Dad switched on the light and said, "Breakfast in 10."

It was 4:30am. The outside bit with cold and wet teeth. The full moon arced towards the horizon. Our hero who would become known as The High Tundra Drifter, then eight years old, lived in southern California about 30-miles from the coast and 20-miles north of the Mexican border. They called it the heartland, a conservative enclave. But pre-Fox News conservative - people had a right to their opinion.

The Drifter crawled out of the sack, put on his jeans, Pendleton wool shirt, and work boots. His jeans and shirt were nice, but his boots had seen better days. Hunting, splitting wood, hacking weeds, and slushing through mud were not kind to his boots. But his boots were a part of him just like his lanky knees and elbows.

Only time he got a new pair was when his toes were dancing out the front. His mom once bought a new pair for Christmas, but he never opened the box. Doing so would have hurt his old boot's feelings -- boots do have feelings more so than most imagine. Putting his old boots to rest was a solemn affair.

The Drifter would brush them up real clean. Then gently put them in his knap sack before taking a long hike looking for the perfect rock outcropping. There he would find a crack between the rock and push his boots down deep with the aid of a long stick carefully selected for the task. He would stand up, bow his head and say a few words.

He was a devout Catholic and a man of few words. Once his mom asked what he had done with his old boots. He just said, "threw them in the trash." His mom knew he was lying but ever since honored his privacy. The Drifter had always meant to return and pay respects to his boots, but just could not bring himself to do so.

The Drifter could smell the deer meat and eggs frying. While he was destined to become the chairman of the biology department at a major University, he was a mountain man at heart hunting, fishing, and sleeping under the stars. Never killed for sport, just for food. He much prefers the stars for a roof. He recounts with fondness how primitive people lived and strives for that standard.

"Good Morning," boomed his dad, most likely to wake him up as most times he was a gentle quiet man. "Did you have nice dreams?"

"I sure did," replied The Drifter almost with glee. "I rescued the cutest baby unicorn from a troll up in Alaska." It would be a while before Drifter realized his dreams were real.

His dad continued, "Looking forward to your first day collecting data on migrating birds?" "Absolutely." The Drifter beamed. While he was a mountain man at heart, birds fascinated him. He had already learned to identify birds with his Audubon Society book.