The King of Driftwood Paradise

There are people you photograph, and then there are people who quietly become part of the way you see the world. Mr. Adam Morales was one of those rare people.

As you read through this article, you may find yourself wondering why I refer to him so formally as Mr. Adam Morales—over and over again. The answer is simple: it is the way I always referred to him. At first—before we became friends—it was out of respect, but then—the more I got to know him, the more I realized that the name was more of a very deserving title—as if addressing royalty. To me, Mr. Adam Morales was royalty - he was Swamp Royalty. He was a breed of Cajun that has all but died out.

I rode with my dear friend, Gene Seneca, on the day that I was to meet Mr. Adam Morales at his home in Pierre Part, Louisiana. His modest home sat at the very edge of the swamp, where the dry ground surrendered to cypress knees and dark water. Scattered around the yard were hundreds of driftwood sculptures—as though the swamp itself had decided to populate the property with its own strange creations.

His home was also home to the Cypress Swamp Driftwood Family Museum, where every sculpture told a story about the swamp and the man who knew it so well.

At first glance, Mr. Adam Morales seemed wonderfully eccentric. That much was obvious from the sculptures that surrounded his home. But beneath that playful spirit was an exceptionally grounded man. That became evident only after spending time on his porch listening to stories of a lifetime spent in the swamps. 

Although Adam appeared on Swamp People, and visitors came from around the country—including actress Eva Marie Saint and members of SEAL Team Six—none of it changed him. Fame rested lightly on his shoulders. He remained exactly the man I first met on that front porch beside the swamp.

Mr. Adam Morales was a kid at heart. It was evident in each of our conversations, and it was  blatantly apparent in the sculptures he created. In his back yard, which was actually the swamp, he had bins piled high with pieces of driftwood. He called them his "body parts", as the driftwood pieces resembled arms, legs, fingers, etc. - and each were segregated to their own bin. It was from these pieces that he would build his sculptures.

Every time we wandered through his collection of driftwood, Adam would suddenly stop, reach into a pile, and pull out a weathered piece of wood. I would see only an oddly shaped piece of wood. Adam would see a tiger waiting to be discovered. Then, as he turned it in his hands, suddenly I saw the tiger too. He had a way of teaching you to see it too.

In the latter years, Mr. Adam Morales began making oversized lawn chairs out of driftwood. I always wanted to buy a couple, but I never was able to transport them home - they were far too large.

For many years, Mr. Adam Morales made his living harvesting Spanish moss from the swamps. Standing in a small motorized boat, he would use a long pole to pull the moss from the cypress trees before selling it to florists and plant nurseries throughout the region. Then, almost overnight, synthetic moss entered the marketplace, and a way of life that had sustained him for decades simply disappeared.

It was dangerous work. More often than not, venomous snakes were hidden among the moss. When the moss dropped into the boat, the snakes often came with it. Adam never spoke of it as though it were extraordinary. To him, it was simply another day in the swamp.

I am a firm believer that, as we make our way through life - along the path of this great journey, we encounter experiences, and people that, in my way of thinking, become ingredients in the cauldron of soup that is our life's journey. The deeper and more genuine those encounters become, the richer the soup becomes. Mr. Adam Morales became one of the richest ingredients in mine.

Several days ago, word reached me that Mr. Adam Morales had died. With his passing, I couldn't help but feel that a little of old Louisiana had gone with him.

Mr. Adam Morales sitting in his ‘backyard’.

I know that each timeI return to south Louisiana, I will feel the longing to visit with him - and a sadness will become present in my heart. But I am forever grateful to have known Mr. Adam Morales—The King of Driftwood Paradise.

_David

Learning to Wait: Photographing the Navajo on Their Time

I came to northern Arizona to document the Navajo—their history, their traditions, and their way of life. As with nearly every project I have undertaken involving Indigenous cultures, progress comes slowly. Even when relationships have already been established, trust moves at its own pace. This time is no exception.

I arrived with the expectation that I would begin telling the story of an 83-year-old Navajo woman who still tends her sheep every day and lives much as she has for decades: without electricity or running water. Heat comes from a wood stove, but even the firewood must be gathered from the surrounding hills. It is a life that has largely disappeared elsewhere, yet continues here.

As I neared my destination, however, I received word that her daughter—who would serve as my translator—would not be available. Since the woman speaks only Navajo, her story would have to wait.

Fortunately, another opportunity presented itself. I was invited to photograph a local ranching family and told to arrive at two o'clock the following afternoon. Just before leaving, I received another phone call. The youngest daughter was preparing to load three rodeo bulls for transport.

I arrived just in time to witness the loading. While it wasn't an especially dramatic photographic moment, it was fascinating to observe and, more importantly, it opened the possibility of another story within this growing project.

Then, almost immediately after I arrived, plans changed again.

The horses had escaped from the corral.

Finding them and bringing them home became everyone's priority.

While the search continued across the open plains, I spent time talking with the youngest daughter about her role in the family business, one her father had started in 1976. I also made a handful of photographs as the bulls were loaded into the trailer.

Not long afterward, the horses appeared in the distance.

When I saw Freddie walking across the broad Arizona landscape, leading the horses back toward the corral, I knew I was witnessing the photograph I had been hoping for. I started walking toward him, making photographs as he crossed the open country.

Once the horses were safely returned, it seemed the perfect time to sit down with Freddie for an interview.

It wasn't to be.

Another unexpected complication arose, and our conversation would have to wait. Instead, we stood outside together for several minutes, talking informally beneath the Arizona sky. Freddie spoke about ranching, raising rodeo bulls, and his plans to continue doing so even in partial retirement. Before we parted, we made tentative plans to meet again early next week—if he would be heading out to the ranch where he keeps the bulls.

It means extending my stay by several days.

If it happens, it will be time well spent.

This is their world that I have entered—not my world that they have stepped into. Those are two very different realities. Their priorities are not my schedule. Their rhythms are not my deadlines. Forgetting that would not only be insensitive; it would be arrogant.

Good documentary photography requires patience. Great documentary photography requires humility.

I believe in this story. More importantly, I believe in these people.

The Navajo have a story worth telling—not only for themselves, but for those of us on the outside who have much to learn by listening.

— David