsibility of protecting the weaker. A fair trade, all things considered.
Contrast that with today’s world, where self-declared victims and fringe groups demand to be coddled and safeguarded at every turn, while strength and vigor are dismissed as outdated “toxic masculinity.” In this upside-down landscape, it’s not survival of the fittest but survival of the most fragile—and heaven forbid anyone question that. Evolution, it seems, has taken a baffling detour.
I digress…
Since the horses had come from all over the country, it was inevitable that the strongest of the lot would immediately start establishing dominance. The weaker ones, accustomed to their place at the bottom of the pecking order, were docile enough to shoe without much trouble.
The others, however, proved far too aggressive for the delicate art of shoeing. These were the ones that had to be... put down. Literally. Now, a horse—being a prey animal at heart—doesn’t take kindly to having all four legs roped, being spread-eagled, and violently thrown to the ground. It’s a form of control they simply can’t fathom, and rightly so.
Horses, like giraffes, have some of the warmest, most captivating eyes. Big, brown, kind, and observant, they seem to offer a window into their souls—perhaps even a mirror reflecting your own, if you're open to it. There’s something deeply humbling about the way they look at you, as though they understand far more than we care to admit.
Never in my life will I forget the sight of those horses, their frightened and aggrieved expressions etched into my memory as they were forced to lie on the muddy ground, legs stretched out in an unnatural position, enduring the agony of being shoed. These creatures, like all God's animals, feel pain, anxiety, and fear. And as a result, they screamed in terror, a sound I could never shake from my mind.
It haunts me to this day, even though I’ve witnessed far worse acts of brutality against both men and animals. I’ve seen people shot, stabbed, stoned to death, torn apart in car accidents. When we were in Kenya, tending to the elephants, we learned firsthand what humans are capable of when they deem certain creatures lesser.
But in that moment, watching those horses suffer, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between me and the other guides. While Nicole and I felt deeply disturbed by the cruelty, the others laughed it off, as if it were just a necessary part of the job, some twisted form of entertainment. That was the tipping point for me. It was the moment when the emotional burden of everything else came to a head, and I realised I could no longer stay silent, nor accept the brutality around me.
Everything that followed, every unpleasant encounter, only reinforced that this was the breaking point—the straw that finally broke the camel’s back.
Eight of the horses belonged to an unpleasant East German fellow who had emigrated to Canada a few years prior. Despite being hobbled by metal cuffs, the entire group bolted during the night after enduring that gruesome shoeing treatment. The following day, we tried to locate them—by plane, with a 4x4, and even on horseback—but all efforts were in vain. I could only hope that, over time, the cuffs had come off and that the horses had at least found a brief reprieve in their regained freedom before they were eventually caught by someone kinder.
That was also the point when I realised I had to learn more about these creatures. Surely there were places where horses were treated with more dignity, more respect. The idea started to take shape in my mind—perhaps I could become a cowboy, someone who could actually learn how to handle horses the right way. But that, of course, is a story for another time.
More problems slowly started to surface in the Yukon. Not only did I have to adjust to the harsh flying conditions, the rugged mountainous terrain, and the poorly maintained airplane where parts seemed to fall off regularly, but I also had to endure the relentless assault on my sense of smell from my hygiene-ignoring boss, and the smug horse-handling guides who seemed to think cruelty was just part of the job.
And then there was the sinking feeling that I truly did not belong there. My pipe dream of spending a pleasant, joyful three months in the wild, surrounded by like-minded individuals far from the chaos of towns and cities, was crumbling before my eyes. This place was where fun went to die.
I'd learned the hard way that expectations almost always lead to disappointment. Reality, it seemed, could never measure up to the fantasy—those cheap TV shows, dull documentaries, and heroic stories I'd once adored.
The truth became clear. These people had little in common with the charming, witty figures I’d once imagined. In fact, they were the polar opposite.
I needed to get out of there...
Marcel Romdane
🐎 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.
