Sigma’s Bold Lens, Leica Surprises, and Wild Horses in Utah
August was a big month — full of creative challenges, unexpected lessons, and stories I’ve been waiting years to tell. I helped launch the Sigma Sports 200mm f/2 DG OS lens with ANKUUR Studios and wrote a philosophical review for Professional Photographers of America.
I also dealt with unexpected Leica repair drama that reminded me why backup gear matters. And maybe most meaningfully, I finally began documenting a story that's lived in my heart since childhood: photographing wild horses in the harsh terrain of southern Utah. This journal is a reflection on all of it.
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The Outlier Lens
Wow. I can’t believe August is already behind us and we’re on the cusp of fall. The colors are starting to knock on our doors — you can feel the change in the air. It’s always around this time of year that I find myself reflecting, even if life doesn’t slow down.
This month has been busy — maybe one of the busiest in a while. One of the biggest projects I had the chance to work on was the launch of the Sigma Sports 200mm F2 DG OS.
This lens… man, it’s a beast. But it’s also something more. It caught a lot of people off guard — in the best kind of way.
To help launch the lens, I partnered with ANKUUR Studios to produce a video that showcased what this thing is capable of. Alongside that, I wrote a piece for Professional Photographers of America Magazine — a behind-the-lens review that felt different from anything I’ve written before.
Captured with the Sigma 200mm f/2
And honestly, this one wasn’t easy to write. Not because the lens didn’t inspire me — it did — but because the internet had opinions. Some said it was too heavy. Others questioned its purpose. Nikon users were frustrated that it didn’t support teleconverters. Some photographers dismissed it entirely. Others were in awe.
So instead of writing a traditional review, I took a different approach. I wrote something more philosophical. I wanted to pull the curtain back — not just on the specs, but on the why. Why build a lens like this? Why now?
I found myself thinking about Steve Jobs. About the first time he introduced the Mac. About the Think Different campaign — not just as a marketing idea, but as a worldview.
To me, this lens felt like that.
It’s not for everyone. It’s not trying to be. It’s a lens built for the outliers — and that’s exactly why it matters.
It’s a statement. A reminder that creativity and innovation don’t always have to be justified by mass appeal. Sometimes, something deserves to exist simply because it pushes the boundaries of what’s possible.
That’s what I love about Sigma: they aren’t afraid to stay true to themselves. Even when it’s risky. Even when it sparks debate. Even when the answer isn’t clear.
And I think that’s something worth celebrating.
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Lessons from a Leica: The Importance of Backup Gear
Alright, switching gears.
For whatever reason — and I still don’t totally understand it — the joystick on my Leica SL3-S stopped working. I bought the camera brand new from B&H Photo just a couple of months ago. It worked at first, and then… it didn’t.
Specifically, the joystick stopped moving up and left. Which, as anyone who shoots with an SL body knows, basically renders it useless. You rely on that joystick for everything — navigating menus, moving focus points, composing quickly — especially when you’re photographing people. It’s not just a convenience; it’s core functionality.
So I had to send it in.
Easier said than done.
Just getting in touch with someone at Leica was a journey in itself. Thankfully, I had worked with someone there in the past during a review of the SL3, and they were kind enough to help connect me with the right people. That led to another contact, which led to another — it felt like a bit of a domino effect, but eventually I got through.
After a series of emails, Leica agreed to take the camera under warranty. I packed it up and sent it off.
About a week and a half later, I followed up asking for an update — wondering when I might see the SL3-S again. That’s when I was hit with the timeline: four to five weeks for repair.
That’s not ideal when you rely on this gear to work.
So I asked if they had any loaners available — and to Leica’s credit, they said yes. They didn’t have an SL3-S, but they offered to send me a regular SL3, which I gladly accepted.
As I write this, I’m literally waiting for the FedEx truck to show up so I can sign for the loaner.
Now, let me be clear: I love Leica. I really do. I love the way their colors look. I love the build quality. I love the experience of shooting with their cameras. But this whole situation reminded me of something I think a lot of us (especially when we’re excited about gear) forget:
You absolutely have to have a backup.
When I shot with Canon, I was part of Canon Professional Services for years. Their repair turnaround was fast, the communication was tight, and it was a well-oiled system. I still own a lot of Canon gear, though I haven’t renewed CPS recently. But switching systems — whether to Leica, Sony, Fuji, you name it — means learning how a new support system works.
And more importantly, it means you can’t afford to rely on just one piece of gear. Because at some point, something will break.
If you’re just starting out and can’t afford a second body yet, I get it. But when you’re quoting projects, be sure to factor in the cost of renting the gear you need to do the job right. Build that into your invoices. Your client isn’t just paying for your time or your eye — they’re paying for the tools required to make the work happen.
So this is one of those lessons learned the hard way — and if you take anything from my experience this month, let it be this:
The phone might ring. The email might come. The DM might slide in. Make sure you have a camera ready to go when it does.
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Wild Horses and the Path Ahead
A band of wild horses moves across the high desert near Conger Mountain.
At the beginning of the month, Coire and I packed up and headed south — way south — to a remote corner of Utah, near the Nevada border. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’ve fallen off the map. No cell service. No convenience stores. Just dust, wind, and sky.
We went there chasing something that’s been knocking on the door of my heart for a long time: wild horses.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to photograph them. There’s something about them — something untamed and magnetic. They’re more than just beautiful creatures. They’re mirrors. And they reflect back something deep about the human spirit: freedom, solitude, endurance.
We made our way toward Conger Mountain, where a herd roams across BLM land. This isn’t lush pastureland — it’s harsh, sparse country. Barren. Vegetation is minimal, water even more so. The horses survive because of a few managed springs, and that’s where the tension of the story lies.
The Conger Mountain HMA (Herd Management Area) spans roughly 100,000 acres. But size is deceiving. Much of that land isn’t habitable. It’s rock and dust. The BLM steps in to maintain a handful of springs — not because the horses are fenced in, but because without those human-maintained water sources, they wouldn’t survive.
And that’s the paradox:
We want wild things to remain wild — but our very efforts to help them often make them dependent on us.
It’s a Catch-22.And it’s not just about horses.
It’s about us.
As parents, creators, and people who care — we often pave the path for others instead of preparing them for the path. We try to make life easier for the people we love. But in doing so, we sometimes take away the very struggles that teach them how to stand on their own.
I think a lot about the writers and directors who have shaped my worldview — people like Malcolm Gladwell and Christopher Nolan — and the philosophical questions they pose. This trip stirred some of those same thoughts in me.
Are we really helping when we control the outcome? Or are we just creating a new kind of captivity?
As a dad, it's one of the hardest things to do: to let your child fall. To watch them struggle. But growth doesn't happen without hardship. And if we’re always preparing the future for them, they’ll never be prepared for the future.
We won’t always be here. But the next generation will. And we owe it to them to equip them, not just protect them.
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On a lighter note — Coire survived the trip, though I’m pretty sure he consumed two full bags of jerky and maybe two bottles of water across three days. He also survived 40 mph desert winds, zero shade, and some truly unforgettable views. So, credit where credit is due.
But seriously — this trip, and this month as a whole, reminded me of something simple:
Time flies.
You blink, and it's gone.
And especially in this creative life — where there’s always new gear, new clients, new opportunities — the one thing that matters most is what keeps you grounded. What keeps you whole. What reminds you who you are.
For me, this month was about protecting that peace. About listening to the quiet places inside. And letting the wild things remind me what freedom really means.
