I travel. I keep visiting new places. I keep seeking out new animals. It’s what I love to do, and it’s what I live for.
As a kid, I ate, slept, drank, and dreamed of wild animals. I wanted to be around them every moment of the day. All my toys were animals—until Star Wars came along, then it was Star Wars everything—but my books were always about wildlife. I’d read stories about far-off places where exotic creatures roamed, and I dreamed of being there, of going there.
I grew up in rural South Texas, surrounded by orange orchards, plowed fields of corn and melons (which I still can’t stand to this day), and small ranches with horses and cattle dotting the landscape. Our only neighbors were the Curls. Bob Curl was an old horseman who never liked me much—I asked too many questions, I guess.
My days were spent outdoors, running down dirt roads, flipping over rocks for lizards, chasing snakes, spotting ground squirrels, and watching birds. When evening came, the toads would emerge, and I’d try to catch them. As the sun dipped behind the orchards, fireflies would start blinking across the fields, and I’d run through the dusk trying to grab them, knowing that when the fireflies came out, it was time to head inside.
I’d walk through the door hungry, sweaty, covered in dirt, with a runny nose and a big smile on my face.
It was a good childhood.
Growing up, I wanted to be a veterinarian, but not for cats and dogs. That never interested me much. I dreamed of working with wild animals. I wanted to go to Africa, to treat lions, elephants, giraffes—anything big, wild, and untamed. At the time, it was the only path I knew that could get me close to the animals I loved. I had no idea that wildlife filmmaking, guiding, or photography could be careers. Being a vet was the only way I could imagine making a life out of my passion.
