Country-Boy Survival Skills That Still Serve Me Today

Most people learn problem-solving from textbooks. I learned it by fixing a cracked radiator hose with duct tape, 20 miles from the nearest paved road, the summer I turned fifteen.

My buddy and I had driven deep into the woods to scout out a new fishing hole—a hidden oxbow off a river bend that we’d heard held monster bass. It was the kind of place you couldn’t find on a map, only by word-of-mouth and stubbornness. We’d packed light: tackle boxes, a cooler, a couple sandwiches, and not a single thought about what we’d do if the truck broke down.

Halfway down that sand trail, the radiator gave out—just hissed, steamed, and quit. No cell service. No sign of another soul. Just pine trees, sandspurs, and about four hours of daylight left.

I popped the hood and stared like the answer would appear if I looked long enough. It didn’t. But I remembered an old roll of duct tape in the toolbox behind the seat and found a rag under the seat. Waited for the engine to cool, patched the hose as best I could, and limped the truck back out, praying the whole way. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

I didn’t know it then, but moments like that were my real schooling.

I grew up skinning squirrels and tying trotlines, learning patience and precision with every fishhook and .22 round. When you’re ten years old, up before sunrise baiting lines in the dark with your daddy, you develop a sense of timing—and respect—for how things work in nature. You learn to observe, to wait, to act only when it counts. You learn that nothing out there is guaranteed, but there’s always something you can do.

That instinct—built on years of busted engines, leaky boats, flat tires, and backwoods fixes—became my greatest asset when I joined the Army. In Special Operations, the stakes were higher, the pressure sharper, but the principles were the same: Improvise. Trust your gut. Stay calm when everyone else panics. Don’t wait for perfect—make do and move forward.

One mission in particular, deep in hostile territory, our communications equipment failed mid-flight. We were flying blacked-out, below radar, and had no way to confirm coordinates with command. There was a moment—a beat—where panic tried to slip in. But I’d been there before. Not in a helicopter, maybe, but in a fishing boat taking on water, or in a tree stand with a broken rifle bolt. You fall back on what you know: slow your breath, assess what you’ve got, and take the next right step. We found a workaround, finished the mission, and brought everyone home.

You don’t learn that from a manual.

See, life in the wild doesn’t give you step-by-step instructions. It gives you instincts—about people, about risk, about what matters when the pressure’s on. It teaches you how to work with what you’ve got and to trust that even if the plan breaks down, you don’t have to.

These days, I may spend more time in meetings than marshes, but those country-boy skills still serve me. Whether it’s a busted pipe or a busted plan, I’ve learned there’s always a way forward if you’re willing to get your hands dirty.

“Out there, you either figure it out—or you don’t come back. That’s how I learned to lead.”