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.

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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Wildlife photography has given me some of the greatest moments of my life.

But it also comes with a truth I can’t ignore… most animals want nothing to do with us.

When I lift my camera, I know I’m stepping into their world uninvited.

Sometimes, I can feel it, the tension in a shark’s muscles, the way an anteater pauses mid-step, the coyote’s nervous yawn.

These are signs that my presence isn’t welcome.

And when I capture an image in that moment, it feels selfish. It feels like I’ve taken something without permission.

There are times it even feels dirty, like I’ve frightened an animal just for the sake of a photograph.

That doesn’t feel like conservation. That doesn’t feel like helping.

And yet… I keep pressing the shutter.

Because I also know that these images tell stories. They travel beyond the forest, the river, the ocean.

They remind people that these animals exist, here and now, in a world where so much wildness is disappearing.

An image can plant a seed of wonder, of empathy, of protection.

And when I see the animals reacting, when I sense their stress, I take just a couple of minutes to capture a few images, then I leave them alone.

Even if I know we could stay longer, even if no one else notices their unease, I feel it.

I choose to walk away.

My hope is that those few images will reach the right people, and maybe inspire the kind of change that protects both the animals and the wild places they call home.

I’ve also seen the other side… the encounters where the animal doesn’t mind.

Where they tolerate me, even seem indifferent to my presence. Those moments feel clean, honest, balanced.

They are a gift, not theft.

So I live in the tension, between selfishness and service, between intrusion and storytelling.

It’s the double-edged sword of wildlife photography.

And the truth is this… the wild doesn’t owe me anything.

But I owe it everything!

So if I can turn my imperfect encounters into stories that help protect them, then maybe, just maybe, the scale tips back toward giving more than I take.