Trees loom large, heavy laden with heavy wet white spring snow cloaks. Snow ghosts in the mist this morning. Burdon. Beauty. Mystery.

Six inches of fresh snow yesterday, actually was a blessing that kept me productive indoors. So much to do since I’ve a “normal” job for two weeks as a carpenter’s assistant. Eight hour days, one-hour commute each way…so that the art part/business part is early morning, late night, and…Sunday (punctuated with a much needed cozy nap with my cat in the late afternoon).

People packed into Elle’s Belles for “Birds, Bunnies, and Chainsaws.” Chairs were borrowed last minute from the bar next door and still the people kept coming. I was blown away…and thrilled to have a room-full and receptive audience. Still feel both plumb tuckered and energized at the same time from the performance, much like the mix I feel after a productive studio day or a climbing day. Different kind of tired…and maybe a subtle different kind of energized, but all good. Really good.

Sleep goblins snatched much needed rest; left my insides coated with sticky muck and darkened my mood last week. Even my best intentions and less-than-lofty ideas got mired in the goo. Any attempts to clean up seemed futile. The more I rubbed and scrubbed, the messier and darker I felt. Many of the yummy things in life have messy moments (i.e. making art…making love) so why fight it? But I was frustrated to tears, frightened, and grumpy. I took Sunday off. Indulged in an order of biscuits ‘n gravy AND a cinnamon scone served by the sweet ladies at Wheat Montana while on the way to Indian Creek Canyon for an afternoon of hot rock and good climbing. Despite the treats and the sunshine, the muck lingered. Fear flared as I took the “sharp end of the rope” and led a few climbs up the rock. I shook. I took deep breaths. I rolled my eyeballs when my partner tried to make jokes. Sometimes men are…well…MEN!! My lips tightened in a grimace more than once despite his best efforts. I could not sincerely grin. The rock was inviting and challenging. I climbed klutzy with hesitation but I did not quit. I accomplished one climb and then another, and another…and another. Here’s where I’d like to write that I climbed myself out of the bad mood. “The sunshine, the happy dogs, the good food, and the kind company polished that black gook into bright dazzling clean happy innards.” NOPE! My mood did not noticeably change. I didn’t kick, hit, spit or scream but felt like the goblins had taken those liberties with me. Pummeled and panting, I continued to climb. I wanted to be happy. I get mad at myself when grasped by the goblins. I told my climbing partner that I felt like a big zit that needed to be squeezed to release the foul fluid suffocating my soul. Perhaps if I could figure out the source of the infection, I could cure it. Many possibilities…but here’s where I’ll edit my journal writing so this remains a blog post and not a whole chapter. Simply said, life can be complicated. You’ll never guess what finally blew my mood later that day from dark and dreary to light and fluffy! But I’ve run out of time and will have to leave you hanging until I can tell that part of the story. Stay tuned!

Spring camping last night! Big fat round moon reflected in puddles of melted snow. Happy dogs trying to share sleeping bags and bedding. Sleep with a smile. Pink sky and sun-drunk moon linger bold and bright on the horizon. Hot tea and warm thoughts. Good company.

Part Poodle?

This fancy fashioned chicken struts the latest super model ensemble. Inspired by a photo in a coffee table book of Exotic Chickens…the goofy little long-lashed beauty is cute…and she KNOWS it!

She just shipped to Texas yesterday to join the art collection of the newest Patron Place member.

I'm gonna miss her!

Wednesday already? The week is clipping along a bit out of control…not unlike my attempt to ski downhill last night on fast crusty snow while wearing my “skinny skis.” Cross-country skis are just not meant for fast turns and steep hills. Well…at least not while strapped to my feet anyway. I’m a total klutz on skinny skis…pretty funny. I laugh, scream and tumble my way down hills. If you were to sit in a vehicle with a pen in each hand resting on a pad of paper while riding on a bumpy country road, my erratic tracks might resemble the marks left on the paper, punctuated with the occasional big “splat” where I fell. No kidding. But I had been busy inside all day. The sun was shining, the snow slinking away, and the big white saddle on the ridge east of my cabin where the elk roam beckoned me out for a quick whacky dose of spring madness. Zaydee and I skied past Granny’s cabin, down a drainage, and then climbed the elk-tracked slopes to the ridge for a breathtaking view of the Bridger Mountains. I got back huffing and puffing in one piece just in time to greet Felicia, pour some wine, and set plates outside for a steak dinner with her and Cliff. The sun serenaded us until it dipped behind the ridge, and quietly left us to the subtle spring evening sky. We bundled up in coats and relished the ability to sit outside.

 

April 6, 2009

Two whole scrumptious sunny days without turning on the computer! Enjoyed the springtime fresh snow (12 inches!), sunshine (almost burnt), creative thoughts (lordy!), art making (lots of sparkles), toddy-drinking (hee hee), NOVA café treats (yum!)…AND…friendship deepening soul-licking connections with deeply kind, fun, and funny friends. A spring blizzard dumped over a foot of fresh snow. Sunday morning I got stuck…then Cliff got stuck. I honestly did not mind one bit since I hadn’t really felt like leaving the mountain. Crawling around on my knees with a shovel to dig out my truck wasn’t a big deal since I was dressed to ski (had plans to use free ski passes at Big Sky Ski Resort). The sky was deep blue, the trees were laden with thick white snow, and Zaydee was leaping around and rolling in the fluff while trying to “herd” the stuck trucks. Luckily my ski partner was game to explore the deep snow here so he drove over the pass and up the mountain to my place. Paul arrived with yummy baked (wheat-free) treats, diesel fuel for the skid steer, his big dog Blaze, and a few good steaks for the grill later. He got stuck too. (Recurring theme…? Or….a scheme?) After the truck/snow rodeo, Paul and I put skins on our skis and climbed up the mountain behind my cabin. The sun beamed with fresh spring strength. I pulled off my coat, then my shirt…and climbed up the mountain in my bra. A few feet of snow beneath me, a foot of snow in the branches of trees above me, and bare skin between…truly springtime in the Rockies! The top of the mountain was beyond any scene in a Hollywood movie. Magical. The richly textured landscape was patterned from small pocks of snow; a wonderfully woven blanket of white. Tall stark trees stood still and stoic; soldier-like. Everything from one direction was white. The dark trees were smocked in white snow…not soft powder but rather little snow globs stuck to every exposed surface from one direction. Awestruck, we skied through the magical lunar landscape with snow-plastered to trees; huge grins beaming in the bright sunlight. The dogs plowed through deep snow, working hard but loving it.

 

 

 

View from on top, Yellowstone River, Paradise Valley, Absaroka/Beartooth Mountains

April 2, 2009

Warm fuzzies linger from the gracious audience at last night’s performance. Honestly I feel a bit awe-stuck from the beauty and intensity of an instant connection…the feedback…laughing… gasps…tears…and warm community. Definitely is a departure from the “hermitude” of studio life. Emboldened from previous performances, I continue to experiment and grow. Last night was no exception…yet…exceptional given the audience and the carefully woven colorful and meaningful elixir shared.

I am inspired to do more.

 

SOLD - to the newest Patron Place Member (just before midnight last night)

 

 

March 30, 2009  

Stuffed today with kooky creativity, burly business, house-keeping (even scrubbed the bathroom), family care (took my father home from the hospital, visited with Flynn's parents at ICU, and climbed 3 pitches of ice in the evening until 8pm…should I mention the scrumptious dinner out…the big margarita…the soothing soak…the fine companionship? Awesome start to the week!  

    Rapelling off of the falls in the late evening...fresh snow falling...

 

 

 

Known as the most painterly method among the printmaking techniques, monotypes are essentially printed paintings. The spontaneous characteristic of monotypes is that no two prints are alike. Although images can be similar, making an edition using a printing press is not possible. I use an antique printing press (named Junior) and often combine ink, pastels, colored pencils and a variety of media in each original artwork. "Shasta" can be viewed/purchased at:

 

http://www.amberjean.com/portfolio/works+on+paper

March 29, 2009

I left my father’s side Friday evening to stay with my mom in Bozeman. Two young climber friends got out of the hospital elevator and I realized instantly that the family in the ICU waiting room is there for Flynn; young-adventuress-big-smile-super-kind Flynn who rolled her car a week and a half ago. She was returning with her brother through Gallatin Canyon after a day of teaching ski classes at Big Sky. She broke her neck and crushed her pelvis. They both had seatbelts on, her brother was uninjured. Our small climbing community is still not over the shock and concern for LizAnn after the accident on Mt Cowen left her paralyzed months ago. Once again the climbing community has rallied with love and support for one of our “own” cherished super sweet and adventurous gal. The plan was to transport Flynn to Craig on Wednesday (the same rehabilitation center where LizAnn went after her spine injury)…so I hadn’t connected the dots…and had no idea the family in the ICU waiting room belonged to little Flynn. Lung complications have kept them from transporting Flynn, in fact…the complications took a turn for the worse yesterday which necessitated sedating her, putting a feeding tube in and scheduling a tracheotomy this morning. She won’t be able to talk when she wakes up…terrifying to someone who cannot move or feel below her neck. Just a few months ago, Flynn inquired often about LizAnn’s progress after LizAnn’s accident and remarked that she did not think she could deal the way LizAnn did. Dealing she is, struggling for breath and life, showing grace and bravery. My heart aches for her parents and their pain. The journey by LizAnn’s side has been poignant and gut-wrenchingly painful…but is no comparison to a parent’s pain. Parents were not part of the intensity of that first month in ICU with LizAnn. The sedation, the breathing tube, and respirator allowed her parents their first break in the bedside vigil last night. They got a hotel room and showers for the first time in 10 days since the accident. Much needed rest, hopefully they feel strengthened for the scary moments today when Flynn wakes from surgery and realizes she cannot speak. I am home after a relatively simple vigil with my parents. Dad is recuperating from his surgery, feeling good enough to be grumpy about his breakfast. Dinner last night was shared with a big batch of girlfriends by candlelight during the 60 minute Earth Hour where many people from around the world turned off their lights and power for one hour. Felt good for me to reconnect with some of the women in my own little town. I read updates about Flynn and her family before bed last night, (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/flynnmurray/journal) and became too pumped with concern and emotion to sleep. The morning brought thick winter whiteness, trees veiled and snow falling. My first cup of tea had Bailey’s, two more cups (without Bailey’s) and a number of phone conversations later and it is time to write for the April 1st performance at Pine Creek

March 27, 2009

A family is camped out in the waiting room outside ICU. Red suitcases line one wall. Small coffee tables have open bags of candy with bows and empty coffee cups stacked three-deep. I offer a smile each time I pass them; a smile bright and bold as the red suitcases - packed with comfort, sincere compassion, strength, and warmth. I wonder how long the family has been here and wish I could offer more. My father is recovering from hip surgery…his second. Shortly after sunrise, I watched Dr Gammon write his initials in black ink on Dad’s white thigh next to the “yes!” written earlier and circled in ink by the prep nurse before the anesthesiologist came in to wheel Dad down the hall. The sunny blue sky morphed into a dreary gray while I kept vigil with Mom. The long over-due surgery went well…a relief considering the complications possible when replacing a hip on Dad’s “polio side.” Father survived three separate polio attacks as a child. He’s always had a “polio side” with one leg noticeably smaller than the other. Throughout life he continued to defy medical expectations for his level of physical achievement despite the floppy foot, lack of muscle, and mild deformity. The same doctor replaced his “good” hip five years ago in an attempt to offer some relief. The science to attempt surgery on the “polio side” did not exist back then. Half a decade of incredible pain was endured before science offered the confidence and knowledge to operate in the region wrecked by the mysterious virus. He’s a tough bugger, and that is putting it mildly. Evening approaches. Pale blue patches of sky offer ribbons of cheer; breaking up the grayness. I write while sitting next to the hospital bed with my sleeping father. Our day was long but blessedly simple. My thoughts and healing energy go out to the family in the ICU waiting room, wishing them a future of sunshine and blue skies.

 

March 28, 2009

sold - shipping to Arizona I am glad one of my cousin's purchased this soft delicate little painting...we shared the same beautiful grandmother.

March 24, 2009 - mixed media monotype -

latest artwork you may view at: http://www.amberjean.com/portfolio/works+on+paper

March 24, 2009  

Little bits of snowfloat and fall like drunk and lost fluff white fairies. Patches of old snow are strewn across the bare valley in unkempt random piles of clothing left by the Crazy Mountains, a clue to the pre-pass-out revelries. The mountains, hung-over, sleep it off beneath heavy white down blanket covers. Spring time in the Rockies is a bar-hopping extravaganza of mixed drinks and changing scenery. Two days ago warm rock was climbed by t-shirt wearing enthusiasts. Yesterday six inches of fresh snow shrunk in the afternoon sun to two inches of textured wooly white. I post-holed thigh-deep up the mountain behind my cabin last evening. Dawn showcased trees dusted like donuts in a confectioner’s window. I love the mix…the flurries…the guessing….of spring time in the Rockies.

 

Just added this yellow-eyed contemplative cat to the website today. View it nearly full size at: http://www.amberjean.com/portfolio/works+on+papern.com    

March 19, 2009

"I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana, it is love and it's difficult to analyze love when you are in it."- John SteinbeckMontana is a blessing. I happened onto the quote by Steinbeck this morning and must simply say that I could do the “Snoopy Dance” from pure joy at the luck of calling this place home. Home sweet expansive sky home. Home sweet blue mountains home. Home sweet wild spring rivers home. Home sweet cozy cabin home.I am blowing kisses to the heavens with thanks, gratitude and a grin.

 

Sold "Charles" today and shipped him to Colorado.

March 18, 2009

Slept about two hours last night before the emotional goblins got rowdy…sometimes I just can’t quiet them down. I tended to them like a cranky barmaid. Tried not to listen to their bar brawl loud-mouth shenanigans. I was stuck relentlessly behind the bar putting in a shift that ended only as the sun came up. My weary body feels sick-to-the-stomach with sleeplessness. I missed Tara’s funeral. A spring snow storm dumped six inches of snow just the perfect consistency to get stuck in. Stuck I was, wearing a short black skirt, digging and swearing in my own driveway. My neighbor Cliff got stuck trying to get me unstuck and swore much louder. We had to borrow a skid steer to get our vehicles out. I haven’t been stuck for years…wonder why I had to get stuck then…fought a few tears and then let it go. Who can argue with such things? Being stuck in snow is a blessing compared to being in an accident. Somehow I was not meant to go. One just has to trust the big picture. I wanted to be emotionally together for my lecture at the Danforth Gallery last night so maybe there was a little blessing in being stuck.But I missed the memorial. I missed the connection with her family and our friends…missed being around others who feel the loss and the void…missed her brothers’ heart wrenching words, the photos, the stories, the catharsis. I hear it was beautiful and sad; emotionally exhausting. I wanted to be there. The night was long. I was stuck in a frustrating shift of sleeplessness, caught in the glare of hustling thoughts and emotions. The goblins clamored for attention. Crowding me, they leaned over the well worn bar…shouted above the din and the smoke and the scum of dark places.

March, 14, 2009  

Kathryn Baker Bornemann wrote a kind thanks on Facebook for the donation. Little Kellan Young has been diagnosed with a rare genetic heart disorder. Here's what Kathryn wrote: "I wanted to say thank you for your very generous donation to Kellan Young’s benefit. The fundraiser was a great success thanks to you and so many really kind people here in Livingston. Proceeds have gone to Kellan’s growing medical expenses. Your horse painting was a great hit – And it was beautifully framed! We’re looking forward to April 1st at Pine Creek.Seems like we never get out for a date night!!! Thanks again for your kindness!! "

March 14, 2009

Little Sara has Down ’s syndrome and LOVES to ski. Rose and I are volunteers in the Eagle Mount Program. Eight weeks of skiing once a week with Sara fostered a serious case of warm fuzzies and good memories.

 

March 13, 2009

Newly added to the website...he is a sharp but friendly rooster...original monotype

Climbing in sub-zero temps. yes...that is ice on my helmet, coat, and eye lashes. Look carefully and you can see the road below (near my shoulder) where we started the climb

 

Meg and I

              Another fun day > Look at the top right corner and you can see the top of another big frozen waterfall...one waterfall after another...up and up and up

March 8, 2009  

I got up in the dark after a night of tossing and turning and tossing and turning. When morning arrived, it illuminated a case of cabin fever smothered by snow white sky. I cannot see the cozy town nestled between the river and the railroad in the valley below. My chest is tight with sadness for the loss of a beautiful soul who passionately advocated for artists and the arts as the manager of Montana Trails Gallery. A freakish apocalyptic gas explosion instantly leveled three historic buildings in downtown Bozeman Thursday morning. Tara was talking to her friend while at her desk in the gallery. Her cell phone went dead. Debris shot in the air, cars flipped, and windows shattered for four city blocks before the fire broke out. The plume of dark smoke billowed with a greedy savageness from the heart of town. The buildings were gone. Simply gone. The fire burned for 24 hours and took a few more businesses with it. Tara is the only casualty; a stick by brick search in the rubble has not yet uncovered her remains. I feel disheartened. After spending the eerie day in Bozeman below the shadow of a darkened sky, I drove the mountain pass home late Thursday feeling whipped. Flinching like an abused dog I tucked my tail and kept my head low. I marvel at how precious life is and how much a few seconds can change the landscape and the soul’s place. I have half-heartedly chipped away at the business part of art, helped a few friends, craved warm food (and lots of it), kept a candle lit for Tara, and tossed my way through long nights where doubt and fear and financial woes lurk. Uninspired to create and like the snowstorm sky which chokes my mountaintop view, my own optimism feels sluggish and short-sighted. I cannot see my way out of the current economic challenge. How best to weather this storm?I am going to pack my bags, pile cat food into Maya’s dish, load up my dog, blow out Tara’s candle and head to the hills of Wyoming for a few days of climbing ice. I must shake the blues, focus my mind and clear my soul of creepy cobwebs. I will blow a kiss to Tara from on top of a frozen waterfall, meet death with life and honor her desire to live passionately.

February 28, 2009

Thus the dilemma of living in a beautiful place when Momma Nature beckons on a glorious Saturday morning dressed in her finest tantalizing outfit to come out and play BUT the same sunshine which highlights the fresh sequined snow also beams in through windows and lights up dust bunnies big enough to make slippers out of.

Bugger

Seems my quaint little cabin in the woods should have a batch of tweetering chubby cheeked birds and scampering chipper little forest critters to take care of the chores for me. If my part of the cleaning scene including singing like Cinderella…well…that thought just burst the bubble on a rather colorful animated fantasy. So here I am, wind chimes with their cathedral-like ambiance, sunshine, and the fur of one cat, one dog, and myself (I shed worse than the two put together) to tend to. But before I drag out my little purple vacuum, let me tell you a bit about a beautiful little detour I took last night after attending an art opening at the Holter Museum in Helena. I’d made the two hour drive to Helena in the late afternoon on dry roads punctuated by the customary stop at the junction of I-90 and 287. The junction is just that, a junction…not a town…nor is it near any town but it has a gas station, a bakery, and a strip joint complete with a sex toy store. The bakery is a “must stop” for two reasons: 1) everything is baked with flour from wheat grown in the surrounding hills 2) the ladies who work there are like a batch of aunts and grandma’s who bake and serve with the kind familiarity of a church picnic. (a third reason would be the cinnamon scones, or the best macaroons in the world, or the homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, or the desert-plate-sized cinnamon rolls of four or five different varieties, or the sack lunches, or…ok…see?!...must…stop). Munching on a warm cinnamon scone, I admired the late afternoon pastel painted sky, saw more antelope than you could count, and marveled at the huge frozen lakes while driving across country to a museum. Cliff called just as I was leaving Helena. He wanted me to look at the moon and the bright spot next to the moon which he said was the space station. The moon appeared as a paper cut out and the space station was brighter than any planet or star; a fact I found both a bit thrilling and totally disturbing. The night drive was uneventful, not even a deer in the headlights. Sometime around 10 pm I got a phone call and an invitation to visit a friend, so while distracted, I had one of my admit ably frequent blond moments and took the wrong exit onto Churchill road thinking it was a shortcut at a junction closer to Bozeman. The slender paved road ambled on past farm buildings, cottonwood trees, and the occasional oversize mailbox before it began to dip, roll, and wind through two sweet little rural communities. Small houses nestled close together with warm lights glowed invitingly. Each small community had an impressively large lit up church. The feeling of “wholesomeness” wafted in the chilly night air as I looked into living room windows with simple furniture and walls full of framed pictures. Barn after barn caught my eye as potential perfect studio spaces. I am drawn to the classic farm outbuilding shapes and have no intention of building a big square box studio. I visualize variations of barns as the ideal exterior for the studio I plan to build here on the mountain. Peering at the buildings in the moonlight, I had the same overwhelming variety of choices as if I were standing back at the bakery trying to make up my mind as to which treat to indulge in. Each offered different potential and nudged me with an odd familiarity. I believe the familiar feeling was linked to an idea I had fourteen years ago. When I set out after graduating from college I hatched a plan; once cold temps and shorter days ended my summer job as a wilderness ranger, I would drive to little communities in Montana and seek out a widowed rancher or farmer’s wife who needed help around the place in exchange for a bed and a barn or shop complete with her late husband’s tools to use and plenty of time to create sculptures. Depending on how deep my well of optimism flowed as I pondered my possibilities, sometimes the widow would be well educated and spry with a deep rooted love of art coupled with an insatiable desire to travel the world. She would actually pay me to be her companion. We’d settle down between trips at the picturesque ranch or farm for long periods each year during which I was free to create art. The memory of that very real fantasy swung along with me as I lightly zipped and rolled over the snow covered hills and hugged curves in creek bottoms. The sky felt friendly and inviting; like an exotic sparkly canopy the heavens shimmered with stars and a space station. Zaydee looked out the window attentively with expectation; I matched her mood and laughed out loud, wondering where the road led but never actually feeling lost.

 

2/23/09

I just logged on to write a journal snippet and saw the “Spark” I put on the Patron Place for members Saturday morning (www.amberjean.com/patron-place ). The quote I chose to share was about bruises; which is funny because I sure collected some “color” this weekend after posting that quote. I hadn’t meant to manifest bruises so quickly after launching the quote into cyberspace BUT there ya go…a bit of synchronicity. While my dog Zaydee collects “beggars’ lice” (burrs) on a regular bases; I on the other hand collect bruises. Purple and green are two of my favorite colors in life and certainly add a bit of zest to winter white skin. I have been sporting quite a batch of purple and green on my thighs and knees from the previous weekend climbing ice with Leslie. Actually, I didn’t get the bruises while climbing…I got them while rappelling off a 180 foot frozen waterfall without my crampons. Leslie didn’t have crampons, so I had climbed the ice, then tied the crampons to the rope and lowered them to her so that she could use them to climb the ice. I belayed her from the top of the falls. Her bright eyes and happy grin were all I needed to thaw the chill that comes from standing on top of a frozen waterfall in winter. Later while soaking with friends in the hot springs, Joe suggested that we could have each worn one crampon to rappel…which makes more sense than I had at the time I guess. I dangled from the rope, spun, and slid down the falls without the grace a few sharp metal points allow when in contact with frozen water.But today, the bruises are concentrated on my index finger. Purple, red, green and swollen like a fat sausage. First I jammed the finger on the tailgate of my climbing partner’s big truck…then I got hit in the hand by a fist-sized chunk of ice which had the velocity of falling 200 feet before cracking into that same jammed finger. SO…typing is a bit of a chore and the finger keeps getting my curious attention as it morphs beyond finger into something which is making me hungry for bratwurst and sauerkraut.I am not complaining. One little fat finger is trivial when playing with axes on ice. Truth is I can hardly wipe the grin from my face after a weekend packed with friendship, happy dogs, beautiful mountains, and compelling sculptural frozen ice.

2/19/09

I woke depressed. Put a bit of Bailey’s in my morning tea…thought about crawling back into bed with a bad case of the blues but pulled on my snow pants and boots instead. Early morning hike uphill in old snow; I followed previous boot tracks, searched for sun, purpose, and answers. Sun up. Soul down. A gamut of emotions wadded like a mess of yarn the cat played with. Thoughts of time…how strangely elusive and yet evasive time can be. Just a few seconds can change everything. A few years can pass in a blink and a couple deep breaths.Two years ago today, I was climbing ice with three of my favorite people down in Cody, Wyoming. We’d really whooped it up with friends the previous night, celebrating ice and life. Our spirited group danced crazy and wild in the spinning dots of a disco ball at Cassie’s, the big cowboy bar. I got carded twice…not bad for the eve of my 40th birthday. The skinny bright-eyed bartender with dyed hair, wicked tight jeans, and a red lipstick grin pointed me out to every lady who came in, “Would you believe she is 40 years old?!!” The women looked me over in good natured disbelief. One woman commented that ice climbing must be “good for the skin.” I laughed and remarked that hanging off frozen waterfalls in a biting cold winter wind is a recipe for chapped lips and ruby-red numb frozen cheeks. Must say, it’s hard to imagine it could be good for the skin. A tall cowboy bought our festive whirlwind gang a round of kamikaze shots. We left the bar at closing time, piled (was it seven?) bodies into Joe’s little car. I had the most room in the driver’s seat. Good tunes blared; Joe drummed on the dashboard as if he were on a stage powered by an admiring crowd of thousands. No one wanted to call it a night, so I took them for a ride. First I aimed for the hills above town. Stars and bluffs with town lights below, then back downtown to spin cookies in the cemetery before a jaunt down the highway into the big well-lit tunnel near the river in the canyon. Someone, (I think it was Brian) was trying to climb out the sunroof to "surf." Everyone yanked him down while I kept my hands on the wheel and the car steady. Plans to poach a hot tub at the fancy hotel were hatched but smashed when a cop pulled us over sometime before 4 a.m. and asked me to “walk the line.” My friends watched intently from inside the car, dark eyes visible through a pile of limbs. Grins lost. Music off. I passed the test but puked the following morning at the trailhead after the curvy drive up the canyon to climb a couple hundred feet of ice. What a perfect birthday. Today, life has the acute weight of transition…grief for endings; fear of new beginnings, and a bit of confusion along with the anticipation and excitement that skip hand-in-hand with the unknown. As dawn light hit the horizon my feet slipped from one old crisp boot track into another. I was keenly aware of my ability to hike. Six months ago, a few seconds and one loose rock changed the life of my dear friend LizAnn forever. She can no longer hike, or climb, or feel anything from mid-chest down. Joe and Leslie, who shared the same rope with me on my birthday ice climb two years ago, had been with LizAnn that fateful afternoon. A few days ago (Sunday), the four of us shared drinks, laughs, and other emotions while soaking at a natural hot springs in the same valley where LizAnn broke her spine. Leslie was visiting from Jackson. I took her up Pine Creek where we climbed a 180 foot frozen waterfall before meeting the others at the hot springs. On our way to the springs, we drove past the intersection where the incident command center had been set up for the rescue. Leslie and I spent countless anxious hours there, the memories so vivid it could have been last week instead of six months ago, yet lifetimes have been lived during the emotional and physical healing journey with LizAnn. Sunday was also the first time LizAnn had seen Mt Cowen since the accident which occurred in a steep gully on their descent after summiting the impressive peak. Chico had been a favorite hot spot for LizAnn, we soaked there often after adventures. The pool is not overly handicapped accessible; we lifted her in and out of the chair into the pool. Once in the water lounging with a drink in her hand, LizAnn appeared like the rest of us; a vivacious lively little thing laughing in the steam. The intricate web woven tight by tragedy was enriched and deepened by love, compassion and our common propensity for passion. Living fully. More thoughts of time, of seconds and years occupied my mind and teased my heart earlier today…but my mood has lifted, and my time to ramble run out. I’ve some celebrating to do!

2/14/09

 

I pulled on some silky long johns, blue jeans, and thick socks as the sun rose. Truck gage said nine degrees above zero. Sipping tea, I drove along the Yellowstone River up Paradise Valley in fresh untainted early morning light to Tom Miner Basin. Zaydee and I saw wild sheep along the dirt road. Domestic sheep with playful little lambs kicked around like jumping beans in the corral on the ranch near the river. Snow sparkled; the river flowed between frozen chunks, the jagged Sawtooth Mountains pierced the blue sky horizon. The ragged ridgeline just this side of Yellowstone Park is just the kind of jagged that makes me itch to climb but today was about cows and dogs. Vern greeted me with his classic grin, the kind of boyish up-to-no-good mischievous glinting grin exceptionally suitable for good natured cowboys. We headed out to round up the cows so we could switch their tags. He’s been training three Border Collies since June. Have you ever seen a good cow dog work? Truly a sight…pure joy, plenty of smarts and subtleness…the impressive connection between dog and owner…dog and cows. Luke, a beautiful trim classic tri-colored Border Collie, rounded the cows up and herded them into a pen. He responded well to commands from Vern. No barking, just keen management through movement. No panic, rather Vern would tell Luke to "lie down" periodically and then "walk up” behind the cows and keep them moving at a slow controlled pace. Duce, broad-shouldered with red, brown and white markings, worked the cows once they were in the pens, moving them from one pen down a chute to another.If you can get past the poopy butts and slinging snot, cows have a quirky calm beauty to their eyes framed by long lashes. Big ears, soft furry foreheads, plump bellies, angular little asses…cows have the ability not to look too far into the distance. The cows we worked today are one year olds, so they are still kind of cute. Our job was to switch out their little calf tags for big cow tags. Just like children on the first day of school sporting new clothes too big, the cows’ tags were over-sized, flopping from fuzzy ears. “They’ll grow into them,” Vern said with a chuckle.We got worked a bit while trying to get them into the trailer. The chute would have made it easier but it was full of snow. We chained the truck up before Vern backed the trailer up the hill to the pen. Vern is gentle but firm…not a proponent of chaos and shouting. I like the way he thinks and appreciate his ability to try different things until finding what works for that particular moment…those particular cows. They are learning, always learning…young cows…bright eager dogs…light-hearted cowhand, in a graceful and klutzy dance full of poop and sunshine. Earlier in the day while riding in the truck, Vern dished some lessons learned when dealing with women. He said the easiest way to deal with a woman is to admit a mistake when something wasn’t working. “Don’t take it personally and simply try something else. Too many men take it personally,” he said.I wonder. But I can say working in the studio is similar to Vern’s approach on the ranch. Studio life is a constant graceful and klutzy dance where humbleness, fortitude, invention and the willingness to try new things allow an environment where one continues to learn and grow…trying not to take things personally yet opening up all of my person to the process. I wonder how things would go if I had a couple of smart working stock dogs to help herd my ideas and a firm gentle wise cowhand to keep things clipping along.

 

 

February 9, 2009  Early Saturday morning I woke after 3 hours of sleep to pack and gather my things for the annual weekend ski and slumber party with the “Water Babes” at Big Sky Ski resort. The “Water Babes” are a group of exceptionally talented involved women who all work in conservation, management, activist and scientist-type jobs pertaining to water resources and fish. They are brilliant, radiant, fun, and funny. I am a “Water Babe” by default, not because I work in their field but because I am friends with two Water Babes who invited me to the first annual ski/slumber party gathering four years ago. While sipping my 2nd glass of wine that evening after our day on the slopes skiing together, I declared myself a “Water Babe” pointing out the fact that I am on the cusp between Aquarius and Pisces…which is fish and water…and thus…well? Why not?! We’ve continued the gathering…ski tickets provided by Tammy, a “Water Babe” who is also a ski patrolperson on weekends, thus provided free lift tickets for each of us.Once again, we had a blast…laughed a lot, made plenty of turns on sunny slopes, soaked in the hot tub and ate (and ate). Potluck dinner and breakfast with eleven women guarantees absolutely no shortage of food, sweets (two batches of brownies and two pies), and enough wine to take a bath in. We shared stories, tears, and kamikaze shots at lunch. The kamikazes happened after I suggested a shot for M’ellon who was a bit teary since she felt like she had turned into her mother when she felt tentative and shaky on the slopes. The “shot” turned into a round of shots toasting dear M’ellon and our mothers). M’ellon might have actually skied better after lunch. We were blessed with blue skis, good snow, and sunshine.Afterwards we plopped ourselves into the condo’s big hot tub. The single young mail occupant who was in the tub when we arrived left shortly. I am having a hard time getting over his inquiry about whether we had any YOUNG gals in our group who would be joining us…! (We could teach that clueless pop-bellied twenty-year-old a thing or two!) Late that night I joined a few of the gals for a walk in the moonlight. My sparkly blue velvet jammies (a gift from my niece many moons ago) were not exactly warm but the walk was refreshing. I love the crisp crunch sound of super cold snow. Lone Mountain punctuated an impressive jagged skyline under the full moon. I missed breakfast (two quiches and a fresh baked batch of cinnamon rolls) since I left early to climb ice Sunday morning. But I enjoyed the morning chatter over coffee while I pulled on my long johns and packed for a super cold but fun day introducing a new friend to ice climbing.

Febrary 2, 09

Deep fluffy snow and crystal frost whispers to a quiet place in my soul. A place that holds beauty as gently as a palm cups tiny fresh laid eggs. Heavy whiteness sings gracefully without sound. An unspoken "don't touch" lingers in the air over the delicately bedecked forest reminding me of fragile china carefully arranged on hand crochet doilies at grandma's house. Sky white erases the horizon betrayed by one pale ribbon which startles the morning with a hint of peach, faint as the small faded stain on a formal white tablecloth.

Winter is here.