He sure didn't act like a genius. He didn't take up much space in a room, didn't want to be the center of attention. What he loved were fish and flyfishing, birds and chasing upland game. And drawing. He loved to draw, would have "doodled" (his word) whether he got paid for it or not. But he did get paid for it. He drew for just about every magazine you can name, from National Geographic and Time to Entertainment Weekly and Rolling Stone. They sent him to France to draw the cave paintings at Lascaux and flew him in helicopters over the Exxon Valdez oil spill. They sent him to Chile to draw birds and to remote rivers of Alaska to draw fish. He did portraits of Bob Dylan and Winston Churchill, John F. Kennedy and B.B. King. He drew silverback gorillas wearing cowboy boots with spurs, and fish in raingear smoking pipes as they fished in the rain. He once drew me in a fever dream in a hotel bed in Brazil, sweat running down my purple face, with yellow eyeballs. Three peacock bass swam in a gentle arc around me. One of them was blowing bubbles.