It was sometime in the mid-nineties. While other kids idolized sports figures, I couldn’t have cared less. All I could think about was cameras and making images.

I subscribed to Outdoor Photographer magazine. It was filled with shiny objects—cameras, lenses, tripods, camera bags, filters, and more. Like any magazine, you pick it up for the pretty pictures, and this one had plenty. After flipping through the photos and reading the specs of the latest equipment, I’d eventually reach the real articles.

One column caught my eye: Galen Rowell’s. While some of his pieces covered equipment and techniques, he wrote often about the art of adventure. He explored the craft of capturing the natural world, emphasizing pre-visualization—imagining the final image before pressing the shutter—to create compelling photographs rather than mere snapshots. Rowell shared insights on how light dances with landscapes, the importance of being an active participant in the scenes he photographed, and the pursuit of moments where light and subject align to reveal deeper meaning.

I found my role model. Galen’s articles and photographs spoke to me and changed me forever. At the time, I couldn’t afford many books, so I’d borrow them from the library. I’d walk out with towering stacks of photography books and fill notebooks with ideas. Later, I bought every book Galen wrote.

Then the unthinkable happened. On August 11, 2002, Galen Rowell and his wife, Barbara, died in a plane crash. They were returning from a long trip to Alaska. It was a devastating loss for the photography community. I felt like Frank Dux in Bloodsport, standing before Mr. Tanaka after a shattering loss. In the film, Tanaka tells Frank, “No more training… stop now,” grieving his son’s death. For me, it was my role model who was gone—no more lessons, no more advice. Unlike Frank, I couldn’t say, “But you have so much to teach,” because Galen wasn’t coming back. The training stopped, and the training wheels came off whether I was ready or not.

I had to keep moving forward, discovering other photographers and artists to admire. I began developing my own vision, my own voice—a long, slow process. I learned to tell stories, to show beauty, to reveal what’s unseen to the naked eye but visible through a camera’s lens. As I write this, I hear Billy Joel’s “The River of Dreams” in my mind: “In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep, through the jungle of doubt, to the river so deep… searching for something so undefined that it can only be seen by the eyes of the blind.” That’s what it felt like—searching for a fleeting truth through my photographs.

It’s still a process; you never stop learning. I had a realization later in life: if I had all the money in the world, I’d still pick up a camera and keep creating photographs and artwork. The day I stop is the day I die.

Here’s the most important point: when we die, we can’t take anything with us. What do we leave behind? Our legacy. It lives on through our work, our children, and what we create. Everything else ends up at a garage sale for fifty cents.

As a photographer and artist, my plan is simple: not to leave behind a mess of negatives and digital files no one can decipher, but to finish more work. To some, my prints might be collectible fine art; to others, they’re decor to match a couch. I don’t mind—I encourage it. We can help with that. I want people to enjoy my art.

As I get older, I notice more of the photographers and artists I admired are no longer with us. This has prompted me to think about legacy. At the start of 2025, a fellow photographer, Kevin Raber, launched an ambitious project: making a print a day for the entire year. He wrote in his article:

‍“As we age, we often consider what we will leave behind when we pass away. I have a number of photographer friends who have passed, and they left their photography collection in a shambles for their families to figure out. I am not doing that.” —Kevin Raber, 1954–2025  

Just three months in, the project stopped. On March 25, 2025, Kevin was gone, his work unfinished.

To end on a positive note, I’ve decided to pick up Kevin’s flag and start my own project. If I begin earlier in life, I might finish more. Look for details in future articles.

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Daniel Burykin

Artist & Photographer

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P.S. The song keeps playing in my head: “We’re all carried along by the river of dreams.” Lyrics by Billy Joel

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