Why I was Drawn to the West
My voice has always been there— speaking through my camera
about beauty, resilience, love… and what it feels like to be alive.
Not just telling my own story, but the stories of the people I photograph.
The urge to come West, wasn’t one moment. It didn’t involve a grand plan or a bold decision where everything suddenly made sense.
If anything, it was quieter than that—
a pull of memory.
I didn’t come looking for Wyoming.
I thought it would be the Montana of my childhood.
The stillness I felt on Forest Rose.
The quality of early morning light filtering through the trees and campfire smoke.
The way the water felt wading in the coolness of Dunkleberg Creek.
Like something I kept returning to— without fully understanding why.
But reflecting back, I was searching for peace.
For myself.
And for my work.
The first thing I noticed out here wasn’t the mountains.
It was the space between things.
The distance.
The stillness.
The silence.
That kind of openness can make some people uneasy.
But for me—
it feels like safety.
Never forced.
Never held back.
I spend a lot of time alone now.
Riding.
Fly-fishing.
Seeking places that aren’t easy to reach.
And over time, I realized—
that’s what kept me here.
Not just the land itself,
but what it asked of me— and what it’s asked of my work.
To slow down.
To pay attention.
To let things be what they are.
To learn how to be okay being alone— to trust again on instinct.
It changed the way I see.
And because of that,
it changed the way I photograph.
I’m not chasing moments anymore.
I’m noticing them.
The way wind moves through the grass, a mane, or someone’s hair.
The way light streams through canyons and over mountain ridges at the edge of the day.
The quiet in between everything else.
Nothing out here needs to be chased.
And I don’t think photographs should be either.
Maybe that’s what I was drawn to all along.
Not an exact location—
but a way of being.
I didn’t come here to become a keeper of this place.
But somewhere along the way,
I did.
