MORNING LIGHT FILLED Washburn's living room. Scattered around us on the floor were dozens of sheets of paper: correspondence, current projects, ongoing business. (One of his latest endeavors, Washburn told me, was mapping his retirement community.) From time to time, he shuffled the papers into various piles with his feet, saving him the effort of bending over. On walls and tabletops were memorabilia from awards given, expeditions led, milestones of a life lived fully. Notably, only a few photographs were framed and hung.

I pushed myself to the edge of the sofa, winding up for my final question. "Were any of the photographs in the Panopticon show taken initially for mapping purposes?" I asked.

"No," he told me, "mapping pictures are made through a hole in the bottom of the airplane. It's a mechanical kind of thing."

Eureka! "So these pictures you did out the door weren't for scientific purpose. You're an artist in that airplane, aren't you?"

Washburn seemed stunned, as though it had taken nearly a century to crack this nut. "Maybe," he said, thinking it over. "I was interested in bringing to other people the thrill I was getting when I saw the scene."

Maybe. Considering how few maybes there have been in Washburn's life, this concession is huge. Even now, he is resisting labels, defying categorization. Looking at his pictures, however, one thing is certain: He loved the mountains, and they loved him back. Colossally.