August 16, 2006


This is cruel.

My Uncle Pete, (yes, the one who was in the paper posing with a potato he grew that was shaped like a moose), sent an e-mail the other day.

There was no description. No gloating. No excitement. Nothing.

The only thing included on the e-mail was this photo:


Which, you know, said more than enough: I'm here. You're there. I smell like fish guts and beer and the three other guys in the boat. You don't. I haven't shaved in six months. You have. Wouldn't you rather be me?

The only thing that gives me solace is that it wasn't the gigantic fish kill that this was or that this was.

It was only one big fish. I only missed catching one fish.


One big fish.


Otter confusion.

Ice, ice, baby, Part Deux.

Ice, ice, baby.

Winter's coming. Time to head south.

Space invaders.

A little snack on the porch.

The salmon don't stand a chance.

Fish tales. Big time.

The Last Fuzzy Slipper Frontier.

There's a bar in them thar country.

Flowers are a-bloomin'.

The fog rolls in.

Moose intruder.

On their way home.

Sunsets, salmon and civil ceremonies.

Volcanoes, churches and halibut.

Eagle tree, limb by limb.

A fantasy RV for The Last Frontier.

Heading north to the homestead.

Publicizing moose-shaped tubers.

Posted by Jeff at August 16, 2006 08:44 AM | TrackBack
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