“When I have a camera in my hand, I know no fear.” – Alfred Eisenstaedt
There’s no question in my mind: concentration is one of the biggest factors in closing the gap between the photograph you hope to make and the one you actually come home with. It doesn’t matter whether you’re photographing a once-in-a-lifetime event or something that might feel routine. If your concentration drops, your chances drop with it.
This picture takes me back to July 31, 1987. I was a new photographer at The Edmonton Journal, barely a year into my career. I had just finished gassing up my car when reports of funnel cloud sightings came over the newsroom radio. I looked up and saw them—moments later they became a tornado.
From where I stood, my view was blocked by buildings and power lines. I grabbed a quick shot with my Nikon F3, then jumped in my car to find an open vantage point. The streets were quiet, so I drove fast, one eye on the road, the other on the tornado building in the sky. Less than a minute later I had a clear view and my adrenaline was pumping.
The light had dropped in an almost surreal way for mid-afternoon. I pushed my ISO 400 film two stops to get 1/250 second at f/2.8 with my 180mm lens, then switched to a 35mm for a wider perspective. The tornado moved across my frame—not toward me—so I didn’t feel immediate danger. But when I saw debris circling its outer edge, my instincts told me it was time to go.
From the moment I first saw it to the moment I drove away, maybe a minute had passed. The film was processed at the paper, and the image made front pages across North America. The tornado reached F4 intensity, with winds over 250 miles per hour. Twenty-seven people lost their lives, and hundreds were injured. Even now, I think about those who were caught in its path—the lives forever altered, the quiet grief that followed.
In the days after, I replayed that minute in my head. Part of me felt the weight of what had happened, and part of me thought about how I was able to stay focused in that chaos. I had been close enough to see clearly but far enough to work without risking my safety. That balance—staying present, trusting my instincts, and knowing when to stop—was the key to making the image.
Street and travel photography operate in a different world, but the heartbeat of the work is the same. Moments come and go quickly. The light shifts. A gesture appears and then fades. The photograph only exists if you are ready for it. That day reminded me that awareness, timing, and instinct are skills worth carrying everywhere, whether the scene is a quiet street corner or a once-in-a-lifetime event.
• Trust your instincts.
• Stay mentally present.
• Work the scene quickly.
• Be patient but know when to move on.
• Be ready before the moment arrives.
In my destination workshops, we focus on building exactly these skills. We learn to react without hesitation, to stay tuned in to the life unfolding around us, and to anticipate the moment before it happens. When the scene comes together—whether it’s on a busy Havana street, in the back alleys of Tokyo, or during a festival in Mérida—you’ll be ready.