Jim and I knew each other. But not too well.

In fact, he probably didn’t know my name, other than “that guy who works at the newspaper.”

But he knew me when he saw me.

And I knew that his real name was Jim Becker.

He was easy to recognize. Tall, slender, bearded and a cowboy hat.

He often carried a guitar to serenade strangers and tell them of the Lord.

Yes, he was an evangelist of sorts. Not the pushy, arrogant kind yelling of fire and brimstone. He was soft-spoken, tactful and accepting.

His message was one of peace and love, not judgment or tribunal.

So I felt he was easy for most folks to spend time with, even those of us nonreligious.

Others felt the same.

Jim was regionally famous as the Mountain Man of Ashland, Ohio.

But he also lived in Pennsylvania, where he had family.

There he was known by many different monikers. Some called him Naturally Jim, advocate for healthy living.

Others knew him as Magical Jim, the sleight-of-hand artist who’d perform tricks.

Even big ones. Jim knew how to free himself and escape after being tied up, much like Harry Houdini.

Who wouldn’t want to spend time with such an interesting character and learn from him?

So I always enjoyed when we met.

One day I was walking through Lansford with my Canon and zoom lens. I was doing archival photography of coal-region architecture.

I spotted Jim across Ridge Street. He was sitting alone on a sidewalk bench with his guitar.

So I approached and asked if I could take a few photos as we chatted.

Jim started talking about Jesus and love.

But he also spoke of a recent dispute with his landlord.

Jim had left home and consulted with police. He said he was out on the street because he wanted to find a new place to live.

“But nobody is ever homeless with the Lord,” he affirmed.

When I got home, I processed the day’s photos. One picture stood out. And it wasn’t the architecture.

It was a serious Jim looking straight into my eyes and making a hand gesture.

I can’t recall exactly what he was emphasizing at that moment. But his intensity is apparent.

I’m always critical of photos I take. I typically don’t like them. I find something wrong with each one.

But this particular shot seemed different. It’s a portrait so vivid, colorful, rustic. I felt it captured Jim’s essence.

I figured I’d show it to him as soon as I ran into him again.

But it never happened.

Jim died unexpectedly right after we talked. He was 84.

He left a family who loved him and thousands who admired him.

His grandson, Stephen Napolitano, expressed his feelings.

“He was a great man. Sadly, that day I beeped to him. I didn’t have time to stop because I was heading to work. I still to this day regret not stopping to give him a hug and tell him how much I loved him.”

Many others were impacted by Jim’s passing because he was so well known.

Shortly after, I received an email from Smithsonian Magazine at the Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.

It announced a global photo contest.

I’ve never taken part in international competition. But I admire the work. The lens pros who compete are among the best on the planet.

On a lark, I decided to enter. Against all odds, I sent in the portrait of the Mountain Man and a required brief description.

He’s no longer around to see it, I thought, but maybe somebody else would enjoy it.

Maybe somebody would appreciate a glimpse of a real-life mountain troubadour. The real thing, sincere and uncomplicated.

There’s something special in the face of a Mountain Man who simply tried to encourage people to be their best.

To my surprise, the Smithsonian noticed. Judges selected the portrait to be featured in their worldwide magazine. The publication has 1.6 million paid subscribers and an online audience of eight million,

They announced that the competition drew 47,000 entries from 180 countries.

Mountain Man Jim made the cut. So in this special way, his legend lives on.

The image is shown here and online at https://photocontest.smithsonianmag.com/photocontest/detail/mountain-man-jim/.

I’m not sure what he’d say about this kind of recognition. He was a humble soul.

He was never looking for fame or acceptance.

But he deeply loved his fellow man and wasn’t afraid to show it.

And because of that, he touched more lives than he ever knew.