Tall, lean, aging, and solitary, Robert Kincaid roves the world like a lone cowboy, wrangling photos instead of cattle, his horse an old pickup truck named Harry. The freedom and creativity of his lifestyle, he believes, is not long for the world, and he sees himself as one of the last of the breed. Francesca recognizes in him her own yearning to live a free and adventurous life, but she—and millions of others—long ago traded that option for the safety of a modern family.

Modernity offers many assurances that assuage human fears. The price, though, is conformity and routine, the logic of reason rather than the songs of the heart. Robert won’t collaborate with such weak-willed ways but insists on expressing the primitive powers handed down to us from our ancestors, instincts suppressed by modern life. Still, he plans and prepares carefully, not to be safe but to perfect his ability to capture the most inspiring and life-affirming photos possible. He serves not the shibboleths of safety but the songs of the ancients.

The old ways, with their primitive rhythms, frighten most people. Francesca notes that Robert’s highly individual ways make him “a stranger, a foreigner […] a wanderer” (161), and that unnerves settled people.