For decades now, I have kept journals. They have taken different forms over the years. When I was in high school, I embraced a daily record method. That trait carried into my next phase of keeping journals, to record my thoughts, impressions, ideas, and stories when I travelled. This turned into rigorous daily practice, when I hiked down the Pacific Crest Trail, or lived and worked in Chile, or worked on photo projects in Turkey. The act of remembering the day forced a discipline into my travels. The act made me reflect and contemplate what I saw or learned. I never went to sleep without putting pen to paper.

Today, the journals fill two small storage boxes. Occasionally I will open one of the old journals and use the words to recall people or events. Then, a flood of memories comes back to me. I used many of these journals as my workbooks to flesh out ideas for stories I later wrote. I suppose they are one of my legacies. If a fire occurs, they are lost. If I die unknown, they will be thrown away. If I perhaps one day achieve “fame” (I am fairly certain that is not my destiny at this point), they could end up in a dusty archive, never to be seen. So maybe they are just like a golden treasure I still hoard, as if they had magic properties. I open the secret cask, blow away the dust, and conjure up times and places far away. 

(Click on each photo to see a larger picture on a separate picture page.)