There he is, Frank Kearns crossing the river. My father, in his element: the mountains of British Columbia. The year is probably 1936. I have already been conceived, and am home with Dorothy, paddling contentedly in her womb.
Frank knows horses. He has been on the back of a horse since the time he could walk. He would just as soon ride a horse across a fast moving river as fly a plane across the cloud studded sky.
Frank liked to tell stories, and to write them down. He wrote about what he knew and what he'd done, and that was a lot. His heroes were as tough as he was, and they lived in the wilderness, just a little bit north of everywhere.
I apologize for the fuzziness of this image. That's what you get when you try to blow up a tiny patch on the wall. Remember Antonioni's film. There is only so much information available. We have to use a little imagination to fill in what is missing.