There is nothing more lovely to me and my husband than a wintery desert sky. Maybe it’s because of the way it completely transforms the desert we commonly think of: that hot steamy dry place, heavy with golden tones and clear blue skies. I love the desert. I love living surrounded by it. Many people look at the desert and only see brown dirt. They don’t get it… and that’s okay. It takes a certain type of person to truly appreciate its diversity and magnificent beauty. Those of us who love the desert know of the special places where its mystery unfolds before us. Since the majority of people never see these places, it only makes these places more dear to us.

This painting I created for myself as a tribute to the wintery desert sky.  It was hanging in my living room for many months before I decided to put it on display at Gaia for this holiday season. I hope you enjoy it! And if it’s not for you, that’s okay, too, because it’s still just as special (if not more so) to me.

I’ve written before about this painting, and if you have read the previous post about it, you will understand how personal this piece is to me. It is about conceiving my first child, a huge event in my personal life. I admit to having a strongly superstitious side, even though for the most part I am a reasonable, practical, and down-to-earth type of person. When a woman showed interest in purchasing my painting “pearl” at a show two winters ago, I suddenly got an anxious feeling. I felt a true attachment to one of my paintings that I had not experienced in a while. I didn’t want to sell it. This is unusual for me. I am normally very interested in selling my work. Selling my work is part of why I wanted to be a full-time artist, to share my work and love for nature with others. It validates me as an artist, to know that others want to spend their hard earned dollars on something that I created. But when this lovely woman started eying my painting with that look that usually gets me excited, I suddenly felt myself praying that I wouldn’t close the deal. She didn’t buy the painting. I felt relieved. The show ended and she never called me. I considered taking the piece “off the market.” I asked my husband if I was being silly, and if I should continue to offer the painting for sale. He felt I should sell it, and that it wouldn’t be “bad luck” at all. It would be good luck to sell the piece, because it would allow for my career as an artist to continue to develop.

I decided to keep the piece available to buyers. I decided that who ever wanted it next time, I would do my best to complete the sale, and not use any energy to stop it from happening. A few weeks before I delivered my baby, another person contacted me about buying my painting, “pearl.” It was an Irish woman I had traveled with in China. She was getting married and wanted to buy it as a wedding gift to herself and her new husband. I was thrilled that she would become the owner. My attachment issues towards the piece just seemed to vanish. I felt honored that my painting would find a home in Ireland with her. What better place for it to be. Maybe even someday, my husband and I will take our baby, Seamus, to Ireland and we will visit her and his painting. Selling this painting gives me a future goal of taking my child on a trip abroad, something I love to do myself. Most importantly, it continues the story of this piece that has meant so much to me. Making art is a journey to me of the heart and soul. The fact that the actual product of this journey will take a physical journey to a land of my own family’s heritage, pleases me tremendously.

So, the day before my scheduled C-section, I packed the piece up with tender loving care and sent it on it’s way. This was almost a year ago now. I can hardly believe it has been that long. I have had this blog half written and in my draft box for almost a year. I suppose I do still harbor an attachment for the piece after all. I can report that the piece arrived safely in Ireland where it will be enjoyed everyday by its new owner. I don’t feel regret, but I have learned that sometimes “letting go” can be a lengthy process.

Read my first blog about the “pearl.”

I thought to myself, “Oh well, I still have another painting that is quite similar called “duststorm.”

Well, strangely enough, only moments after I parted with “dust,” I discovered that I had sold “duststorm.” There must be some kind of magic dust in the air or something!

Anyway, “duststorm” has gone to a good home here in Las Vegas. Another baby has been sent off into the world!

"duststorm" by Bonnie Kelso

"Dust" by Bonnie Kelso, 24 x 36," acrylic on canvas

This year I am bumping up the stakes and donating an original piece of artwork to the KNPR’s online auction which will be held from February 10 – 19, 2011. This is a great fundraiser for Public Radio which I have always been a big fan of. It’s great because it benefits a great cause… but it’s also great because you can buy lots of amazing things through it. You can get tickets to some of the hottest Las Vegas shows and attractions for a steal. You can find crazy restaurant packages, services from a whole slew of businesses, fabulous artwork and handmade items, and this year… DUST!

I know, I’m not the Blue Man Group or Chef André, and all I can afford to give is dust, but I hope some lucky buyer will snatch it up for a good cause!

“Dust” is my original painting (gulp, sniff — it’s always so hard to part with the originals) and a member of my Elements Series which I have been developing over the past year. I began the series when I got pregnant and began my meditation practice. I wasn’t able to get out into the elements physically like I used to, so I began going there in my mind through the help of meditation and visualization techniques. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming about these places. The dreams triggered memories, and the meditation helped to transfer these ephemeral details into tangible paint on canvas. “Elements” is the result of journeys into my inner awareness.

I am excited about these new paintings and have been looking for new ways to share them with the world. They are expressions of desert landscapes created through my hands, mind, heart, and soul.

So, on February 10th, roll up your sleeves and take a good long surf through KNPR’s online auction… and don’t forget to notice the “dust!”

Detail of "dust" by Bonnie Kelso

duststorm, acrylic on canvas, 12x36"

Just like in my dream, an enormous cloud of dust in seen thundering across a golden desert valley… It isn’t often that a painting really comes out the way you envision it will. I got lucky this time! It came to me in a dream along with a few other images that have yet to reincarnate themselves in paint. Over the past few months I’ve been experiencing an explosion of creative energy. I dream it, it literally wakes me in the middle of the night, and will not let me go back to sleep. I stumble upstairs in to my studio and I paint. It is like I have no say or control over it. It just wills itself into existence. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced as an artist.

echo, acrylic on canvas, 40x30"

My painting echo began last year, before I got pregnant. I had named it after Echo Canyon in Zion National Park. It was the last canyon I explored before putting those adventures on hold for a while. There is a place in Echo Canyon called the echo chamber. The walls are deep here and they move in and out like an endless hourglass for several hundred feet. The opening at the top is narrow and only a sliver of sky is revealed above you. Every sound that occurs here vibrates and repeats until it fades into silence. If only I had a beautiful voice, I would have sung my loveliest of love songs there. As it was, all I could do was release a howl! As the sound repeated itself again and again, it brought a smile to my soul.

This painting lay in a state of neglect in my studio for months, until one night last week, awoken again in the middle of the night, I placed it back on the easel and transformed it into what you see now. How I ache for the sound of water dripping, a loose rock falling, or the approaching of wind that sounds like water rushing towards you. I hold on to the memories, the echo, until I can be there again…

Bonnie Kelso
Artist/Adventurer
My web site: www.bkelso.com
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dunes

My painting dunes explores the play of light on large sand dunes. Acrylic on canvas 36 x 45″ (multi-canvas).

Today, I have officially entered my third trimester of pregnancy, and man do I feel soooooo… pregnant! It can be quite overwhelming at times: how large my body is getting, how tired I am, and how utterly breathless I’ve become! I am looking up at the title of my blog and trying to recall my days of adventure. It seems like an eternity since I climbed a rock wall or scaled a mountain. When all that activity suddenly is put on pause, time seems to move at a glacial pace.

This is not such a bad thing. How many times are we given the opportunity to truly allow ourselves to be at rest? Physical restrictions can, in some ways, be a blessing in disguise. I have taken this opportunity to explore new adventures of the mind. Since my body is no longer able to take me to exotic and beautiful places, I have found a way to enter a new world inside my mind filled with mystical landscapes and shiny tactile qualities. Since being pregnant, I have put my normal style of painting on the back burner, while I explore these new images that I have been inundated with. I’ve even been having dreams about them. These new works are highly texturized, and have a free and loose quality about them. I have been using metallic paints which make the images shimmer in the light and the colors shift as you view the piece from different angles.

I hope you enjoy them! I have several more in the works and will post them as soon as they are completed.

sunrise

My painting sunrise represents the four elements within four separate canvases. The smaller canvases represent water, earth and fire. They work together to ground the focal point of the piece which is the large canvas above representing the fourth element: air. Acrylic on canvas 50 x 48″ (multi-canvas).

mirage

My painting mirage explores the natural phenomenon of light refraction. The two canvases are separated by a void representing a fuzzy separation between reality and illusion. Acrylic on canvas 31 x 36″ (multi-canvas)

brushfire

My painting brushfire explores the explosive element of fire. The three remaining elements (air, water, and earth) are represented in the small canvases below to act as a counter-balance. Acrylic on canvas 24 x 24″ (multi-canvas).

I have been enjoying the process of creating these pieces very much. They represent the love I feel for my desert home. It relaxes me look at them and helps in some way to relieve the longing I feel to be out in the wilderness again.

Bonnie Kelso
Artist/Adventurer
My web site: www.bkelso.com
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pearl, acrylic on canvas, 16x20"

Ever thought about how a single pearl is made?

Pearls are formed inside mollusks – living creatures that inhabit the sea, such as mussels, clams, conchs and oysters. “Natural” pearls are created naturally and “cultured” pearls are made though the use of human assistance. Now before you think I’m about to endorse natural pearls, I have to tell you that natural pearls start with an organic intruder, usually a parasite. A fact quite contrary to the romantic notion that they start with a single grain of sand. The formation of the natural pearl is caused by the mollusk’s defense mechanism kicking in. It is, in essence, creating a barrier around the intruder to protect itself. Over time, this becomes a pearl. The natural pearl is rare as only 1 in 10,000 animals will actually create a single pearl.

In cultured pearls, normally a polished bead made from a freshwater mussel shell is inserted into a particular species of oyster called a pearl oyster. The length of time required depends on the size of the pearl desired, but normally it takes one to five years to develop a pearl of a desirable size. Multiple pearls can develop inside a single oyster at one time. In some species, farmers can save the oyster’s life when extracting the pearl, but most of the time the oyster is sacrificed for the pearl.

I was thinking about mollusks when I was working on my painting, “pearl.” I was also trying to get pregnant. Obviously, this weighed heavily in my thoughts at the time as well. I had built this swirling nutrient rich space first with cadmium and crimson paints. Painting the actual pearl was the very last thing I did to the painting. It just seemed like this fleshy world was missing something important. A few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.

I had been trying to get pregnant for one year and four months since a devastating miscarriage. I had started seeing a fertility doctor, in hopes of getting some assistance, or at least some answers as to what was wrong. I was filled with new hope and was just about to start treatments when it all just happened naturally. That little pearl just appeared!

I had always heard that visualization was a powerful thing. Now, I believe. My greatest wish was granted. My baby is scheduled to arrive on June 10th, 2010… and the birthstone for June is… you guessed it, the pearl!

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.” 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.!!!

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.