The part of coming home where you're pretty sure you're going to die.
The part of coming home where you're pretty sure you're going to survive.
The part of coming home where you're pretty sure you're going to die.
The part of coming home where you're pretty sure you're going to survive.
Spring in Southeast Alaska. Gathering fiddleheads for dinner, and nettles for lunch.
Just a couple of spring Reids.
In case you're also half-heartedly responding to emails, wishing you could be out in the Southeast Alaska spring, where the trees are leafing out, the birds are twittering the branches unless they're ravens in which case they're just kind of clomping around shrieking, and the skunk cabbage is, well, gentle stinking -- here's the story and photo essay that came out of all those months trolling last summer.
Thanks, Dad (hi, Dad), for putting up with me.
American sporting traditions never fail to build teamwork, condone beer drinking, and incite offensive commentary about the other team's ability to pass a fiscal plan.