Jerry Flu, one of those bohos Ken Kesey described as “too young to be a beatnik, too old to be a hippie,” graduated from the Yale School of Art and Architecture in 1966. Mesmerized, and forever changed by the psychedelic tsunami that swept over the culture in the sixties, he moved to the Big Apple to paint, freelance book jackets, hang out in the East Village, and dodge the draft. In 1970 he migrated to Alaska, where, over the course of the next forty-five years, he taught school in remote Native villages, penned editorial cartoons for the Anchorage Times, wrote grant applications for rural clinic construction, and occasionally commercial fished, tended bar, rode motorcycles, boxed, played in a band, and attended court-ordered substance-abuse treatment programs. He now lives in the woods seventy-five miles north of Anchorage and spends his time writing.