A sun-browned old man of five feet eleven inches, Mott carries his body in a permanent forward hunch, as if still walking beneath a pack that was taken off decades ago. His head is completely bald except for a narrow gray fringe above the ears, while his beard bursts outward in a wild, smoke-colored mass, full of burrs, bread crumbs, and tiny lengths of colored thread. His hands are broad, knotted, and permanently dark beneath the fingernails from years of leatherwork, axle grease, and soil. He walks slowly but never hesitates, planting his staff with exact, rhythmic taps. His face suggests exhaustion until he smiles, at which point he looks unexpectedly mischievous. The contradictory impression he leaves is of a frail man who somehow seems heavier than the room around him, like a loaded cart that has learned to stand upright.