Growing up as I did in California’s southland, my father held me spellbound with stories of this far off land. He loved to tell about his exploits in the Olympics, land of his birth. Many years later fascination turned to an insatiable appetite for discovery when, as a young man, I began a life on this fabled Peninsula. At nine photography got my attention and at seventeen became a full-blown pass
ion. I appreciated the crisp images of the old masters with their huge cameras. After a four month stint in Yosemite National Park, working under the shadow of the grand master, Ansel Adams, I could not be satisfied with anything less. Very expensive heavy equipment was required. And it proved so challenging that a full year past before I got my first successful picture. But my new world deserved the best. Gradually, with painful slowness, I began gathering images or “photographic statements”, to use Ansel’s term. Help from patient friends allowed the heavy gear to be hauled into remote regions. Every opportunity found me deep in some corner happily swatting mosquitoes, meeting driving rain with head bowed and often talking to myself to while away long trail miles. One by one, the treasures were recorded. Then came the sorting process. Only the best saw the light-of-day. Years later, there were enough to share. My Father told stories using words. I prefer pictures: a radiant dawn, a quiet wood, a vast sea are among my treasures. John Muir once wrote “One can see the world either by seeing a lot of it a little or a little of it a lot.” I chose the latter.
