The Unbroken Wild West Still Invites Exploration and Adventure

I grew up in what is sometimes called “The Wild West.” We went camping and traveling throughout Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Washington and Oregon. Parts of the West are still as they were when Lewis and Clark and the early pioneers traveled for the first time over this rugged terrain.

In our travels, one of my favorite places was Taos / Pueblo, New Mexico. I still have a turquoise necklace I purchased from a Native American artist for $50. I fell in love with the artist community and the prolific galleries that dotted the streets. My dream was to return to live and work there. But you know how that goes.

According to a travel guide: “Taos is art. Art is everywhere: on the walls, in the streets, in the landscape and architecture. There are more than 80 galleries, museums, two major art festivals, several film fests, a Poets and Story Tellers festival, and four music fests.”

The grandeur of the mountains invites tourists and artists in summer and fall, and skiers in winter. The history of Taos is replete with Native American lore, an actual Pueblo village, and details about famous artists such as Georgia O’Keefe, Ansel Adams, D.H. Lawrence, John Marin, Andrew Dasburg and many others.

The broad sweep of rugged hills and jagged mountains provides year round recreation that has increased both the size and scope of Taos along with a rise in the cost of living. But a visit is well worth the experience.

When the word “wild” comes to your mind what does your imagination conjure up? The word itself makes me think “feral, uncontrollable;” not a good thing if you’re trying to harness your skill to describe in words or artwork what you see. 

Writers and artists must think in images. If you can’t visualize your subject matter, you can’t describe it or illustrate it.

Wild is one of the reasons people throng to Taos. Uninhabitable spacious vistas go on and on for what seems like forever. The color, the fusion of value and space is intoxicating.

I have a love affair with deserts. Teeming with life and color in the springtime and then withering to prickly dry sagebrush and cactus through the scorching heat of summer. Tumbleweeds blow across the roadways and line fences with woody entwined growth. They roam across the desert orchestrated by the wind in a primordial gracefulness; rolling and tumbling, following least resistance.

Taos gets under your skin. The brilliant sunsets, Native American colors and sounds, the howl of a wolf or coyote, the fresh air caressing your skin, filling your lungs. Prickly cacti needle you into submission. The stalwart saguaro look almost human in the evening shadows.

This lovely verse from the Poet Society’s Jillena Rose describes it well:

Taos
by Jillena Rose

Bones are easier to find than flowers
in the desert, so I paint these:
Fine white skulls of cows and horses.

When I lie flat under the stars
in the back of the car, coyotes howling
in the scrub pines, easy to feel how those bones
are much like mine: Here is my pelvis,
like the pelvis I found today
bleached by the sun and the sand. Same
hole where the hip would go, same

white curve of bone beneath my flesh
same cradle of life, silent and still in me.

(Poem copyright ©2011 Jillena Rose all rights reserved)

As Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home!”

(Daughter, Pam, took a surprise photo of us at Northwest Trek. I love the tenderness between us as we chat.)

In spite of the love and the joy of being with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, it’s good to get back to our comfortable ruts and the familiar nest we call home.

Our last big event was a trip through the grandeur of the National Park system designated as Mount Rainier. We drove from wildflower meadows and quaint historical towns into the inclining and winding roadways that led upward.

The snow was long gone; earlier than most years. When we reached the top, the base of Rainier was snow-free and covered with green grass and more wildflowers such as scarlet paintbrush, blue columbine, pink Canterbury bells, and white Queen Ann’s lace.

(Mount Rainier peeking through the trees as we wound up the roadway leading to the top.)

We enjoyed a quick lunch in the Visitor Center, and then traipsed over to the refurbished lodge to check out the furnishings, the gift shop and the spectacular views from a huge wrap-around porch.

Because of my fall earlier, and the miles already walked at the Northwest Trek animal preserve, we decided not to climb the trails to the base of the snow-covered Rainier. The park on all sides of the mountain was covered with hiking trails and bike trails. If you’re an avid hiker as I once was, you’ll love exploring the flora and fauna that covers the hillsides.

(Getting closer!)

(Here we are at the base of the mountain. Normally in June, the green grass is covered in snow.)

(Inside the Lodge at Mount Rainier)

On the way back, we stopped at an iconic restaurant that has served up homemade fare since the 1940s. We enjoyed a quality home-cooked meal, but declined the tempting old-fashioned pies. A small antique gift shop provided eye-candy instead. On this trip I had hoped to purchase some “finds” to sell in my Etsy Shop, but the sizes and prices deterred this plan. Flying instead of driving has its benefits, but leaves you with very little space for extras.

Back to Minnesota for two nights and one day gave us just enough time to see a few people before flying homeward. Upon arrival, a blast of hot humid air reminded us of the summer ahead.

(Great Grandpa with Marcus, his first great grandchild.)

During our vacation, we rarely caught the news and felt relaxed and detached. It was with shock and sadness that we learned about the massacre shooting in the South Carolina church.

What have we become as a society? Have we descended so far that we resemble animals and simply react from our baser instincts? The higher calling is to love others, even our enemies, which the members of that church demonstrated so plainly. May God bless them in their hour of need. May God have mercy on the soul of the perpetrator of evil. If drugs are responsible for his depravity, may others recognize the dangers in following this path. 

If evil can destroy, then only love can heal this nation. Not selfish love that seeks only to enrich and satisfy self, but an unselfish desire to do good to others and to bring only positive actions into the world. If we're going to leave a mark behind us, let it be one that will benefit mankind!

Thiis Artist’s Heart is at one with the Earth

"Sand Crane Dreams" acrylic on canvas

I was a tomboy growing up. I preferred monkey bars or playing cowboys and Indians to playing with dolls. When my mother couldn’t find me, I was usually up a tree, literally. I viewed every tree as a challenge that must be conquered.

My favorites were the mulberry trees that grew near our street. I’d straddle a branch and stuff my face with unwashed mulberries until their semi-tart taste had satisfied my sweet tooth. When someone walked beneath me, unaware of my presence, I felt all knowing and powerful.

From up here, I could see into adjoining yards. I knew who was home and who wasn’t. It was a hiding place where childish secrets could be discovered and shared later when the time was right. It also gave me space and time to ponder the wonders of the world and my place in it.

"Beach Buddies" mixed media on canvas

In those days I often ran around in my underpants, especially on hot summer days. Once while helping my mother with the ironing, I burned an elongated triangle on my mid-section. That was the last time I ironed without being fully clothed.

The next day, dressed in a sun top and a pair of shorts, the burn now covered with a still-wet scab, I climbed a wide-spreading oak tree. By this time my legs were so long it was easy to step from one branch to another and scale to the highest gnarled branches.

In the process of climbing, I scraped my midriff against the rough bark peeling back the scab and revealing a seeping red sore. The pain was excruciating. I scrambled down so fast I turned my ankle when I hit the ground running for comfort and a bandage.

(My daughter, Paula's, poster she created for her art classes)

I once scaled a tree so high I was afraid to come down. My mother’s younger sister scolded me at the foot of the tree and demanded I come down the same way I went up. Although we were close in age, she was my aunt, and she loved to Lord that over me. If I didn’t do what she said, she was sure to tattle to my mother.

I don’t know what happened to the girl I once was? Later in life, I was afraid of heights. I wonder now if the scolding’s and threats I received put a fear in me that I later associated with heights?

At any rate, as a teen I climbed to the top of a water tank and then was afraid to descend the ladder and come down. This was the first time in my life I’d been afraid of heights. Later, I cured my fears by rock climbing, repelling and experiencing a zip line. I discovered that as long as I focused on the cliff (or my goal), I was unafraid.

(The mountains where I grew up)

I continue to love nature in all of its splendor. There’s nothing like the freshness of pine mingled with the smells of frying bacon and potatoes or fresh caught fish on a crisp morning in the mountains. I celebrate still the wonder of God’s glory in every sunrise and sunset. I rejoice as an artist in the finite beauty and detail that I’m privileged to paint.

Lasting Friendships – my Friend Alice



(Antelope Island scene looking past the Great Sale Lake to the Wasatch mountains)

Alice was a neighbor. The kind that welcomes you into her home like family, or waves at you the minute you step outside. We became fast friends, talking about our children, the weather, the neighborhood school and the rising cost of food.

It wasn't surprising then to see her on my doorstep after I'd suffered a long illness and a traumatic experience. Others had asked, " what can we do for you? " smiled and then returned to their own little worlds. Here was Alice, standing on my porch with a shovel in one hand and a plant in the other.

" You're coming outside, " she said emphatically. " You need some sunshine and we need to plant this start I brought from my garden. " The plant was one I'd admired some weeks before.

You didn't argue with Alice. You didn't want to. She had a way about her that said, " I'm here for you. Let's work on this thing together. "

We dug, we planted, and we chatted about everything but what was troubling me. She never nosed, she never snooped. She gave me the ball, and let me carry it where I wanted to go.

 She helped me more than she will ever know. She gave me the love and support I needed to deal with some difficult circumstances. She helped heal my heart and soul just by being Alice.


 (Photo -- view of Bear Lake in Garden City, UT)

When we moved away from Phoenix, I wept like a baby as I gave her my final hug. She was one neighbor I would miss forever. We stayed in contact for over 20 years, but the distance and our lives soon became a living memory. My gratitude still remains.

Many people come in and out of our lives. The good ones stay. Other friendships are not meant to last: the brief encounters on an airplane flight, the people we chat with on vacation, the people who share in the trauma of a tragic event. Some friendships are meant to last forever, and some of them aren't. Who can measure what any of these people bring into our lives?


When my own life was in a downward spiral, I never regretted the people I met along the way who made me laugh, who taught me something I didn't know, who opened my eyes to see the possibilities that were waiting there. These people became the threads that formed the warp and the woof of my character and my life. During that time, I learned that some people are just plain evil; but that most people are basically good, warts and all.

 

 

(Photo overlooking Bear Lake)

Through acquaintances and friendships, I discovered things about myself I never knew. Antique cars, for instance; I like everything about them, the hobby, the shows, the people. And jazz; I love the earthy vibes and rhythms, but I'm also enthralled at a symphony. I like to see a good play, and I'm enchanted by Shakespeare. All of the things I discovered about myself, I learned through the people around me; my likes, my tastes, my values.

People enrich our lives and help us realize we're all human. All in need of grace and forgiveness. My favorite saying is: " there but for the grace of God go I. " Historians don't know for certain who said this, but the wisdom remains.

Friends can make us or break us. Bad friends are those people who urge us to say and do things we wouldn't say or do in better company or when we're alone. They're the people who dare: " Oh, come on, it can't hurt. Just this once? " or " Who will ever know? "

Good friends are the ones who make you want to try harder and to live better. But they accept you as you are with all of your baggage, weaknesses and flaws.

(Photos -- at St. Armonds Florida beach & resort)

In the beginning --my Father the Fisherman

"Raccoons at Sunrise", 16x20 acrylic canvas

Every now and then, I reprint this article so my new readers and followers may get to know me and better understand why nature is such an integral part of who I am.

I grew up in an emerald green valley ringed on all sides by a craggy strip of mountains known as the Wasatch front. These rugged giants, and the springs, lakes, and rivers that divide them, were the guardians of my youth. From my bedroom window, the mountains rose like giant hands in prayer; casting benevolent shadows on the surrounding neighborhoods and farms.

On clear summer days, the sky filled our valley with morning light long before the sun had reached its crest on the jagged peaks and thrown off its coverlet of shadow cast by aspen, Juniper, and sage. 

A neighbor’s rooster proclaimed the break of day, and sounds of engines starting and cattle lowing struck the chords and the notes that play out in my head even now.

"Americana" 16x20 acrylic on canvas

On the Western side of the valley, the distant mountains completed the circle framing a patchwork of fields and farms that spread out on the valley floor like a farm wife’s quilt. At day’s end, the sun, saving the best for last, celebrated its descent in triumphant tones of amber and rose before snuggling deep into mountain shadow.

On evenings such as this, time stood still as I watched my father practice the art of fly tying. Like a true artist, he adjusted clamp and vice to secure the hook while he twisted and wrapped the tiny feathers into place. Although each fly was unique, he duplicated one lusty specimen many times over for its ability to snag rainbow trout and German browns.

"Wasatch Mountains" 11x14 watercolor

 With the same skill he used to cast his fishing line in a timeless dance over canyon waters, he cast his children out to experience life. If we encountered rough waters or found ourselves in over our heads, he would reel us back in for further instruction.

Sometimes his reprimands were harsh. At those times, his words cut through our disobedience with the sharp edge of truth. Then he would cast us out again, giving us more line from time to time, until we got it right.

"Berry Picking Time" 16x20 acrylic 

 Because of my father’s skill as an angler, I grew up with a man-sized appetite for pan-fried trout. Father cleaned them. Mother cooked them -- dusted in flour and fried in butter, without the cholesterol guilt or fat gram shame. We dined on fish two or three times a week. The extra fish were frozen for winter meals and to keep my father’s dreams alive for the next fishing season.

Sometimes the family went with him on his fishing expeditions, wandering the byways and dirt roads of Southern Idaho, Wyoming, and Northern Utah in search of the best fishing holes. He waded up to his armpits in the rivers and dams along the Wasatch front; the winding Snake River, the wide Green River, and the brilliant blue Bear Lake.

When my father could no longer fish, he shared the woven intricacies of fly tying with his grandchildren, leaving them an inheritance that would continue on like an echo in the same canyons and mountain streams.

"Blending In" 16x20 acrylic canvas