HI!

Welcome to my website.

Here you’ll find stories told in photographs and words — stories of the places that have offered me refuge, wonder, and healing throughout my life.

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, never more than a few hours’ drive, and sometimes a ferry ride, from one of Washington State’s magnificent national parks. Every summer, I counted down the days and hours until my family loaded up the trailer and headed into the woods. We would disappear into those forests for weeks at a time, and somewhere between the campfires, mountain trails, rainstorms, and long quiet evenings, I began to learn what nature had to teach me.

Those camping trips taught me self-reliance. They taught me about the natural world and the cycles of life. But perhaps most importantly, they taught me that nature has a remarkable way of healing what hurts. I sometimes joke that the opening line of my biography should be: “The only time my family got along was when we were camping.”

There is more truth in that sentence than I’d like to admit.

My family carried a dark secret. I believe my father lived with undiagnosed depression; something I inherited in my own way, though my struggles are diagnosed. In the city, and later on the farm, Dad could be an unpredictable mixture of rage and affection. But in the forest, something changed. Surrounded by trees and mountains, he became a different man: a devoted husband and a doting father who loved exploring mountain paths with his wife and daughters.

Those weeks in nature gave me glimpses of what our family could be: laughter, adventure, affection, and peace. They showed me that another version of life was possible.

My father also gave me my first camera.

It was a little Instamatic, with film cartridges and those wonderfully strange square flash bulbs, and he gave it to me just before one of our camping trips. Out in the woods, he showed me how light filtered through the trees and shimmered across the water. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was giving me more than a camera. He was giving me a way of seeing.

From that moment on, photography and nature became intertwined.

My mother was the heart of our family; a seemingly endless source of love and enthusiasm and she taught me to look at the natural world with curiosity and wonder. She showed me how insects could turn a fallen log into a home and how the warmth of the sun could transform a rain-soaked meadow into drifting clouds of steam.

She taught me to look for birds hiding in bushes and grasses, perched in trees, or soaring overhead. She knew the names of flowers and greeted them cheerfully as we hiked. Along rocky beaches, she would slow her pace to examine the stones tumbling in the surf, bending down to pick one up and show us its colors, patterns, and beauty before returning it to the ocean. Occasionally, an agate or another intriguing stone would find its way into her pocket.

Through her eyes, I learned that beauty was everywhere — if you were willing to slow down enough to notice it.

So I began to look the same way she did. I noticed the tiny worlds glowing in dewy moss; patterns hidden in a meadow filled with flowers. I watched light move through forests and dance across water. And, more and more, I turned my camera toward those moments.

Today, I have cameras far more sophisticated than that little Instamatic and lenses my childhood self could never have imagined. But the desire that began with that first camera remains unchanged: I still want to find beauty wherever I am.

Nature and landscape photography remain my first loves, but my curiosity has carried me into many other places as well. I find joy in street and urban photography, abstract images, and dance. Different subjects, different environments, different ways of seeing — but always the same invitation to slow down, pay attention, and truly be present. Because somewhere along the way, I discovered that the camera does more than help me see the world; it helps me quiet my own.

Nature calms the demons in my head. But even when I’m photographing in a city, on a stage, or somewhere completely unexpected, there is a moment when I bring the camera to my eye, slowly exhale, and immerse myself in the scene before me. For a little while, the noise fades. The hurtful voices become quieter. There is simply the light, the subject, the moment — and me paying attention.

That moment of calm is what I bring to my photography. For me, photography is more than making pictures. It is a practice of presence. A way of reconnecting with wonder. A journey toward mental well-being.

And that is what I hope you find here, too.

Maybe one of my photographs will remind you of a place where you once felt at peace. Maybe a story will inspire you to step outside and explore. Maybe, for just a moment, an image will give you permission to slow down, breathe, and be present.

If my photography can offer you even a little of the peace, calm, and healing that I have found behind the lens, then every mile traveled, every trail walked, and every photograph made will be worth it.

Welcome.

I’m glad you’re here.