EDITOR'S LETTER

- IN MEMORIAM - RANDY PRENTICE 1952 2024

It's not uncommon to see a columbine in Arizona. Unless you're looking for a longspur - they're extremely rare. I've I only seen one. I was hiking with Randy Prentice in the Baboquivari Mountains. The secluded trail followed a riparian creek lined with oaks and sycamores. At the end was a natural bridge. We crossed underneath, scrambled over some boulders and there it was: a pale yellow flamenco dancer all alone on a mossy stage. “A flower blossoms for its own joy,” Oscar Wilde said, but that day, Randy and I were the beneficiaries.

It was the only time I've ever hiked with a photographer. When I hike for the magazine, I usually hike alone, and a photographer follows up when the light is right and the clouds are putting on a show. I can't remember anything we talked about, but I remember being impressed and feeling fortunate to have the chance to watch a master at work. Randy was one of the very best. At everything.

Like Thomas Jefferson, both sides of his brain were multilingual and equally fluent. He could shred on guitar, write love songs and computer software, and make unforgettable photographs. He also had perfect pitch and a passion for tonal excellence, which made him one of the most sought-after piano technicians in the state.

Randy's love of music came from his father, who taught him musical theory at a young age. By the time he was 13, he played his first professional gig as a guitarist. A few years later, the family moved from Flint, Michigan, to Tucson, where music became a preoccupation for the prodigy. Randy played in several bands, performed at the Troubadour in West Hollywood and, like many guitarists, picked up an odd nickname.

“I'm pretty sure it came from one of his bandmates,” says Peter Ensenberger, our former director of photography. “The guy had just seen Swamp Thing and thought Randy resembled the monster in the movie. After that, they started calling him 'Swampy.'” I don't really see it, but Randy embraced the name. In the same way he embraced everything else, including photography, which came as an afterthought in his early 30s. “I took some classes and started getting a better understanding of how to make landscape photographs,” he said. “At the time, Pima Community College had 4x5 cameras you could rent, and I knew Arizona Highways published a lot of 4x5s. So I started shooting that way.” We're grateful that he did.

“I met Randy for the first time in 1985,” Pete says. “He stopped by to introduce himself, with the hope of getting his work into the magazine. He spread a selection of transparen-cies across my light table, and I knew in that moment that he would become one of our premier landscape photographers.” Jack Dykinga knew it, too. “When I first saw his work, I thought: Man, this guy is good. I'd better keep an eye on him.” He did. And along the way, they became dear friends who would shoot together at places like the Grand Canyon - parking their campers side by side, chinwagging and sipping brandy. What I wouldn't give to go back and sit around that campfire.

Jack spoke at Randy's funeral, and his words brought laughs and tears and moments of silence. “Randy was full of contra-dictions,” Jack said. “He could come across as a tough-talking city kid. But that was only one side of a complex man. He was gruff and gravelly, yet soft and sensitive.” That tenderness was most evident in his affection for his wife, Diana. A few days after the funeral, she sent me some of the letters she'd gotten from her husband over the years. “Even though I complain a lot about the hardships of my photographic excursions,” he wrote, “I find that I'm content at last when the day is finished and I'm lying here in my camper bed. The only thing missing is you. I know as the week rolls on I will become increasingly anxious and homesick for you. The problem I have with this is that I will be tempted to cut off a day just to get home early. It's easier when I feel like I'm getting some good images, but, unfortunately, Autumn is late this year.” The first time we published one of Randy's photographs was in February 1986. It was the first of so many. Now, almost four decades later, three of his images are in our book 100 Greatest Photographs to Ever Appear in Arizona Highways. All three are classics, but my favorite is a shot of an old windmill in the desert. Randy loved photographing windmills - for their timeless elegance and the way they punctuate the Arizona horizon, like towering metronomes marking the passage of time.

“Thomas Jefferson is forever interesting because he was interested in everything,” David McCullough wrote. So was Randy Prentice, a humble man whose talent as a photographer and a musician and so much more was exceeded only by the kindness he showed to those around him. On behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, I offer our sincere condolences to Diana, to Randy's family and to his many friends. So long, Swampy. Like a flower, you blossomed for yourself, but everyone around you was a beneficiary.