Men of the Land

Their work is grueling and filled with risk

When people think about the men who make their living from the land, they often overlook what that truly means. These men—farmers, loggers, miners, fishermen—are not just working a job; they are putting their lives on the line every day. Their work is grueling and filled with risk, yet they carry on, driven by necessity and a love for what they do.

These men are up before dawn and return home long after sunset. Their families worry constantly while they are away, but they understand that life must go on. The fields need tending, the forests need harvesting, the earth’s minerals must be mined, and the seas must be fished. This is how they survive, and this is how they provide for others. But behind every one of these men is someone who waits, someone who fears that each farewell could be their last.

I wrote this some time ago and had been reluctant to share it, but I believe the words in it may resonate with a lot of people.

Farmers spend long, solitary hours in their fields, often working miles away from any form of help. The fishermen sail into the unpredictable seas, far beyond the sight of land, where the ocean itself is an ever-present danger. Miners descend into the dark depths of the earth, taking steps deeper into a world that could betray them at any moment. And loggers—those who cut timber from the rugged landscapes—work in some of the most dangerous conditions imaginable, with massive trees and heavy equipment that leave no margin for error.

Their bond goes beyond just work

The men who work the land are often family working alongside family—father and son, uncle and nephew, grandfather and grandson. They spend long days together in the fields or the forests, working as a tightly-knit unit for years. Their bond goes beyond just work. After their day is done, they return to the woods or fields—not for rest, but to hunt deer or whatever game is in season. They cut firewood, feed the livestock, and continue their tasks long into the night. This is more than just a job—it is a way of life, a rhythm of labor and tradition that defines their days.

But when tragedy strikes, it does so in an instant, whether it brings death or leaves someone crippled. Many times, it is a family member who finds the victim—a father discovering his son, a brother rushing to a fallen uncle. And then comes the hardest part: telling the rest of the family. Someone has to make that call, to tell a mother, a wife, a child that their loved one won’t be coming home—or if they do, they’ll be forever changed. It is a burden almost too heavy to bear, yet it is one these families know could come any day.

It is not always a dramatic accident in the woods or the depths of the ocean. Sometimes, the danger comes quietly, on an ordinary day. One winter morning, a man went out to feed his cattle. The snow had fallen heavily, blanketing everything in white. As he moved between the troughs, he slipped on the icy ground and was injured. Alone, in the biting cold, he somehow managed to crawl to his truck. With sheer determination, he pulled himself into the cab and drove, battered and in pain, until he reached his son. His son rushed him to the hospital, where he would spend nearly a week undergoing several surgeries. He couldn’t walk for months, unable to work for five long months. The snow, the ice—these are elements the men of the land face daily, elements that can turn on them in an instant.

Their resilience is rooted not only in their connection to the land but also in their unwavering sense of community. When tragedy strikes, the community comes together, especially in this region, where people understand that no one can face such hardships alone. Churches will often collect special offerings, keeping a steady stream of necessities flowing to the affected family. Local businesses step up as well, organizing raffles to raise funds or making direct donations. Even the local volunteer fire departments get involved, helping with whatever they can—whether it’s gathering supplies, coordinating fundraising efforts, or just being there to support the family.

It’s in these moments of collective action that the true spirit of the community shines. Neighbors, friends, and even strangers unite, offering their time, money, and labor to help ease the burden of those who have lost so much. They all know that they cannot undo what has happened or bring back what has been lost, but they want the family to know they are not alone, that someone cares deeply about them. There is an unspoken understanding here that they must look out for each other because they all know the risks. The land gives, but it also takes away, and they face this truth together. For every man lost or injured, there is a community ready to rally behind the family, to help them endure and carry on.

These men of the land work without applause or recognition. Their labor sustains us, but the risks they take, the lives they lead, often go unnoticed. Behind each man is a family who hopes that today will not bring bad news—who understand the land is beautiful but also unforgiving. Each morning, they watch their loved ones leave, knowing that it could be the last time, yet they continue on. They do their own work, often dangerous in its own way, and they pray for the safe return of those they love.

Life continues for these people—they go to work again, they carry on with their days, and they remember what they have lost. They know that this tragedy wasn’t the first, perhaps not even the first in their own family, and they also know that it will happen again. There is no way to prepare for it, no way to predict it, and perhaps worst of all, no way to truly prevent it. They rise each day with the knowledge that danger is a constant shadow over their lives, but also with a determination to keep going, to live fully in spite of it.

a constant, delicate dance with danger, with love and resilience intertwined.

This is the way of life in this part of the country: a constant, delicate dance with danger, with love and resilience intertwined. There is a quiet courage in this—the kind that is not celebrated but simply lived. The men of the land, and their families, face these risks head-on, not because they are fearless, but because this is the life they have chosen, and they believe in it with all their hearts. It is a life that demands much but gives back something beyond measure: a connection to the earth, a bond between family and community, and a deep, enduring pride in the work of their hands.