A Wild Ride: My Journey Through Fire, Mountains, and the Hunt

The first time I sat in a tree stand, the world was still, the kind of silence that buzzes in your ears and reminds you how alive you are. Northeast Ohio, eight years old, the shotgun my father handed me felt too big for my hands and much too heavy for my young shoulders. My brothers and uncles were somewhere in the same woods, whispering crude jokes and passing a thermos back and forth while my grandfather sat stoic nearby, as much a part of the forest as the oaks and maples around us. It was a waiting game back then—long hours perched above the frozen earth, hoping a whitetail would wander into range. If you’re lucky, you get your shot. If not, you learn patience… or at least you pretend to.

But hunting was never just about the kill—it was about tradition, bloodlines, and the kind of primal bond that only comes from sitting in the cold for hours with your family. When we weren’t chasing deer, we’d set up near ponds and rivers, hoping to knock some ducks or geese from the sky. The waterfowl would come low and fast, wings slicing the air, and for a split second, time would slow. Boom. One of us would take the shot, and if it landed true, it was cause for celebration. Those were the moments that hooked me, that carved into my soul a lifelong addiction to the outdoors. And that was just the beginning.

Discovering the Mountains

By my teenage years, the woods of Ohio started to feel small. My body had grown, but so had my hunger for something bigger. I started trekking into the Appalachians, flipping through the pages of a storybook written in stone and sky. Rock climbing became my new drug of choice—the exhilaration of dangling hundreds of feet off a cliff edge with nothing but calloused fingers and a thin rope to keep me alive. Backpacking was my therapy, days and nights spent wandering the Appalachian Trail, lost in my thoughts and the rhythmic crunch of boots on dirt. One winter, I climbed Mount Washington in a full-on whiteout, a white hell of wind and snow so fierce it could strip the sanity from your soul. And I loved every second of it.

But the Appalachians, wild as they were, couldn’t hold me forever. At 21, I left Ohio in search of something grander. The Rocky Mountains called to me, their jagged peaks slicing into the clouds like the spine of some ancient beast. Colorado became my new playground. I climbed 14ers, those mythical mountains towering over 14,000 feet. I shredded powder on snowboards and skis at resorts like Vail, where the snow was champagne-soft, and the air was as thin as a razor’s edge. Mountain biking through wildflower-laden trails and scaling vertical rock faces became my daily rituals. Life was raw, thrilling, and utterly intoxicating.

Hunting out West was a whole new beast. I didn’t start chasing big game until my late 20s, but once I did, there was no going back. Hunting in Ohio had been a game of patience—sitting still, blending into the scenery, waiting for the deer to come to you. Out here, it was all about the chase. Glassing and stalking became my new religion, scanning vast public lands with binoculars, plotting routes to close the gap between me and a distant bull elk or mule deer. Backpacking deep into the backcountry wasn’t just a hobby anymore—it was a necessity, a way to outlast and outwit the animals I pursued. Public land hunting out West was a revelation, a sprawling canvas of possibility compared to the patchwork of private parcels back in Ohio. The freedom was exhilarating, the learning curve steep, and the rewards—when they came—were unmatched.

Fighting Fire

In the midst of all this, another fire started burning in my life—quite literally. At 22, I became a wildland firefighter, trading the crisp mornings of the hunt for the smoke-choked chaos of wildfire. For 15 years, I chased flames across the country, from the deserts of Arizona to the tundra of Alaska. The life of a hotshot crew member is not for the faint of heart—long days, short nights, and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that most people never experience. We slept under the stars more often than not, the ground our bed and the sky our blanket. But there’s something pure about that kind of life, something that strips away all the noise and leaves you with nothing but the essentials: grit, sweat, and a fierce love for the land you’re fighting to protect.

Eventually, I found my way to Tall Timbers Research Station in Florida, where I now work as a training coordinator. My focus shifted from fighting fire to using it—lighting prescribed burns to manage landscapes and improve wildlife habitats. Fire, like hunting, is a tool. Used wisely, it shapes ecosystems, creating balance and fostering life where chaos might otherwise reign. It’s a kind of alchemy, turning destruction into renewal, and it’s a craft I’ve come to respect deeply.

Continuing the Hunt

Of course, the hunt has never left me. I still return to Ohio every chance I get, reuniting with family to chase whitetail through the same woods where I first learned to shoot. Out West, I’d fallen in love with mountain grouse and chukar hunting—an exercise in futility more often than not, but one that took me through some of the most stunning landscapes on Earth. Walking ridges and valleys, shotgun in hand, trying to kick up birds without the aid of a dog—it’s a humbling experience. Most days, I came home empty-handed, but the journey was always worth it.

But there’s something new on the horizon. Writing for The Inside Spread feels like the natural evolution of everything I’ve experienced. It’s a chance to put all these adventures—these days spent hunting, fishing, and trekking through wild landscapes—into words that can inspire others. Through storytelling, I hope to share not just the tips and tricks of the hunt, but the soul of it. To give others a window into the quiet moments—the stillness before dawn, the excitement of spotting game, the satisfaction of a well-placed shot, and the hard work of preparing wild game meat for your family. This journey has been anything but ordinary. It’s been a wild, unrelenting ride, full of highs, lows, and moments of clarity found only in the chaos of the hunt, the fire, and the mountains. And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it. This is the life I chose, and this is the story I’m proud to share. Because at the end of the day, whether I’m stalking elk in the Rockies, lighting a prescribed burn in Florida, or sitting in a tree stand in Ohio, I know one thing for certain: this isn’t just a life—it’s a hunt, a fight, a love letter to the wild places that make us who we are.

Forged in the wilds of Ohio, Ron Guy Jr grew up steeped in the chaotic beauty of the outdoors—hunting whitetail and waterfowl in the cold dawn light with a pack of family renegades. That was the spark, but the fire burned far brighter. He chased it across the Rockies—those jagged gods of stone and snow—climbing peaks, carving powder runs, and stalking mule deer and elk through the sagebrush. The Appalachians called too, with their misty ridgelines and ghost stories, offering just as much danger and reward. When he wasn’t dodging avalanches or flushing upland game birds from the grasslands of Wyoming, he was fighting fire—sweat, smoke, and adrenaline—turning chaos into control and lighting prescribed burns to heal the land. Now, with six daughters and a son on the way, he’s saving for a homestead, dreaming of a place where the wild and the human can coexist on his own terms.