How a rebuilt hip, a stubborn streak, and a German Shepherd turned into this.
It started with a car accident. Not some dramatic story—just wrong place, wrong time, metal meeting metal. The kind of thing that changes everything in a split second you didn’t see coming.
First surgery: hip resurfacing. They said it would fix it. It didn’t.
Second surgery: labrum reconstruction. More rehab, more hoping this was the one that would work. It wasn’t.
Third surgery: full hip replacement. Because sometimes the only way forward is admitting the joint’s done and starting over with titanium.
Three surgeries. Years of limping, adjusting, learning new ways to do basic things like getting out of a chair or walking to the mailbox without wincing. I’m not a professional hiker. Never was. I just liked going out in the woods. And for a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.
Recovery from the third surgery was long. Slow. The kind of boring that tests you more than the pain ever did. Physical therapy. Short walks that felt like marathons. Learning to trust the new hip, knowing it was the last option they had.
But somewhere in the middle of it, something shifted.
I woke up early one morning—earlier than I needed to—and saw the light coming through the trees outside. That specific Maine morning light that makes you stop whatever you're doing and just look.
I grabbed my camera. Walked farther than I had in months. It hurt, but differently this time. The good kind of hurt. The kind that reminds you you're still here.
That sunrise didn't fix anything. Didn't erase the accident or the surgeries or the years of adjusting to a body that doesn't work the way it used to. But it reminded me there was still a hell of a lot to see out there. And for the first time in years, I thought maybe I could still see it.The Hip Explorer started as proof I could still do it. Walk the trails. Not the serious ones—I’m not out here summiting mountains or hiking the Appalachian Trail. Just the woods. The paths near home. The quiet places most people drive past without noticing.
It became something else. A record of what’s possible after everything goes wrong. Of stubborn comebacks nobody sees but you. Of doing things your own way even when your body reminds you daily that things are different now.
These photos—every single one—represent miles I didn’t think I’d walk again. Moments I almost missed because I thought I was done. Maine landscapes that made me stop, breathe, and remember why any of this matters.
I’m not a professional hiker. Not selling you adventure fantasies or summit stories. I just go out in the woods with a camera and see what’s there. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s worth printing. Always, it’s proof I’m still doing it.
Starting over after three surgeries is hard. Walking slower than you used to is frustrating. But the trail keeps going, and so do you.
And sometimes, you find beauty in what’s left. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Once sidelined by a wrecked hip, I traded excuses for early mornings and started chasing the light again. These days, you’ll find me somewhere along the Maine coast — coffee in one hand, camera in the other — following fog, firelight, and a stubborn sense of wonder. The Hip Explorer grew out of those walks — a reminder that every step, no matter how slow or crooked, still leads somewhere worth seeing.
Gibbs runs quality control around here. He’s up before dawn, insists breakfast is a team activity, and patrols the trails with the confidence of a park ranger on payroll. Between sniff inspections and grill-side supervision, he keeps morale high and reminds me that life’s better when you chase the morning — even if it’s way too early.
I walk Maine trails. Not the famous ones. Not summit chasing or mile counting. Just the woods near home, the coast when it’s quiet, the places most people miss because they’re looking for something bigger.
I go early—before the crowds, before the heat. I bring a camera and too much coffee. I take photos of the things that make me stop: the light through the pines, fog rolling off the water, the quiet moments that remind you why you bother getting out of bed.
Then I come home, sort through hundreds of shots, and find the few that actually matter. The ones that capture what it felt like to be there. The ones worth printing.
Those prints? They’re available in the shop. Real photos, printed on quality paper. No mass-produced garbage. No corporate markup. Just honest work at honest prices.
If you want a piece of Maine on your wall—something that reminds you to keep going even when everything hurts—I’ve got you covered.
New prints, trail stories, and the occasional rant. No spam. Just the real stuff.