Imperfect Words

I’ll be honest… I’m not a great writer. 

But I’m working on becoming a better one.

Because the animals I photograph deserve better stories than the ones I manage to tell.

Sometimes I stare at the screen trying to find the right words, words that can move people, protect an animal, or make someone care about a place they’ll probably never see.

Most days, I fall short.

I’m not a poet or a scientist.

I’m not a polished writer with perfect grammar or flow. 

I’m just someone who’s trying.

Trying to build bridges between people and the wild through stories and photographs. 

The goal is simple… create empathy. 

Because if people can feel something, they might start to care. And if they care, maybe they’ll help protect what’s left.

But that’s the hard part, finding words that can make someone care about an animal most of the world ignores… A snake. A wolf. A shark. 

The animals that don’t fit easily into fairy tales or film scripts.

They are always the villains in the story.

Sometimes I reread what I’ve written and think, They deserve better.

Better words.

Better storytellers.

Better photographers… Ouch.

But then I remind myself: this is what I have. This is who I am.

And if I don’t try, who will?

So I write what I can. I share what I can.

And I’ll keep doing it, imperfectly, honestly, relentlessly, for as long as I’m here.

Because the wild doesn’t need perfect writers.

It just needs people who care enough to keep trying.

The Sound of Letting Go... My Last Season with Gloria.

This one’s a tough one to write.

For ten years, my camera, Gloria, has been with me through everything.

Rain, salt, sand, freezing winds, murky waters, she’s been there for it all. 

Dependable. Solid. The kind of companion you trust when everything else around you is chaos.

Every image I’ve shared over the past decade, every whale, shark, snake, and orca, came through her eyes. 

We’ve been everywhere together, and back again.

So even saying this out loud feels strange… but lately, I’ve been thinking about finally making the switch.

From my faithful DSLR to a mirrorless system.

And not for the reasons people might assume.

Sure, mirrorless cameras are sharper, faster, lighter. 

They handle low light beautifully and focus like magic. It’s a better system in almost every measurable way. 

But that’s not what’s drawing me in.

For me, it’s about silence.

When I step into the ocean, in rivers, in the Arctic, I’m stepping into another world. 

A world that existed long before me and doesn’t need my noise in it. 

My presence already changed behavior. Fish move differently. Dolphins will sometimes swim away.

I can’t control that.

But the one thing I can control… is the sound I bring.

Every click of Gloria’s shutter feels like a small echo through their world. 

A reminder that I’m still an intruder. 

I don’t belong.

Over time, I’ve started to feel that echo more deeply, like the wild is asking me to listen, not interrupt.

That’s where mirrorless calls to me.

Not because it’s the future of photography, but because it’s the future of how I want to photograph. 

Silently. 

It’s strange how your relationship with your craft evolves. 

When you’re young in it, you chase the moments, you want the perfect shot, the perfect composition, the proof that you were there.

But as time passes. You stop chasing, and start protecting.

You realize the most powerful images come when the wild forgets you’re even there.

Switching to mirrorless isn’t about upgrading my gear. 

It’s about lowering my impact.

It’s about aligning the technology with the respect I’ve learned to carry for the wildlife I photograph.

Still… this isn’t easy. 

Gloria has been more than just a tool. She’s been my voice when I had no words, my constant when everything else changed. 

She’s been the silent witness to so much beauty, heartbreak, and wonder.

But maybe this is how every great partnership ends, not with replacement, but with gratitude.

The wild deserves our silence.

And maybe this will be my way of giving it that.

For now, I’ll finish the 2025 season with Gloria by my side.

I have four more trips this year.

That is four more chances to tell our story together before the next chapter begins.

And when 2026 comes, maybe, just maybe, I’ll take that silent leap…If I can let her go.

When Not to Share: Protecting the Wild From Our Own Lenses

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There’s a part of our job as photographers and guides that doesn’t get talked about enough… when not to share.

We live in an age where every image or video can go viral in seconds. 

A post, a tag, a location pin, they spread faster than we can imagine. And with that comes a strange consequence… the more we share, the less wild some places become.

I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes.

Places that once felt like magic, where we were the only boat for miles, now fill with crowds, cameras, and drones. 

Pantanal, Brazil.

The quiet that once defined those places is replaced by engines, by pressure, by human presence.

Years ago, off Baja, I remember being completely alone. Just our boat, the ocean, and the animals. 

Now, the same waters are crowded with boats chasing the same story. 

And I get it, it’s part of what we do. It’s our job to tell the stories of these places, to show the world that they still exist, that they matter, that they deserve to stay wild for generations to come.

But I’ll be the first to admit, I am guilty of over sharing.

I’ve drawn too much attention to places that once felt sacred. 

My work has helped put them on the map, sometimes literally. And while I know my intention was good, that doesn’t erase the impact.

It’s a difficult truth to admit, but an important one.

Because when too many of us tell the same story, the story changes.

We mean well, but sometimes our love becomes pressure. Our storytelling becomes intrusion. 

Our presence, multiplied, can slowly erode the very thing that drew us there in the first place.

So I’ve learned:
Sometimes it’s okay to keep a secret.
You don’t have to tag the location.
You don’t have to explain how you found it.

Florida bobcat… exact location undisclosed

You don’t have to post everything.

Some encounters should stay just between you, your friends, and the wild.

It’s not about hoarding or gatekeeping. It’s about protection. 

Because no matter how much we care, human attention changes things, especially fragile, sacred places that weren’t built to hold it.

Giant Mako off California… exact location undisclosed.

I know no secret lasts forever. 

But for the few that do, do your part to keep them quiet, keep them safe, for as long as you can.

The world doesn’t need every detail… Sometimes it just needs your silence.

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