Today, 02:13 AM
The Burnout Behind the Boom
After three decades in the crane cab, one operator found himself staring out a hotel window in Radford, Virginia, wondering when the job would end and whether the life he once loved had quietly slipped away. The rain kept falling, the steel kept waiting, and the man in charge of the erection crew—a cabinet builder turned foreman—had no clue how to run the job. The crane sat idle, and so did its operator, burning through days and patience.
This wasn’t just about weather delays or poor planning. It was about the slow erosion of pride and autonomy in a trade that once felt noble. The operator had earned his CCO certification, mastered countless lifts, and worked across industries. But now, he was just a number—sent wherever, to run whatever, for however long it took. The steel business had grown too big, too chaotic, and too indifferent.
The Toll of Travel and the Weight of Absence
The crane industry has long been synonymous with travel. Big jobs mean big moves, and operators often live out of suitcases, bouncing from one hotel room to another. For younger workers, the allure of high pay and adventure can outweigh the inconvenience. But as years pass and families grow, the cost of absence becomes harder to ignore.
One operator summed it up bluntly: “I got married so I could sleep next to my wife—not in a camp or a motel.” When he started with his company a decade earlier, travel was rare. Now, it was constant. The company had expanded, and with growth came detachment. The personal connection to the work—and the people—had faded.
Crane operators are said to have one of the highest divorce rates in the trades. Long hours, unpredictable schedules, and emotional isolation take their toll. The job demands precision and focus, but the lifestyle often undermines stability.
The Sawmill Dream and the Search for Autonomy
Outside the crane world, the operator had another skill: running a sawmill. It didn’t pay nearly as well, but it offered something the crane couldn’t—control. The idea of working for himself, shaping timber instead of steel, held real appeal. But the financial gap was daunting. Could he make a living without sacrificing everything?
This dilemma is familiar to many tradespeople. The dream of independence often collides with the reality of bills, insurance, and family obligations. Still, the sawmill represented hope—a way to reclaim life on his own terms.
Advice from the Field and Letters to the Self
Veteran operators offered their own wisdom. One suggested writing a letter to himself on his last day of the job, expressing everything he felt. Then, after two weeks of rest—beer, solitude, whatever helped—write another letter. If the second letter echoed the first, it was time to hang up the hooks.
This method, while simple, reflects a deeper truth: burnout isn’t always permanent, but it demands reflection. Shorter days, cold weather, and poor leadership can amplify frustration. But sometimes, stepping back reveals whether the problem is the job—or the moment.
Opportunities Beyond the Boom
Some operators pointed to international opportunities. Companies like Mammoet were hiring over 100 crane operators in Canada. For those willing to travel even farther, the pay and scale could be enticing. But for someone already weary of hotel rooms and suitcase living, that wasn’t the answer.
Instead, the real question was how to pivot without losing everything. Could the sawmill be scaled up? Could he teach, consult, or mentor younger operators? Could he find part-time crane work closer to home, balancing income with sanity?
Recommendations for Transition and Renewal
For operators facing similar crossroads, consider:
Conclusion
The crane may still rise, but the operator beneath it deserves more than a number on a dispatch sheet. After 30 years of lifting steel and carrying the weight of the job, it’s fair to ask for balance, respect, and a life that feels like his own. Whether through sawdust or steel, the path forward begins with reclaiming purpose—and refusing to be just another hook on the line.
After three decades in the crane cab, one operator found himself staring out a hotel window in Radford, Virginia, wondering when the job would end and whether the life he once loved had quietly slipped away. The rain kept falling, the steel kept waiting, and the man in charge of the erection crew—a cabinet builder turned foreman—had no clue how to run the job. The crane sat idle, and so did its operator, burning through days and patience.
This wasn’t just about weather delays or poor planning. It was about the slow erosion of pride and autonomy in a trade that once felt noble. The operator had earned his CCO certification, mastered countless lifts, and worked across industries. But now, he was just a number—sent wherever, to run whatever, for however long it took. The steel business had grown too big, too chaotic, and too indifferent.
The Toll of Travel and the Weight of Absence
The crane industry has long been synonymous with travel. Big jobs mean big moves, and operators often live out of suitcases, bouncing from one hotel room to another. For younger workers, the allure of high pay and adventure can outweigh the inconvenience. But as years pass and families grow, the cost of absence becomes harder to ignore.
One operator summed it up bluntly: “I got married so I could sleep next to my wife—not in a camp or a motel.” When he started with his company a decade earlier, travel was rare. Now, it was constant. The company had expanded, and with growth came detachment. The personal connection to the work—and the people—had faded.
Crane operators are said to have one of the highest divorce rates in the trades. Long hours, unpredictable schedules, and emotional isolation take their toll. The job demands precision and focus, but the lifestyle often undermines stability.
The Sawmill Dream and the Search for Autonomy
Outside the crane world, the operator had another skill: running a sawmill. It didn’t pay nearly as well, but it offered something the crane couldn’t—control. The idea of working for himself, shaping timber instead of steel, held real appeal. But the financial gap was daunting. Could he make a living without sacrificing everything?
This dilemma is familiar to many tradespeople. The dream of independence often collides with the reality of bills, insurance, and family obligations. Still, the sawmill represented hope—a way to reclaim life on his own terms.
Advice from the Field and Letters to the Self
Veteran operators offered their own wisdom. One suggested writing a letter to himself on his last day of the job, expressing everything he felt. Then, after two weeks of rest—beer, solitude, whatever helped—write another letter. If the second letter echoed the first, it was time to hang up the hooks.
This method, while simple, reflects a deeper truth: burnout isn’t always permanent, but it demands reflection. Shorter days, cold weather, and poor leadership can amplify frustration. But sometimes, stepping back reveals whether the problem is the job—or the moment.
Opportunities Beyond the Boom
Some operators pointed to international opportunities. Companies like Mammoet were hiring over 100 crane operators in Canada. For those willing to travel even farther, the pay and scale could be enticing. But for someone already weary of hotel rooms and suitcase living, that wasn’t the answer.
Instead, the real question was how to pivot without losing everything. Could the sawmill be scaled up? Could he teach, consult, or mentor younger operators? Could he find part-time crane work closer to home, balancing income with sanity?
Recommendations for Transition and Renewal
For operators facing similar crossroads, consider:
- Exploring local contracting or consulting roles in crane safety or lift planning
- Investing in small-scale timber or milling operations with niche markets
- Teaching at trade schools or offering certification prep for new operators
- Building a network of independent operators for shared jobs and referrals
- Documenting lift experiences and creating training materials or guides
Conclusion
The crane may still rise, but the operator beneath it deserves more than a number on a dispatch sheet. After 30 years of lifting steel and carrying the weight of the job, it’s fair to ask for balance, respect, and a life that feels like his own. Whether through sawdust or steel, the path forward begins with reclaiming purpose—and refusing to be just another hook on the line.
