Getting Here

His dark, expressionless stare told me that he had killed before, and would kill me. The hollow-point bullets in his 38 special Smith & Wesson, pressed to my forehead,  confirmed this assessment.  This Columbian drug dealer’s eyes and revolver were a compelling reason to reconsider my interest in documenting a drug run from Bimini, Bahamas to mainland Florida. Eventually, he let me take a picture of his pistol’s barrel, then sent me away-alive.

Recently, seeing the single image of this barrel jostled loose memories and caused me to wonder, “How in the world did I get there and now, here?” Here started in rural, southeastern Pennsylvania. Centuries-old farms dotted a landscape filled with more horses than people. The population was such, that eyebrows were raised when our post office’s box numbers climbed into the triple digits.

It would be misleading of me, however, to portray my youth as that of a simple farm boy. My parents’ trade — raising and racing thoroughbreds — was peopled with high rollers, cold betters, cool hustlers, hot walkers, and even the occasional honest horseman, all of them ladled from a cultural brew containing but one passion — fast horses. My father, lucky enough to own a few such horses, hauled me along to tracks up and down the East Coast. I remember breakfasts in Hialeah, Florida; furlong dogs for lunch at Delaware Park; and after-dinner ice creams while the trotters pounded by under the lights in Saratoga, New York. Junkets away from the track included adventures in the Bahamas and Canada. By the age of eight, I had eaten everything from French pâté to conch chowder, heard the loon’s call and the fox huntsman’s bugle, seen the Kentucky Derby, fished the turquoise waters of the Bahamas, and camped under the cobalt blue skies of northern Canada.

While times spent on the road were full of adventure, time at home was a bit more sedate. Back in those days, life was blissfully uncorrupted by today’s modern media blitz, so for the most part, entertainment was self-created, not presented to you. At an early age, I discovered the countryside and it became my friend, mentor, and playground. A good day included exploring a rotten tree stump, peering into an abandoned nest, worrying some chattering gray squirrels, sampling wild berries, and inventorying the evening’s hatch of flickering lightning bugs. During those wanderings, the whole world seemed wonderful.

Of course, there were more conventional adventures. On Saturdays my dad and I headed out for the mail and Creamsicles, amongst other errands. We’d rattle over back roads in a rusted-out Willy’s pickup fashioned with spasmodic, vacuum-driven windshield wipers and temperamental, thrill-inducing brakes. There was always time for chatter with neighbors or, in early July, for picking wine berries.

But if truth be told, the local dump was for me, the high point of those weekly excursions. There, free for the taking, was a treasure trove of National Geographic, Life, and Look magazines, which I pored through the way other kids read comics books. To this day, John Dominis’ startling and powerful images of East Africa’s big cats, published in a series of late-Sixties Life issues, are etched in my memory. From these discarded journals sprouted a youthful dream to actually see all those places I could barely imagine.

So, there you have it. Minds far wiser than mine could explain how the grown man I am today was fashioned from those youthful dreams and adventures, but it is safe to say that I was not destined for a desk job. From my current perspective, I see how I was conditioned by my past to enjoy the solitude of the open road and to document the details of everyday life.

Let’s pick up the story around my early thirties, when I was writing magazine articles for a living. After a while, to illustrate the articles, I taught myself photography. Wandering around outdoors with a camera turned out to be much more engaging than working indoors on a keyboard, so the tide began to turn.

The work of great photographers such as Sam Abell, Bill Allard, Ernst Haas, Franz Lanting and Nick/Mike Nichols have nurtured my photographic vision. Each is a master of the beautifully-crafted, enduring image that greets the eye, touches the soul, and expresses an intimate moment. Working on Moments in Time offered me an opportunity to present my style as it had evolved with the influences of these photographers.

Thinking of other influences, I must mention one more. Charles Kuralt, the acclaimed TV reporter and original host of “Sunday Morning,” inspired me to pursue the oldest of art forms, storytelling. With his unique style and his insatiable curiosity, Kuralt convinced me that a good story, offered with passion and integrity, could entertain and teach in the most satisfying manner. And he taught me that there are good stories everywhere. If you sense a tinge of his soul in my work, well, good. Mr. Kuralt was my travel companion during the Utah adventure, encouraging me to look closer for those whispered nuances that define character. At times of uncertainly I heard his deep, rhythmic voice say to me, “You’re doing just fine, Michael. Keep after this story, it’s a good one. Just mosey along and look out the window. The pictures will find you.”

Nudged forward by these stories and a curious nature,  my  journey was mixed with swerves, pivots, stops, starts, near death and a great life. And every day is still a grand adventure.

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“To do good, you actually have to do something.”

– Yvon Chouinard