I’ve nearly poked an eye out on a furnace brace. I once came down from an attic looking like a professional wrestler who had just bladed his forehead. I thought the wetness on my face was sweat—it wasn’t. I had scalped myself on a mending plate. It took weeks for that postage-stamp-sized patch of skin above my hairline to grow back. I’ve torn more shirts and pants than I can count. And—though it hasn’t happened in a couple of years and hopefully never again—I’ve put my foot through two ceilings.

What makes it trickier is that many of these hazards are hidden beneath insulation. A fresh layer of blown-in insulation can look like newly fallen snow, but underneath could be something like exposed sprinkler tubing. One wrong step, and suddenly you’re dealing with a flood—and an insurance claim you won’t forget.

Despite all that, there’s something satisfying about navigating your way to a spot that seems unreachable. When I get there and find termite activity, it feels like discovering a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Not because it might lead to a sale, but because I was willing to go somewhere others wouldn’t. And if I can reach it once, I can get back there to treat it.

That matters. If another inspector labels an area “inaccessible,” their recommendation is often fumigation. Mine might be a localized treatment. A big part of my success in this business comes down to finding ways not to tent—because no homeowner wants that if it can be avoided.

I’ve got a pretty vivid imagination, too. Sometimes I picture myself as Alex Honnold, free soloing up a sheer rock face. In my mind, there are onlookers watching as I figure out how to squeeze through tight framing or work around ducts and wiring. It’s a bit dramatic—but it fits.

And the heat? I don’t mind it. I don’t own a sauna, but I don’t need one either. Between the heat, the stretching, and the awkward positioning, inspecting attics is my hot yoga.

Attics can be like termite crime scenes. They’re sealed off and largely undisturbed for years. I’ve come across 20-year-old chalk markings, old inspection and fumigation tags. Termite droppings tell me where activity is—or was. Wings indicate past swarms. Inspection tags show which companies have been there before me. Chalk marks reveal what they found. Powder covers old evidence. Drill holes show where wood was treated.

And then there’s one inspector—whoever he is—who removes sections of insulation and never puts them back. I’ve spent more time than I’d like fixing that.

You can learn more about a home in its attic than anywhere else.

I always start my inspections on the exterior, but most of the answers are in the attic. That’s where the story comes together. If a home doesn’t have one, it’s like trying to solve a crime without a body—you know something’s there, but you can’t see it.

So if I ever inspect your home, don’t feel sorry for me when I head into the attic. I enjoy it.

But if another inspector doesn’t go up there—or only spends a couple of minutes—think twice before trusting their recommendations.