I go by “WoolyFrog”, my Dad’s “handle”. He took it while camping on the edge of a canyon in what’s now “The Bear’s Ears National Monument”. There were frogs in the canyon. They didn’t go “ribbitt, ribbitt” like normal frogs. They went “Baaaa, Baaaa” like sheep. The “baaaa’s” echoed up out of the canyon and into the camp. The group spent two days looking for sheep before they finally figured out the frogs spoke Ovis aries. So Dad christened himself, WoolyFrog”. Mom and Dad were canyon people. They took me into the canyons when I was very young. I thank them for that. They died in 2010.

I am WoolyFrog.

I am also Big Chicken.

While backpacking Europe with a friend in 1978, and nearly out of money, we opted to come home rather than take those “standby seats” from Athens to Johannesburg. Weak.

In 1973, four of us made a break for Alaska in a 1960 Ford Falcon. Intent on bagging school and working on the Alaska Pipeline, we scaredy-catted out of Canada and came home to graduate from high school. Weak.

After Banditos in Mexico vandalized Mom and Dad’s car and robbed us in 1975, I tried to go “out of body” and appear by their bedside in the middle of the night to “assure them” I was OK.

Dustin Hoffman most accurately portrays my life in the movie, “Little Big Man”.

Leonard Cohen best describes my aging body, “I ache in the places where I used to play”.

Tim Cahill reveals my haphazard approach to things in his book, “Pecked to Death by Ducks”.

Craig Childs personifies how I’d like to approach things in all of his books and writings.

There’s this thing called dancing but I’ve never understood it. People go dancing and they just do whatever they want out there. When I do that everyone laughs me off the floor and mocks me all the way out to the parking lot. I’ve never found solace in dancing. I’ve never failed to find it in the outdoors.

That’s what I’m talking about.