By Chris Tetrault
When people hear the word “game warden,” they usually picture something simple: a guy in green checking fishing licenses on the lake, or driving around the woods in a pickup looking for poachers. It sounds like the dream job. And in some ways, it is. But the truth is far more complicated — and far heavier — than most people realize.
When I was hired in 2012, more than 1,200 people applied for just 36 open academy slots. Think about that — 1,200 people chasing a chance to be one of two hundred game wardens across the state. That’s how competitive and sought-after the profession was. To make it through, you needed a law enforcement degree, the state skills program, and often military or prior police experience. Then you went to Camp Ripley for 15 weeks of academy training — Monday through Friday, away from your family — before four months of field training across different regions of Minnesota.
I’ll never forget pinning on the badge for the first time. Out of 1,200 applicants, I had earned one of 36 spots. It felt like winning the lottery. I had the privilege of protecting Minnesota’s natural resources and serving communities that lived and breathed the outdoors. On the good days, it really was the dream job.
The training was intense because the job demanded everything. As a warden, you weren’t just enforcing hunting and fishing rules. You had to know the state’s criminal code front to back: domestics, thefts, drugs, criminal sexual conduct. You could be writing a ticket for an ATV violation one hour and serving a search warrant on a poaching case the next. On top of that, you were expected to know the thickest law book in the state — outdoor regulations that changed at the snap of a finger. It felt like you were spinning plates on sticks while running full speed.
And then you got your assignment. My first duty station was in Isle, Minnesota, near Mille Lacs. To the community, you weren’t just a warden. You were the warden. Your office was your house. Your patrol truck was in the driveway. Your gear was stacked in the garage. Everyone knew where you lived. I remember one morning, filling my outdoor wood boiler before sunrise, turning around to find a stranger walking through my backyard at 6:30 a.m. just to shake my hand and welcome me. That’s what it meant to wear this badge — you lived in a fishbowl, your family included.
The job consumed everything. My kids went to school with the kids of people I had cited or arrested. My wife bumped into folks at the grocery store who thought I’d ruined their deer season or taken money off their table. And at the same time, there were families who relied on me — fishing guides trying to make an honest living, trappers, resort owners, business leaders who needed to know they could trust me to protect the resources that kept their communities alive.
There were hard moments, but there were also good ones. The neighbor who dropped off fresh fish to thank me for whatever good deed occured. The local snowmobile club inviting me along so I could learn the trails and keep people safe. The kids who would run up to my patrol truck with wide eyes, fascinated by the gear. In small towns, you weren’t just an officer. You were woven into the fabric of the community.
And that meant you didn’t escape the tragedies either.
I’ll never forget the call about a snowmobile accident west of town. I responded like I had countless times before, expecting another scene I’d file away. But as I got closer, I realized the rider wasn’t a stranger. It was Steve — a close friend, a mentor, and one of the first people to welcome me into that community. He had shown me the trails, defended me when people questioned my decisions, and treated my family like his own. I was there when he took his last breath. I went home that night and sat in the dark, unable to explain to my wife why I couldn’t talk. How do you tell your kids that the man who they say nearly everyday due our friendship wont be back? You put it in the box. You keep moving. But those boxes don’t stay closed forever.
Another call that will never leave me was on Mille Lacs. Late one Friday evening, I stopped a familiar fisherman who was anchored without his required white anchor light. I warned him — kindly — and told him that light might save his life someday. The next night, I found him again in the same spot, light on, and thanked him for listening. Five minutes later, frantic radio calls came in about a boating accident on Shaw’s Reef. It was the same man. Despite the light being on this time, it hadn’t saved him – another angler’s boat sat on top of his and was nowhere to be found. I spent the next 14 hours working to recover his body from the lake. That one still weighs heavy — the contrast of life and death playing out over 24 hours.
A couple of years later, another call came. This one from Josh, a bear guide who had become like family. He and I had bonded instantly when we realized we’d both served in Iraq, even on the same base. His brother Jeff was struggling badly, and Josh asked me to check on him. I arrived with a deputy and shortly after Josh arrived, and we were too late. Jeff had taken his own life. Standing with Josh — my friend — and seeing his brother like that, is an image that will never leave me. What Josh said next is burned into my mind: “I don’t want my niece or nephew to know what happened here.” And so, together, we did what no training ever prepares you for. We cleaned up the scene, shielding his children from trauma that would have haunted them forever.
And the tragedies kept coming.
As conservation officers, we wore many hats — including Mobile Field Force. I was called into the Twin Cities during the riots of 2020, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other officers as the city burned around us. Not long after, tragedy struck inside our own ranks.
In a short span, we lost two more wardens in the line of duty. My friend and partner, Conservation Officer Eugene Wynn, drowned during an emergency response. I had responded to countless calls with him, leaned on him, and trusted him. He was gone in an instant. Then came Conservation Officer Sarah Grell in the north — someone I had worked cases with and admired — killed in a car accident. Add to that six other officers we lost in just a few years to accidents, health conditions, or other tragedies. In a profession with fewer than 200 of us across the state, every loss hit like a hammer. We all knew each other. And each name etched another scar into the community of green.
A fellow officer I had just sat with at an arson investigation training took his own life days later. I remember sensing something was off at that training, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. His death left me with a haunting question: could I have done more? Couldn’t I have asked him if he was okay, or if he needed anything? Would it have mattered?
And the losses weren’t limited to the badge. My medic from Iraq, Jason Moszer, went on to serve as a Fargo Police Officer. He was murdered in the line of duty. Too many friends, too many funerals. Loss after loss after loss. And this isn’t all of them.
Now, I don’t want to paint this career as only tragedy. The truth is, there were incredible highs along the way too — moments of laughter, victories in the field, the pride of protecting Minnesota’s natural resources, and the privilege of serving communities that welcomed my family. I’ve got enough good memories to fill a novel, and I intend to share many of those in future posts. But with this month being Suicide Awareness and Prevention Month, I feel a responsibility to focus here on the mental health side of service — the invisible toll that so many carry and too few talk about. Because if even one person reads this and feels less alone, then it’s worth putting the hard stuff out there first.
Those moments — Steve’s accident, Shaw’s Reef, Jeff’s suicide, Eugene’s drowning, Sarah’s crash, Jason’s murder, the suicides, the unrest — they don’t just happen and disappear. They live inside you. They pile into the box we all carry, the one we keep shoving down until it finally spills over. And even when you tell yourself you’re tough enough to handle it, your body and your mind keep the score. For me, it showed up as crippling anxiety, sleepless nights, and the day I launched my boat for patrol and thought, “I don’t even want to be here.” Imagine getting paid to spend your day on the water — and dreading it. That’s when I knew something was broken. After all of it — the losses, the tragedies, the sleepless nights — PTSD finally showed its face, not as a sudden storm, but as a shadow that settled in and never left.
The cost of service is real. It’s not just measured in hours worked, laws enforced, or tickets written. It’s measured in the birthdays you miss, the funerals you carry home with you (funerals you avoid) the invisible scars no one sees. It’s measured in mental health that frays over time until you realize the outdoors — the one thing that always reset you — isn’t working anymore.
And yet, for all of it, I still believe service is honorable. It shaped me, tested me, and gave me stories I’ll carry forever. But it also forced me to confront the toll it was taking — and ultimately, it taught me that protecting your mental health is just as important as protecting the outdoors.
I don’t share this to discourage anyone from serving. I share it because we can’t ignore the truth: service takes a toll, and if you don’t take care of yourself — if you don’t face it head-on — it won’t just change you, it will break you.
Next week, I’ll share more about the hardest decision of my life — stepping away from the career earlier than I had planned. And how I came to learn that letting go doesn’t mean giving up. Sometimes it’s the only way to survive.
In honor of my friends – gone too soon. I will live fully, carrying you with me, and honoring the life you weren’t given the chance to finish.
- SSG Adam Sheda – June 2007
- SPC James Solots – May 2011
- SFC Bradley Lahti – Dec. 2012
- Steve Reis – Jan. 2014
- Investigator Steve Sandberg – Oct. 2015
- Officer Jason Moszer – Feb. 2016
- Jeff Hughley – Nov. 2016
- Special Agent Jeremy Leese – Oct. 2017
- CO Kyle Quittschreiber – Aug. 2018
- CO Edward Picht – Oct. 2018
- CO Chelsie Grundhauser – Dec. 2018
- CO Eugene Wynn – April 2019
- CO Sarah Grell – May 2021
- CO Joyce Kuske – June 2021
- CO Alex (Alejandro) Gutierrez – Aug. 2021
- Detective Joshua Brown – Aug. 2025
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Chris Tetrault is the President of Hometown Hero Outdoors, a national nonprofit that provides outdoor recreational therapy opportunities for veterans, service members, and first responders.
