A Personal Journey With the Woman Who Changed the World
Most people meet their heroes on the page. I met mine at the Sacramento airport.
It was 1970 or ’71, and I was a young marine-biology/pre‐med student at Sierra College, still wandering toward the path I would eventually follow. Because I happened to be dating the vice-president’s daughter at the time, the administration building was familiar territory. One afternoon someone asked if I might be available to pick up a visiting speaker—Jane Goodall—for an evening lecture on chimpanzees.
I had read about her work in National Geographic, but I didn’t yet grasp the magnitude of the woman I was being entrusted to escort. At that moment, I probably would have been more star-struck by Jacques Cousteau. But I agreed, unaware that I was about to cross paths with a person who would shape the rest of my life.
I met her at the airport, drove her to the hotel, and ended up perched awkwardly on the edge of her bed while she phoned R. Allen and Beatrix Gardner—the pioneering scientists who had taught the chimpanzee Washoe to use sign language. Jane, fascinated by their work, invited them to join her talk. They drove that evening across the Sierra Nevadas from Reno to the college campus in Rocklin, California. I sat with them in the front row as Jane stepped onstage and spoke with that quiet authority that would become her global hallmark—about the Gombe chimpanzees, their social lives, their emotions, the tender and complex ways they navigated their world.
I didn’t know it yet, but that evening stitched threads that would later become part of my own tapestry: Jane would become my “academic aunt,” the Gardners my academic grandparents, and I would enter the forest of Tanjung Puting at roughly the same age she had entered Gombe.
Years Later: Sharing a Stage With My Hero
Our paths crossed again decades later, when I found myself tasked with orchestrating the Second Great Apes of the World Conference in Jakarta and Tanjung Puting in 1991. It was an enormous undertaking—so enormous, in fact, that I wondered whether I was ready for it. But our organization needed someone to manage it, and I had already committed much of my life to orangutans; this was just another bend in the river.
Jane Goodall was one of the conference’s cornerstone figures. Even government ministers—powerful men not easily dazzled—were “smitten” by her presence. She wasn’t just a scientist. She was an icon, a symbol of compassion, wisdom, and moral clarity. Bringing her to Indonesia elevated the entire event.
When President Soeharto finished his keynote address in the Presidential Palace, Jane stepped forward and performed her trademark chimpanzee pant-hoot. Then I followed with the orangutan long call. The marble floor gleamed under the lights as I closed my eyes and let the call rise and fall, invoking a lineage of wild males echoing across the millennia.
In that moment I felt pride, gratitude, and connection—not only to the species I had devoted my life to, but to the woman who had helped illuminate the ethical path for so many of us.
Later that week, during a rare quiet night, Jane and I found ourselves sitting together at the end of a jetty beside the Sekonyer River. Fireflies drifted over the water. She offered brandy from a flask—an evening ritual she once shared with her mother. We talked softly about life, the work, and the sacrifices required to stay true to one’s calling. I don’t remember all the words we exchanged, but I remember the feeling: being in the company of someone who had walked a difficult road with grace.
Moments like that become markers. They are small in form but huge in meaning.
The Conference She Didn’t Attend—and What It Revealed
Seven years later, when I organized the third Great Apes of the World Conference in Kuching, Malaysia, Jane declined my invitation. It wasn’t for lack of respect or commitment. She apologized and explained that her reluctance stemmed from visceral memories tied to the violence and unrest in Indonesia following the fall of President Soeharto.
Her decision surprised me—but it also revealed something profound: heroes remain human. Even the strongest among us carry emotional imprints. Even icons must choose when to protect their own well-being. And in that honesty was another lesson—one of boundaries, empathy, and self-care.
A Quiet Meeting in October 2005
In October 2005, as Orang Utan Republik (“OUR”) was just emerging, my wife and co-founder, Inggriani, and I set up our booth at the Wildlife Conservation Network Expo at Foothill College, Los Altos Hills. The keynote speaker at the Expo was Jane Goodall—and I took the chance to stop by her “Roots & Shoots” booth after her talk to say hello and remind her of the conference in Sarawak she had declined seven years earlier.
She listened as I briefly explained why Inggriani and I had launched OUR—our deep commitment to orangutans, forests and community restoration—and she warmly extended her best wishes for our journey, just as she had done for Roots & Shoots years before. That short encounter felt like a full circle: the woman whose work had long inspired me now quietly encouraging a fledgling conservation venture on the other side of the world.
Recognition & Reflection: The 2015 Pongo Environmental Award Moment
In 2015 I had already been leading the Orang Utan Republik Foundation for ten years so had the honor of presenting Jane with the Pongo Environmental Award which she accepted via a pre-taped acceptance speech. Watching her “accept” that honor, I was struck by how she used the platform not for ego, but for message. In her words:
“Every single day that we live, we make some impact on the planet. We have a choice as to what kind of impact that is.”
That sentence—so simple, so profound—captures everything she stands for. It wasn’t about chasing headlines. It was about staring honestly at our habits, our small choices, our ripple effect.
In that moment, as we presented her recorded speech, I was struck by how the audience was drawn to her words and felt how much of my journey paralleled hers: the young man who once drove a visiting speaker from the airport, now standing amidst global voices of conservation. And she, steady and luminous, reminding us that the difference lies less in grand gestures than in daily decisions.
The Passing I Didn’t See Coming—and What It Meant
When Jane died on October 1, 2025, while on one of her speaking tours in Los Angeles, I felt a wave of loss that was both personal and universal.
In the hours after the announcement, I sat alone in my study—flipping through old images of us at the conference and expo. It felt surreal. The woman whose presence once elevated a room, the voice I’d admired, the friend whose conversation I cherished… she was gone. In that loss I felt sadness, yes—but also gratitude, awe, and a renewed sense of purpose.
I realized that our relationship had never been transactional. I didn’t “know” Jane Goodall the way one knows a colleague. I knew her in the way one knows a guiding star: distant yet incandescent, beckoning one onward. When I first met her I was unformed; by the time she passed I was further along the path—but still shaped by her light.
Her passing didn’t just stir memory. It reignited commitment. I recalled her words: we have a choice in how we impact the world. I felt a tug: not just to mourn what was lost, but to carry what she gave forward.
What Jane Goodall Means to Me
Looking back over five decades, I see clearly how pivotal those early and later encounters with Jane were.
- She helped open the door for women scientists in a male-dominated era.
- She transformed global consciousness about animal sentience.
- She modelled science informed by empathy, not ego.
- She used her voice not to elevate herself, but to give power to beings who had none.
Her endorsement of Out of the Cage still humbles me—not because it flatters my work, but because it reminds me of how connected our stories are. We both began as curious young people who stepped into a forest—and never came back the same.
She taught me that compassion is a form of courage.
She reminded all of us that hope, to be meaningful, must be active.
Her passing did not close a chapter—it opened a new one. For me, it means letting her legacy inform each decision I make, each program I lead, each student I mentor.
A Shared Mission
When I think of Jane now, I think not only of the brilliant primatologist or the global advocate, but of the woman sitting beside me on a wooden jetty in the gentle glow of fireflies, sipping brandy and sharing stories.
I think of the way her journey shaped mine, how her compassion affirmed my own moral compass, and how her courage continues to inspire generations.
Our paths crossed by chance.
My life changed by choice.
And the work—our shared work on behalf of the great apes—continues.
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