It is certainly feasible that there is a less flattering photograph of me someplace, while, I hope, unlikely.

This is underneath the floatplane on Turner Lake. The water was 48 degrees. Loading gear into the airplane, our 'bear protection' dropped through a broken zipper, and planted barrel first in the postmordial muck eight feet below. Time for a swim.

(This is me at 7 a.m. on one crappy hour of sleep, no coffee, and my frozen nuts shrunk so far up inside me I thought it might be left to the conjecture of urban legend that they ever existed. But I got the gun, dammit.)
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