“The People”

Last August I went back to my roots, to the state I was born in, the sunshine state of Florida. I was there for a family reunion and birthday party for my great Uncle. It had been over ten years or more since I had visited with a lot of my family still living there. My grandmother was one of ten children in her family, and that makes for a good number of relatives, even though no one has yet to match my great grandparents reproduction record. It’s an interesting experience talking with people who are forever bonded to me in this life’s journey through genetics and marriages. Even though it had been many years since I had spoken with any of them or been a part of their day to day lives, there was something undeniably familiar about every one of them. It gave me a feeling that is unique to family reunions. I thought about the feeling of nostalgia I get when I’ve been at a high school reunion or meet up with friends or coworkers who I haven’t seen in a long time. People I have shared many of my day to day living hours with over the years. I’ve decided it’s not a feeling of nostalgia I get when I am with my family members. It is more of a feeling of unification and belonging. It’s an acceptance I feel from them, that no matter what, we are all in this together. We get to choose our friends and sometimes our colleagues, but for the most part we don’t get to chose our families. When we do get to chose someone to become a family member, we are choosing not only that person, but all the people who that person has intertwined in their life through births and unions. The structure of family is one that appears to me as a latticework of Queen Anne’s lace, all the individual sections tied together to make a united pattern that is our identifying fingerprint in this world filled with people. Of course, the personalities at my family reunion are about as diverse as if it were a high school reunion, but the difference is I feel a sense of responsibility and depth of caring for each of these people that I may not feel for the people who are not part of the family bond. I have always been close to my parents and sisters. I know that the way my parents raised me contributes a lot to my positive feelings about family. As my husband and I prepare to start a family of our own, I ponder all these feelings about family. I feel an instinctual urge to perpetuate the building of the latticework that cannot be denied. In my heart I know that I need a piece of family of my own to feel the complete human experience. I am fortunate to have such an extensive family, that can be close and caring for one another, even if we only see each other once every ten years.

While I was in Florida, I spent some extra time with my aunt and uncle at their lake house at Lake Istapoka. Here I was introduced to a new creature I had never seen before. Looking out their window towards the lake, I inquired, “What are those big birds?” My aunt smiled and replied, “Oh, we call them ‘the people.’” I had encountered my first colony of sandhill cranes. Standing as tall as myself with fiery red-feathered caps and reptilian orange eyes, they have a presence unlike any other waterfowl I had ever seen. Watching them standing silently together pointed towards one another in small groups of three or four, was like watching a conspiracy in the making. As soon as my presence was detected, uniformly their heads would flinch, one orange eye from each of them fixated on me. They stood still and did not seem threatened by me. Nor did they seem particularly welcoming. When I walked closer to them to photograph them, they did still did not flinch. They held their ground, and I could feel a tension mounting. I decided not to advance any closer and instead employed the zoom lens on my camera. Later, my aunt took me on a ride around the neighborhood in her golf cart. As we stealthily rode along the paved roads we encountered many small groupings of these birds. Each collection of cranes seemed involved in their own private conversations, as if I was driving through the middle of a crane cocktail party. Perhaps it was a family reunion? I was smitten with the idea that they were having an experience similar to mine at my own family reunion. The more I watched them, the more I agreed they were like people. So comfortable they were in their neighborhood, sharing space with the humans. Like humans, they could occupy space without too much thought of who the space actually belonged to. It reminded me how we are all (human, animal, fish and fowl) on this earth just sharing space. I imagine this is how symbiotic relationships between species evolve. For example, the zebras and the wildebeests in Africa tend to hang out together. One has better eyesight; the other has better hearing. Together they make a better defense against their common predators. As I watched the sandhill cranes cautiously gathering amongst clusters of houses around an alligator-infested lake I wondered how this relationship between humans and birds might evolve. Could this be a partnership in the making between people and “the people?”

My painting “the people,” shows two sandhill cranes in the foreground. They are staring at the viewer, one questioningly, the other more alertly. Two individuals reacting in their own individual ways to the approaching human. The marsh stretches out in the background, homeland of the cranes. In the distance a colony of cranes gather as the red glow of a setting sun burns beyond them. I like how there is something prehistoric looking about this painting. The birds have a powerful presence as if descendants of great dinosaurs might.

conspiring cranes

What a mug!

Company Loves Misery

“Company Loves Misery.” Isn’t that the old saying? In this scenario, I am referring to Fat Man’s Misery, a slot canyon in Utah. I have to say, it’s one of my personal favorites, and I have shared good company in it the two trips I’ve taken through it. A few weeks ago I dragged a friend visiting from out of town through. Okay, she went willingly, and we’re still friends, even though the walk out of the canyon at mid-afternoon along the three miles of exposed slickrock in 108 degree temperatures, made me question once or twice if tomorrow she would still be my friend or if she would ever consider visiting me again. More about that later…

This story began in the Watchman campground at about high noon on a Saturday. Ron, Leanne and I had secured our tents, and Luke was on his way over to the campsite for a visit. Thunderclouds were rolling in, and boy were we happy about two things. One, we had our permit in hand. When a flash flood warning is declared they stop issuing permits for at least eight hours. Even if you aren’t planning your trip until the follow day. This has botched our plans before. Two, we weren’t already in a slot canyon. There is a reason they stop issuing permits for up to eight hours and it’s a damn good one! The last place you want to be when the monsoon thunderstorms start rolling in is in the middle of a tight slot canyon.

We kicked back and watched the lightning display over a few cold beers. As we studied the increasing number of fat raindrops with curiosity, we wondered if we were going to get Leanne’s introductory canyon, Keyhole Canyon, under her belt before tomorrow’s 9.25 miles of Misery. Keyhole is only a .7 mile total loop hike, but has all you need to know to decide if the sport is for you or not. There’s pretty narrows, a few rappels (albeit short ones), some down-climbs, and (this season) a swimmer or two. Now the rain had stopped and there was a lingering cool breeze. The 110 degree wall of heat we arrived to had been doused and it had to be at least 30 degrees cooler. With the storm subsided, we managed to get out to Keyhole before losing the sunlight. The whole time I was trying to gauge Leanne’s state. I decided she was reserved, but not nervous. I decided this was good. She even joked about the “Keyhole Stew” we had to swim through. I could see it in her eyes, she was ready for tomorrow.

The shaded walk in towards Fat Man's Misery.

The morning was just gorgeous. The previous evening’s rain had cooled things down, and we had managed an early start getting to the parking area just as the sun was beginning to rise. Apart from almost forgetting our rope, we were clear in the mind and heart as we marched past the Checkerboard Mesa. I remembered how pretty the walk in was and it felt good to be back. My guest was in good spirits and we were all chatting as Ron led the way, and Luke took numerous photos at the back of the line. Then I heard a deep pitched “bonk.” It was one of those sounds that you recognize immediately because you have created it yourself before. Like a tangible memory, I felt an aching pain in my forehead and the muscles in my face squeezed. I turned around to see Leanne sitting on the sandy canyon floor, legs spread out before her, with a dazed expression. “Man, it knocked her off her feet, ” I thought, as I eked out the words, “Are you okay?” The old fallen log angled over her head was the obvious culprit. Leanne’s no baby, I do know this about her. She quickly recovered, dusting herself off and resuming with a smile.

View from on top of the pass.

Cool looking cairn.

The yellow brick road...

As we trudged up the sandy pass, I knew a playground of slickrock and pines were awaiting us on the other side. This motivated me to keep placing one foot in front of the other, even though I could see myself sliding back down and evidence of any progress was difficult to measure. Once at the saddle, we were rewarded with a stunning 360 degree view, where one world is divided from another. Ahead I could see far towards the horizon, where huge table-top mesas dotted the skyline, like the backbone of a colossal creature. Between there and where we were, our destination slot canyon lies carved into the earth making its way to the Virgin River. Once we passed the rock formation I like to refer to as the “ice cream cone,” the scenery really opened up. Rolling “hills” of slickrock lie before you like hard baked waves. Ribbons of orange, red, gold and pink stream through the ground’s surface shooting off in all directions like a sadistic version of the yellow-brick road. The sandstone dunes are broken sparingly with the dark green foliage of twisted pines that have forced their way up through the bed of sandstone by a sheer will to live. I was glad to be enjoying this scene in the morning, for I feared the walk back through this area in the afternoon heat would not be as pleasant. I remembered that part well from the last trip, and that was in April. Here we were in mid July. I only thought these thoughts, not wanting to frighten Leanne into staying in the cool narrows for eternity.

Heart-shaped potholes.

driftwood?

Sneaky frogs.

As we dropped down toward to the entrance to the canyon, a barrage of potholes pointed the way. Holes mysteriously shaped like hearts and deep bowls, one of which was lined with silent frogs, hoping we would simply pass by without noticing them. Then the real fun began. I always seem to enjoy an experience more myself when I can discover its pleasures in my own time. There’s nothing more uninspiring than your guide telling you when to feel inspired. So for Leanne’s benefit, I tried to contain my “oohs” and “ahhs,” as the canyon walls began to rise on either side of us. The first set of turns in a slot canyon always get my heart racing. I yearn to capture a moment like that in my memory as accurately as I can, so when I am old and frail I can recall it in perfect intensity. The visual appeal of the over-lapping curves, the slight musty smell, the coolness of the rock in shadow; these sensations I mentally record. I spread my arms to either side and let my fingertips touch the walls, lightly grazing the surface as if I could decode the canyon’s mysterious braille.

Leanne takes the slide.

Reflection pool.

The Grotto!

Fat Man’s Misery just seems to bring out the poet in me. It’s a gentle canyon that closes and opens again and again, dipping you into deep wet cavernous spaces then plopping you back out into the sunshine again to dry. It cycles in a loop of rinse and repeat, until sadly, it is over. The first time I came here I knew I wanted to paint it. It was the grotto that appealed to me the most. Being a dark space, I didn’t get any good photos of it. This time I caught one, and I love it. It’s the one that my painting is inspired by. The first time I saw the grotto it was full of water. I had to swim from one end to the other. I couldn’t wait to jump in. I glided slowly through the crystal clear water, noticing how the reflections leaked in sparingly from the ends of the cavern. A large arch rose overhead, and a small sandy beach lay at the other end dappled in reflective light. At the other end, I was sad it was over. The second time, there wasn’t nearly half the water there had been before. This time I could stroll through the passage, taking in the sights, studying the magnificent arches. Now I could make a painting. The exit out of the grotto is stunning as well. The light comes streaming in here as the canyon once again opens up for you. Reflections from the water bounce along the golden surface of the wavy carved sandstone walls. It is a temple in the desert. To our surprise we found a deer carcass lying in the shallow bottom here, as if it were a sacrifice to the gods.

Glittery grotto exit.

Sacrifice to the Gods.

Luke slides into the hot pool.

Leanne in the Virgin River.

A rest stop.

The grand finale of Fat Man’s Misery is a series of twisting waterslides that eventually spill you into a hot spring pool. Maybe it was the July summer heat creeping back in, but it was hard to enjoy the hot spring this time. It just didn’t feel all that hotter than everything else around it already was. We reminisced about the past trip when the hot spring pool was teeming with algae and how we encountered the creature from the green lagoon. Leanne had seen the photos. I’ve included some of my favorite photos at the end of my blog here from my first trip, just for posterity’s sake.

Now it was mid-day and we savored the coolness of the Virgin River and our river walk, soaking and splashing, trying to avoid the thought of the inevitable hike out. I was so blissfully gazing into the river that I didn’t notice the low lying log propped up in my path. Bonk! There was that sound again. Leanne and Luke cooed out a collective, “Ooooooh,” before bursting into fits of laughter followed by my own. “You just can’t let your guard down for one minute out here!” I laughed.

All too soon we were at the hike out point along the river. With a deep breath, and water dripping everywhere, I began the long slog out. By the time I reached the top of the climb out everything on me was dry as a bone. We started to joke, that this part was the true Fat Man’s Misery. Soon we could see where the turn into the hollow would happen. But knowing how deceptive distance is in the desert I knew it was still a long way off. At one point I couldn’t bear the pain in my feet. I just knew my shoes were full of sand. I stopped to empty my shoes and found not a single speck. My feet were simply swollen from the heat. To quote Leanne, this was becoming a “death march.” We began to take longer and longer breaks, trudging from one bit of shade to the next. Finally we were at the pass. After summiting the pass (believe me, on the way back it felt like a summit) we were back in the grace of the shady hollow we had entered by. Leanne said it first. “If you’re wondering if I would do it again, the answer is ‘yes’,” she generously offered. I wasn’t planning on asking her until we were inside the air-conditioned car headed towards pizza and beer. “Yay!” I exclaimed. Company does love Misery!

And now for some images from my first trip through Fat Man’s Misery… Good times!

What was I thinking?

Brett shows some style.

Ron, the human anchor.

Beach party!

Brett's special trick.

Superfluous raps are fun!

I just love this one of me and my husband.

Lori B. in the fetile position.

Brett's awesome buffet of salmon crackers at the end of rap #unnecessary.

Again, what was I thinking?

Erika, go towards the light...

Eeks! The creature from the green lagoon.

Creature attacks Lori C.!!!

Is (snow) Mountaineering Fun?

Mountaineering = Challenge
Mountaineering ≠ Fun

Last week, my husband Ron and I attempted to summit Mount Shasta in northern California. Mount Shasta, or “white mountain,” resides at the south end of the Cascade Mountain Range in northern California near the border of Oregon. This is the story of our adventure and the inspiration behind my new painting, shasta.

My painting "shasta," acrylic on canvas 36x48"

View from the drive to the North Gate.

Ron really wanted me to experience mountaineering in the snow, something with which he has always had a fascination. He asked me to choose a mountain to climb and I chose Mount Shasta. I chose it for many reasons, but mostly, because I’ve always loved volcanoes, and Shasta is more active than others found in the region. Mount Shasta is actually four volcanic cones all piled up on top of one another. One of these, Shastina, is the most visible evidence of this phenomenon. I was curious about the mountain because it is one of those sacred mountains like Mount Fuji of Japan and Uluru Rock of Australia, and there is a lot of folklore and legend that comes along with the mountain and its history. The stories run the gamut, from Native American creation stories to ancient mythology to new age religions that revolve around the mountain. The Native Americans of the region saw Mount Shasta as the place where the Great Spirit emerged from the heavens and landed on earth. From here he created the trees, the rivers, the animals and the humans. The mythical Lemurians, a super-human race of people, are said to live underground here in lava tube dwellings. There are many more recent beliefs that are tied to the mountain as well. It is seen as a cosmic hot spot and a place where UFOs make landings, probably as a result of the lenticular cloud formations that routinely appear over and near the mountain. Several new age religions have sprouted near the mountain, some that deal in crystals and other in buddhist-like beliefs. According to our mountain guide, Brady, there are over thirty local religions in Mount Shasta City. Now that I have been to Mount Shasta City, I would consider it more of a town; it has a population of only 3,500. I’m not sure I believe Brady’s claim that there are thirty religions, but I can believe that there are many to choose from by observing the diverse cast of eccentric characters who reside there.

At the trailhead...

Reaching the end of the forest.

Taping the tootsies.

Up into the clouds...

Ron pretty much planned the trip in between working long hours at his new job. He wanted to avoid the mainstream Avalanche Gulch route and was shooting for the more technical Casaval Ridge route. But, the conditions were deteriorating there so our guide chose the less-traveled North Face’s Hotlum-Bolam Route for us instead. This route was to pass between the Hotlum and Bolam glaciers along the North Face of the mountain. Can I just say, first of all, we were the only people there on that side of the mountain. The only other people we ran into were a group of men who passed us one day as they were hiking around the mountain. It’s a wonderful and equally terrifying experience to have a mountain to yourself. It reminded us of our honeymoon, when we summited El Misti in Peru. Even at the summit, we had the mountain to ourselves. Eerie, but wonderful. There’s a true peacefulness that washes over you when you feel you have really gotten away from civilization, and found a remote secluded location left on earth. But underlying that ecstacy, is the reminder that you are on your own out there, at the mercy of all the wrathful forces of mother nature. Even at 19,000 + feet, El Misti was appearing like a cake-walk compared to what I was now faced with. As I stared up at the beautiful white mountain mass from our base camp at the mesa, I could see this was a challenge I had never before faced. I wondered if I was really ready for something of this magnitude. I reasoned with myself. Maybe it just looks steep from here. Maybe it’s really much more featured and easy than it looks. I often have this feeling when I’m looking up at a rock climbing route. When I get into the climb, I realize there are many things I couldn’t see from the bottom that make my climb reasonable: hidden gems like finger cracks and ledges just wide enough to rest the ball of my foot on. I was nervous but still optimistic.

Getting steeper with every step.

Inspiring skies.

Ron, on the other hand, was visibly excited, like a kid in a candy store. The night before our summit, he insisted on watching the sun go down while I passed out in the tent. The whole experience for him is joyful, and he easily forgets the pain, the blisters, the bruises, the sun burns, and the weight of hauling all that gear. For him, it is a privilege to suffer, for the suffering brings him a glory like no other he has experienced. He often says, “This is going to be so much fun!” I look at him strangely and repeat the word, “Fun?” I even asked our fearless 22 year old guide, Brady. “So what exactly about this is fun to you?” Even after a second opinion, I am not buying it. It is hard work! You are hauling up food, sharp metal objects, tent, stove, fuel, and a thousand layers of clothing to protect you at any possible temperature, because you will experience the range from a numbing freeze to core-boiling feverish sweat. Your feet feel enormous and it is as if you are marching on the surface of the moon in lead-weighted boots. There are spikes strapped to your shoes, so you have to walk like a cowboy to avoid stabbing your own achilles tendon. When all the layers are on, you feel like the Michelin Man and are expected to keep perfect balance as you step onto icy surfaces you might tenderly crawl across if you found them in your own driveway. But you’re not on a surface as hospitable as your driveway, you are on the steep slope of a mountainside. If you look down the mountain, you can see hundreds of feet of icy ramp that with one mis-step or loss of balance, you could send yourself sliding at unknown speeds towards that cluster of sharp volcanic rocks below, or worse, off a cliff or into an icy crevasse.

Home, home on the mesa. Where the ants and the wild mice play.

Brady, our guide and top chef.

Are we having fun yet?

Goodnight, Shasta.

Summit morning arrived and at 2 a.m. we were ready to move. I could tell the conditions were ideal. There was practically no wind at all, and the night’s sleep had been warm. Even I, the coldest of the cold, was comfortable. I felt encumbered by the layers and my oddly fitting backpack. The stomping of my feet into the crunchy snow seemed laborious, but I was not at ease with simply walking yet. A few hours passed and the sun was starting to rise. There was an orange glow on the horizon that I was mildly aware of when I stopped to turn back and look at where I had come from. We were switch-backing across a steep ramp and whenever I took the focus off of my next step I felt a little woozy. I could try to blame it on the altitude, but I think it was really fear creeping into me. A real problem had developed with the steeper terrain, as every ten minutes a crampon seemed to come off my boot. I also mentioned to Brady that my ankles were starting to feel wobbly like when you first learn to ice skate. Brady took a closer look at my boots. I could see it in his eyes that this was a deal breaker. I asked him what the rest of the terrain would be like, and he simply said, “like this, but steeper.” I wanted Ron to be able to summit, so I offered to go down. We ran a few scenarios through and decided eventually to send me down alone while they continued upward for the summit. Unfortunately they lost a few hundred feet while we switched our plan. They were a little worried that I was disappointed by not being able to summit, but I said it was okay by me, and that I was just here for the experience. As soon as I turned and started to walk down, I knew I had made the right choice. I was happy. I had tried something new. I watched my feet on every step, looking for the signs that my crampon would fall off. They did in fact fall off even more as I was descending. I definitely made the right choice! I tried to stay focused and not worry about my husband. It was all out of my hands now. I couldn’t be the nagging voice of reason for him any longer, but I hoped at least he’d think of me before trying anything stupid.

2 am start.

As the sun rises, Bonnie throws in the towel.

Ron's false summit. He is having fun!

When I got back to camp I took a nap. I woke to the sound of voices. It was only 10:30 am. I thought, “Wow, they really made great time!” I crawled out of the tent and saw that they were one-third of the way up the mountain about at the point where I had left them. They were coming down. I watched them glissade out of sight. When Ron came back to the camp, it was a wave of relief I felt seeing that he was safe and smiling at me. Turns out he did turn back before trying something stupid. To quote my teasing husband, he “turned back at the point when he knew I would have started to cry.” He knows me well and I’ve never been more proud of him! To realize when something you want is out of your reach is a tough pill to swallow. I knew he was disappointed, but he was still full of smiles and having “fun.”

As a beginner, I definitely was in over my head with this one. But, I learned a whole lot, and if I do try it again sometime, I’ll be much more prepared. The question is how long will it take to forget the hard work, the struggle, the endless gear and discomfort? Was it fun? No. But it’s not always about fun. Sometimes it’s about pushing boundaries, breaching your comfort zone, and taking on challenges you never imagined you would. Then there’s the beauty of the mountain. The mystical, magical mountain. The big white peak rising from the earth that cannot be ignored. Clouds dance around it at a furious pace, coddling it, concealing it, clearing dramatically from it all in the matter of minutes. Just to have a few days with an entity like that had a profound effect on my spirit. I felt humbled by it. I’m honored that it gave me such a gentle experience, because it could have taken so much if it wanted.

Glissading, kind of scary for me, but I can see how it could be considered fun.

In Sanskrit, shasta is a generic term for teacher. My approach to my painting, shasta, was to create it with the mountain in mind. I thought of Mount Shasta and the lessons I was taught there, by my husband, by our guide and by the mountain itself. I most enjoyed the sensation of awe as I watched the majestic mountain become obscured by clouds one minute and the next, silhouetted against a clear blue sky. Cloud formations swirl about it in my painting, making the dominant color white. To me this color represents the snowy mountain and the surrounding clouds, but also represents an innocence that becomes apparent and is lost when learning. I am always learning, and would like to give thanks through this painting to all the teachers on this earth, especially the ones that are mountains.

Big step descent.

Willow Creek Canyon, Part 2

© Bonnie Kelso

willow
acrylic on canvas
36 x 24″

My painting, willow, is a tribute to Willow Creek Canyon, a beautiful canyon in Death Valley National Park. Inspired by a specific waterfall in the canyon, I used the following photo reference for my painting.

Reference photo for "willow."

Canyoneering is a great sport, but one that takes some technical training and preparation. This journal of mine is by no means to be used as a guide and only intended to entertain.

Me, seeking inspiration...

Below is a video of my husband, Ron, rappelling this lovely waterfall.

Willow Creek Canyon, Part 1

There’s a magical oasis in the vast desert area known as Death Valley National Park. This is the story of my trip through Willow Creek Canyon and the painting it inspired. I knew I was going to paint something from this place. I had been wanting to see this canyon ever since I had heard about it two years before.

Gold Valley

The first time I went to Death Valley, I was still a tourist to the region. It was my birthday and I was in Las Vegas, alone. Ugh, so sad. So I rented a car (all I could get was a mini-van) and headed to Death Valley. It was a little scary, being a single girl, from Virginia, alone in the desert, traveling for miles and miles without seeing anything familiar around me. No cars, no people, no water. Only miles and miles of road, and endless desert scenery. I was instantly smitten. I stopped at all the normal tourist stops. I climbed up to the rim of the crater, I gazed out over Zabriskie Point, I shot a roll of film at the Artist’s Palette, I strolled into Golden Canyon, and I used the toilet at Scotty’s Castle. And, eventually I did start seeing other people, though not many. I realized then how easy it was to get away from it all in a place like Death Valley. Confronted by a heat I had never experienced, discovering piles of salty rock and enormous sand dunes, I never once imagined a place like Willow Creek Canyon existed there.

Bigelow Coreopsis flowers in Gold Valley

On April 19th, 2009, I set out with my husband and two friends to walk along Willow Creek. It is not an easy canyon to traverse entirely. The car shuttle took as much time as the actual hike, and the engine light on my Honda still hasn’t gone off, but it was well worth it.

Globemallow

Entering Gold Valley, with the spring flowers in full bloom was the beginning and end to this delightful day.

As soon as we got to the parking area the canyon was evident. Within a few hundred yards we were suddenly in a mushy muddy wetland with thick tall grass rising up from the canyon floor. Birds seemed to be everywhere, and their gleeful chirps were bouncing off the granite-like walls.

Wetland?

There were beautiful healthy cactus blooming as well as wildflowers and even some crazy squash-like canyon vegetables growing on vines. I am obviously not a botanist, but the variety of flora in this canyon was unlike most parts of Death Valley. I had to keep reminding myself where I was!

Willow Creek is spring fed so there is water here year-round. There are many springs like this one in the region. Some are hot springs, indicating that all this bubbling liquid activity has a geo-thermal origin. The more I learn and discover about Death Valley, the more everything I see here makes sense to me.

"canyon squash"

Although it was a hot day, the temperatures stayed pleasant in the canyon. The sound of gently flowing water does wonders for keeping you cool.

You can go quite a way here before the first rappel. Often there are walk-arounds or tricky down-climbs, but unless you have a rope and a few canyoneering skills you won’t be able to make it all the way through to the bottom. It is important to keep in mind in these places how remote you are and how long it would take you to get to a hospital if you were to slip. I admit that I often reflect on this as I watch my husband bravely move through an obstacle.

Pink barrel cactus perched above the grassy canyon.

The first rappel.

Luke raps into the "wetland."

My waterfall of choice for the painting "willow."

The canyon continues with a series of rappels or down-climbs. There are waterfalls all along the creek, and one in particular caught my eye as special. This is the one I decided I would make my painting of. It had unusual markings, like the stripes of a tiger. You could tell from the shape of it that it had been carved out by very forceful water flow. It had two paths the water could take. One path (the one you can see water flowing down in the photo) is a gentle fall that lands in the pool at the bottom in a delightful sprinkle. The other, was to the left where the stripes are. It is the shape of a curved half pipe where you can imagine a huge flash flood may have raged at one time. How exciting it would be to see such a thing …from a safe distance of course.

A wonderful day in a beautiful Death Valley oasis. As we exited the canyon and walked into the sun-drenched wash the heat skyrocketed. This would be my last canyon in Death Valley for the season!

…See part 2 of this blog for a look at my painting “willow.”

Willow Creek

Another nice waterfall.

Me in action!

Ron pondering the previous rappel.

Willow Creek

Small pool.

From here we can see the valley.

Nice shadow!

Looking back into the canyon.

Multi-level rappel.

Scene of a crime...

The canyon finally opens up.

Desert tortoise crossing the road in Gold Valley.

Grand Canyon Double-Crossing

I just finished my painting, river, which is a tribute to the double-crossing of the Grand Canyon my husband and I made in September of 2007. I’ve been wanting to paint from this experience for a long time, but sometimes I just need a bit more time to process an experience before expressing it through art. Working on this piece has brought back great memories of the trip and I thought I would share the experience here through words and photos.

river, 40x30, acrylic on canvas

The painting, river, expresses the beautiful colors of the steep canyon walls as they drop into darkness. The Colorado River can appear to be strange shades of green when the sky is not reflected in it. When I follow the path of the river along the canyon it entices me to move ahead and explore each new bend. My mind tells me the journey would be endless, but the longing to explore remains.

Ron at the trailhead, South Rim

DAY ONE: SOUTH RIM TO NORTH RIM

When embarking on a trip like this where all you do is walk and talk and say “ahhhhhh…” it is important to be in good company. My husband and I made this trip one month before we were engaged. We were able to really get to know each other that weekend. As you will see from the photos, travelling to the bottom of the Grand Canyon is and long and diverse trail. The painting reflects more of an impression of the experience and is not from a specific location. The closest reference may have been from an area called the “box” which I actually did not take any photos in. I suppose I was too busy saying, “ahhhhh….”

View from South Kaibab Trail

We started out pretty fresh and the weather just couldn’t have been better. We had left our tent and car at the campsite where we spent the night before at Mather Campground. By staying in a cabin at the North Rim, we would be able to carry only a day pack and stay light. Only about 45 miles or so ahead of us. The crazy thing is, that some people, including a few good friends, actually just run the whole way there and back in one day. After having done this now over two days, they have my sincere respect.

Feeling strong and happy

The river!

Drinking water is soooo important.

Hiking the Grand Canyon is like climbing an inverted mountain. Drinking water is soooo important! As we hiked down into the canyon and lost altitude it started to get hot.You have to remember to drink lots of water. You have to remember to eat, too. Because if you only drink water and do not eat you can get what they call “water intoxication,” which is a common ailment of hiking the Grand Canyon. The effects can be very bad, something like heat-stroke, so it’s nothing to mess around with.

The river!

The colors of the canyon.

A most amazing day! The skies are blue and the temperature is just perfect. This is why everyone and their brother wants to hike the Grand Canyon at this time of year.

Deer getting water

Perfect camouflage!

Many animals come to the river for water. We ran into a small group of deer enjoying the river. We also saw the fresh tracks of a wild cat, possibly a bobcat or small mountain lion. The variety of animal and vegetation that is supported by the river is delightful to discover.

A relaxing rest stop

Even though there are thousands of visitors to the Grand Canyon on any given day during the spring and fall, you can still find times when you are completely alone. This was my favorite rest stop that day.

Still a long way up...

Next time I come to the canyon I want to be able to stay a little while. But on this day we had to keep moving, a brief stop-over at Phantom Ranch for a beer and then we needed to start moving up.

Losing daylight

This is when we realized we would be finishing our first day after dark. The march was on, and the camera was put away, because we had dinner reservations to make that night, and believe me, we did not want to miss dinner!

Soon enough it was pitch black and we needed our headlamps. There was not enough moonlight that night to go without them. The switchbacks were steep and plentiful. I started to wonder who else we might find crossing this trail, since I was positive we were the only human hikers around.

“So what am I supposed to do when I come face to face with a mountain lion?” I asked my husband casually.

Before he could even answer we heard the thumping sound of a large animal emerging from the bushes and landing on the trail ahead. Our headlamps caught the the flash of eyes on the trail about thirty feet ahead of us. They looked low to the ground and my heart started to race. I stopped in my tracks and let my husband bravely pass me to investigate. To our relief, the silhouette of a deer with its head lowered started to emerge before us and then in another instant the deer leaped off the trail and disappeared into the bushes.

Lucky for us we arrived only ten minutes late for our dinner reservations. We didn’t realize we would have to walk the extra three miles of road from the trail head to the lodge. Even when we tried to hitch a ride, no one would stop for us. Needless to say we ate and slept well that night.

The next morning...

DAY TWO: NORTH RIM TO SOUTH RIM

This is the road we walked in both directions to and from the trail head. We missed the shuttle, and again no one would give us a ride, but at least this time we were rested.

So that's the view!

I have to admit, day two came and went with much less enthusiasm, so the photographs are few and far between, but it was still a most amazing experience and I’m so glad we did it.

Ahhhh, Tecate!

Stopping at Phantom Ranch for a Tecate, would prove to be the carrot dangled before us. Then the memory of that sweet satisfaction managed to propel us to the top of the South Rim again.

Crossing the River again

On the return route we took the Bright Angel Trail up to the South Rim. There was just so much to see along the way and the scenery just continues to change that the time really did pass quickly. Only when it got dark did we start to notice every ache and pain and every single switch back.

Again, still a long way up...

Fortunately we arrived at the top of the South Rim just in time to catch the very last shuttle to the campground. We crawled into my car and placed our swollen feet on the dashboard and sipped beers from the cooler we had left ourselves. As we studied our wounded wads of flesh that used to be feet, we discussed whether or not we would ever do it again. I believe the answer then was, “no way.” But as time has a way of erasing the pain, and highlighting the glory, I think now I would do it again.

Lower Waterholes Canyon, Page, Arizona

I just finished my painting, waterhole. This artwork was inspired by a trip through Lower Waterholes Canyon near Page, Arizona. It was mid-March of this year that we went there, only a few weeks before my wedding. I went with my husband and two friends, Luke and Paul. It was a beautiful canyon, but one that could easily turn treacherous.

waterhole

The skies here reflect that ominous feeling. I’m happy to report that the gods were smiling on us that day, and we emerged unscathed. It could have ended very poorly for us.

Waterholes Canyon empties into the Colorado River. There is no where to go from that sandy bank unless you want to try to swim the river, which is highly unrecommended. We had arranged for a boat to pick us up there around 4pm. When 4pm came and went we were able to contact our service briefly, from the top of this cliff. There was no guarantee that they would be able to wait long for us. Bad weather was moving in and it becomes dangerous to navigate the boat along the river safely at night. This could have meant an unexpected overnight stay on that very sandy shore. In Glen Canyon, the winds would have been rather biting, and the following day it actually snowed. So we could have been hypothermic in a matter of hours. We arrived at the river about three hours late. I remain eternally grateful to a river guide named Brad for keeping our fun adventure from becoming a disastrous epic.

This is me rappelling through the chimney.

My painting is from the reference point of the bottom of a 450 (+/-) foot drop-off. This involved two rappels, one of which we acheived with a 400 foot rope dropping us 357 feet. As I looked up to where I had come from, my knees still shaking from the long descent, I felt like a tiny fish in a sandstone fishbowl. Cathedral-like walls surrounded me in an amphitheater configuration as I studied a gaping slot dead-ahead of me. Only a few moments ago I had slid my entire body through a chimney to this sheer wall. Now that chimney appeared more like a hairline crack in a giant teacup. Feeling small and insignificant, I now realized I was standing in the mother of all waterholes, and to my benefit, it was dry as a bone. The skies above were turning stormy. My imagination began to go wild and I imagined that in the near distance it was raining, and that a flash flood was imminent. The sand under my feet was soft and fine, having been pummeled relentlessly from floods of the past. What a sight that would be to see this waterhole filling itself!

The camera could not capture the vastness of this place. It was an amazing canyon. Earlier there had been places so tight you felt you might get stuck there. Then there were parts where it just opened up and and was enormous!

Looking down from the 357 foot rappel.

Once you lower past the chimney it opens up and is a sheer wall below you. This is a view of the sandy bottom as the cameraman is rappelling down. I did not take this photo. It’s just hard to describe the scale of this place. Pretty awesome!

The next photo shows Ron rappelling. You can see how sheer the wall is. The black stains reveal that water will flow down this way at times. I would love to see what this looks like. I wonder if it becomes a gushing waterfall. When a canyon flashes there is often a lot of debris that gets carried with the water. The portion of the canyon above this point was pretty clear of logs and sticks. I was taking note of this fact when we were considering spending the night there. It’s always good to take inventory of your resources for staying warm.

My husband, Ron.

We were also very fortunate that we had remained dry. It was getting pretty cold. In fact, it had been cold all day. The canyon was unusually dry. When we approached the only pothole where we knew we would get wet, a group of young guys showed up and built a zip line. We all sailed across without getting a single toe wet. Except for the one sacrificial lamb who had to set the zip line up on the other side. Burrrrrr! Just seeing how miserable he was made me realize how close to an emergency situation we were.

The last photo shows the guys trying to pull the rope. They devised a pulley system to try to get that rope to break loose, but it just wouldn’t budge. Luckily Paul had freed another abandoned rope along the way that we ended up using for the remaining rappels. Another fortunate circumstance.

As we arrived to the river, we were greeted by our patient boat captain, Brad. He had been waiting for three hours. He was strumming his guitar and to me looked like a guardian angel perched up on the bow of the boat! By that time we were all just giddy. If you want to see more photos of this adventure they are posted on Luke’s website. He has a much more professional account of the whole thing.

Trying to retreive the rope.

The Maze, Red Rock Canyon, Nevada

Watercolor on paper, 3.5 x 2.5"

Last week I got to travel through the Maze! A local favorite here at Red Rock Canyon, Nevada, it is a true oasis in the desert. From above on the ridge near Bridge Mountain the Maze is a long deep crack. Being the middle of summer hiking up to drop in point in 108 degree temperatures calls for some extraordinary efforts. It took us a bit of huffing and puffing and about 3 hours of slow ascension from Willow Springs. Even the 2 foot long rattle snake I nearly stepped on at the ridge was too hot to move or rattle!

It was a relief to drop into that crack, a place mostly traveled by animals in search of refreshment. It turns into a sexy slot very early on. Small basins known as potholes dot the pathway down and are filled with clear rainwater and hundreds of tadpoles just waiting to grow large enough to hop their way out into the world. I make a wish for them in passing that they’ll either see rain soon have their metamorphosis completed before all the water evaporates.

The upper section has some cool formations to rappel down. One trickles with water flow, like the image I have painted. The water below collects into pools so deep you have to swim your way out. The water is very chilled here and a wetsuit is required. From extreme heat to extreme cold, you have to be prepared for anything in the canyon. Sun leaks in over the towering walls above, and occasionally finds it way to the bottom to warm you up before the next big drop.

Deeper in the canyon there are full-fledged frogs. They’ve found the party. They peek at us curiously, not knowing any fear of humans. The lower section drops even more dramatically providing us with longer rappels, until we exit through a tunnel of sorts and become visible again to valley dwellers. This drops falls 200 feet and is a running waterfall, covered in mossy growth. From the distance of the scenic loop you would never even see it. A true hidden oasis and a joy to the senses, my trip through the maze was full of amazing sights.

Check out my video to see another glimpse of “the maze.”

Heaps Canyon, part 2

There are canyons in Zion National Park so long and challenging that you have to plan to take two days to get through them. Heaps Canyon is one of these. When you are down in the narrows of a two-day canyon, you are truly in the belly of the beast. This is the sort of feeling that overwhelmed me for most of the trip. I reflected on this trip for months before putting my thoughts into imagery. This was one of the most challenging things I had ever done. I wanted the painting to express that deep trapped feeling, but at the same time reflect a sense of awe and magic.

Here is the image from the canyon I used most when composing my sketches. My first sketch is a simplified replication of the photograph. From here I made a few quick studies.

  

Heaps Canyon, Zion National Park, UT

Day one:
Saturday, June 23, 2007

Our approach was a doozie! Temperatures were in the 100s, and that’s hot for Zion. This is where we Las Vegans go to escape our blistering summer heat, and this weekend we failed. Starting out at the Visitor Center, we carefully double checked our bags for redundant items. Should we bring two jetboil stoves or one. Better not to risk it, what if one gets damaged. The last thing on our minds was the thoughts of the freezing cold nights to come, but you have to go into it prepared for anything.

As I believe I had mentioned in my last blog of Mystery Canyon, there are canyons in Zion National Park so long and challenging that you have to plan to take two days to get through them. Heaps Canyon is one of these. We were planning to spend the night at the crossroads, a most-likely dry patch between sets of wet narrow slot canyon sections. This makes it a popular place to set up camp. Since Zion is it’s own weather system, you never know when rain might strike and send flash floods roaring through the slot canyons. And if this happens, you want to be as high and dry as you can get. Our forecast for that weekend was nothing but sunshine!