In 1989, I traveled to Africa for the first time with my family. I was young, wide-eyed, and unaware of how much that journey would quietly influence the course of my life. Rwanda, along with Tanzania, introduced me not only to safaris, but to a way of seeing the world that would stay with me for years to come.
It was also the beginning of my time in the wild with my father.
At the time, Rwanda’s mountain gorilla trekking program had only recently begun. The experience was simpler then, less structured and more raw, but no less profound. What stayed with me most was not only the gorillas themselves, but the feeling of complete presence. Watching my father move through those landscapes with patience and quiet attentiveness left an impression I did not yet have the words for.
Looking back, that trip marked the beginning of something I would only come to understand years later.
It deepened my connection to wildlife, shaped my understanding of conservation, and eventually influenced the work I would dedicate myself to.
This time, I returned with my daughter, Payton.
Standing in the forests of Volcanoes National Park beside her is a memory I know will stay with me. I had returned to the same place that quietly shaped my relationship with my father, now experiencing it alongside my own child. It was not something we spoke about often in the moment, but I felt its weight throughout the trip.
Rwanda itself has evolved in remarkable ways. Communities have grown. Infrastructure has improved. Conservation has become woven into everyday life. The mountain gorilla, once critically endangered, is now the only great ape with a growing population, thanks to long-term protection and meaningful partnerships with local communities.
You can feel it here. Conservation is not abstract. It supports livelihoods, schools, and a shared sense of pride that is difficult to miss. The gorilla is not simply protected. It is deeply valued.
And yet, once you step into the forest, very little feels different.
You walk in, mud underfoot, the air thick and quiet. Your pace slows. The noise begins to fade. And when you finally meet the gaze of a gorilla, time seems to pause for a moment. This trip carried a different kind of weight for me.
The night before our first trek, my father passed away after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. We had said our goodbyes weeks earlier, but that did little to soften the reality of the moment. Being there, in Rwanda, I found myself returning to what he had first introduced me to, now with my daughter beside me.
The next morning, walking through the forest, I found myself thinking about the things he had taught me without ever really saying them: to be patient, to sit still, to notice what is in front of you rather than rushing past it. Those lessons have remained with me, and I felt them more clearly than ever on that walk.
Some of my most formative memories with him came later, in Hwange. We would sit for hours at waterholes, from before sunrise until after sunset, with no real plan other than to wait and see what arrived.
Elephants, antelope, birds, predators, all drawn in by water, none of it on our schedule.
That is where I learned to better understand wildlife. Not by chasing it, but by sitting still long enough to let it come to you. That slower, more patient way of experiencing the wild eventually became part of the philosophy behind Rewild Safaris.
That first journey in 1989 did not simply introduce me to Africa. It pointed me toward a deeper connection with wildlife, conservation, and eventually, creating opportunities for others to experience these places in a way that feels personal and lasting.
Looking back, I realize the experiences that stayed with me most were never about seeing the most wildlife or checking off destinations. They were about time spent together, long waits at waterholes, quiet moments in the field, and learning to pay attention.
Returning to Rwanda reminded me that conservation is not only about protecting species or landscapes. It is also about protecting experiences. The kind that remain with you. The kind that quietly influence how you move through the world.
Rwanda gave me that once as a child.
And again, years later, walking through the forest with my daughter, revisiting something my father first introduced me to many years ago.
