I am always afraid of dying. Not your usual concern mortality, but since I was a young boy at times I have been overwhelmed with every conceivable hypochondriacal ailment, which if allowed to fester would immediately be believed to lead to my death.

Unfortunately for the obsessive like me, sometimes fantasy becomes reality, which only confirms the neurosis further.

Despite many years of therapy, thought and a fairly strong understanding of my fixations, I have only been able to force these demons for the most part reside in the far recesses of my mind; although it does not take much for them to reappear.

Some years ago I received an assignment to photograph a medicine man in the farthest northern tundra of Canada. We were so far north that if there were a flagpole I could climb I would probably be able to look over the top of the world and look south dreaming of warmth and security.

Why I was sent there was another question. Mine is just to do or die, and off I went with my son, first to Calgary, then with two additional flights north, far, far into the northern tundra, where Santa or Rudolph wouldn’t feel comfortable. It was so cold the only thing I saw were a few elk running for cover.

Finally, after more than a day of travel we reached this tiny outpost where the Eskimo people would meet on occasion. By then we were so cold that drinking an ice tea felt like a warming experience.

I had been told that this shaman had magical healing powers and that many Eskimos swore by his power to heal.

By this point I hoped he would just show up so we could abandon the great Nada outdoors and return to the nearest Four Seasons where I could find food and warm showers.

There must be something about time that I missed growing up. I have found that both in the deep south and now I was learning in the far, far north, when someone says lunchtime on a certain day, there is obviously a great deal of leeway in reading the solar calendar. I found myself waiting for three days with an intention of abandoning ship, when finally The Man appears with no explanation for his tardiness. Being a good New Yorker, a ten-minute fluctuation due to traffic is acceptable, but after that you are late. Obviously in the tundra, who cares?  Besides there is no traffic other than a few elk crossing your path.

Anyway, he finally arrived, and graciously invited me into his little private room. I must admit, immediately I was struck by his presence, his power and perhaps his spirituality. He seemed extremely gentle and calm. I once had felt a similar thing when I met Elie Wiesel, who kindly wrote an introduction to my first book. In both cases one felt the need to restrain oneself, to be quiet, reverent, respectful, and to listen. This man walked into the room and sat in the corner facing outward and asked me to join him. By now I was both excited and fearful. There was something unique, almost otherworldly, an aura about this man.

I had photographed Presidents, Chieftains of Commerce, Celebrities, etc., and for the most part I have always felt in control, but this day something was awry. Before he spoke I felt something ominous was going to happen.

He began by asking me my name and to introduce my son. He said he was very sorry I had traveled so far for so little. I said I didn’t understand, all I would like to do is take his portrait and off I would go as quick as any plane could take me back. Far, far back to where I belonged.

He started our conversation with the comment, “I have been dreaming of you for the last two nights. You are as I expected. You are kind and gentle and of good spirit, but (and here comes the really bit BUT) if I allow you to take my picture I am afraid you will die shortly. It is your choice.”

Well, needless to say, or should I say you need say no more, I immediately stood up, thanked him for his time, bowed, and did everything I could as sign of respect, and slowly walked out of the room.

I could feel my heart freezing up, the blood rushing to my brain, sure that I would be dead before I could get out of the building. He sure knew how to push my buttons. Death was eminent. He had hit the right nerve and off I went with no picture. Not even a desire for a picture. You must understand, usually the more somebody says no, the more I want to do it. I am not the shy retiring type. If I am sent on an assignment, I fulfill it, but this story is a story about the one time I did not.

So this is a story without a picture. It is a story about a picture that never happened, and although I am still sick most days I am still alive, whew! Ode to joy!