Seasons in my world are usually punctuated with vivid challenging adventures: peaks, rivers, single track mountain bike trails, cliffs, slopes and frozen waterfalls. The past few seasons have been a bit of a blur without the periodic adventure punctuation points. Orange and red flashes in the foliage hint of autumn while crisp cool nights carry whispers of a new season.  

Fall is my favorite season.    Actually every season is my favorite…which means I that I don’t actually have a favorite - but each season feels like a favorite when it is happening. Nostalgically, each season feels more like a favorite when the season is coming to a close. I am not sure what happened to summer…or spring…or last winter. Outdoor adventures were sparse since I have been healing from major surgery, wrapped up in family life, and blessedly back in the studio. Balance is allusive. Survival has been the mantra.   I can hardly call my father’s illness and death this spring a “punctuation point.” I can’t even wrap it up as a “chapter” or “saga.” Most days I hardly believe that Dad isn’t actually here…alive…with my mother in their house surrounded by a perfectly pruned yard animated with happy wild bunnies playing on the lush lawn or munching snacks on the deck. The lawn is no longer green since Mom and I cannot begin to manage Dad’s diligent sprinkler and lawn care vigil. Rabbits still play on the less-than-green lawn and eat at the flower-shaped bunny feeder. The riding lawn mower with the cigarette lighter Dad custom installed on the dash sits in the garage. Dusty.   Earlier this week I managed to squeeze a sweet little punctuation point with the kids into my summer.  Just two days before school started, we went for a late evening mountain bike ride followed by a full moon picnic at Hyalite Lake. Jolly from our ride, feeling the magic of the moon, satiated by yogurt, fresh fruit, and Grapenuts, we began a game of charades. Our actions danced in the moonlight accented by long shadows cast by the BIG round full moon. The lake sparkled and our laughter bounced off the mountain peaks which poked a sky filled with stars.  

Misty morning in Texas on the Charco Ranch - I’ve a bit of a headache (the margaritas last night or simply dehydration from the intense humidity?) Hobo spent the night with me in the cushy air conditioned guest room which is part of the “Devil Woman Saloon.” He has flees, scars, and a limp but is the sweetest German Shepard I’ve ever met. Roosters are crowing and chickens are cackling while the ducks swim in kiddie pools outside the office here. I haven’t much time to write since the special paint I ordered is due to arrive from San Antonio on the bus in a few minutes and I’ve work to do on an old buggy bought from the Amish a few days ago. Texas is HOT. Humid. I’m melting but inspired by the early morning mist, the late night frogs, the heartfelt hospitality and a new project.

Should have taken some pictures (or video) yesterday while toting a trailer full of large sculptures wrapped in a tarp looking like an 800 pound burrito to the Holter Museum in Helena. Mom rode along with Zaydee and I across the rolling green wheat fields past muddled looking Canyon Ferry Lake (engorged with rainwater and spring runoff). We munched on fresh croissant sandwiches from Wheat Montana bakery and enjoyed the sunshine while we kept a close watch on a classic Montana blue sky. Small dark bruised clouds hung on the distant horizon – a clue of the fitful late afternoon thunderstorms which would accompany us home. 

What a treat the show “Out of the Box” is going to be!!! More than 30 internationally known wood artists’ and artisans’ meticulously crafted sculptures and furniture will be showcased in a show where everyone is pushing the boundaries of vision and craftsmanship in wood. STUNNING!!   A fat friendly cat sat on a barstool and greeted us just inside the door of the Winston Bar. We met Cliff (who had spent the day fishing the lake) for a little snack. Cliff’s policy is “catch and filet.”  He threw two bags of fish in with the packing blankets and the folded up tarp in the back of my truck before we left Winston in a rainstorm to return home. Fresh grilled rainbow trout was a treat to top off a fine day of “work.”  I love my job :)

Haunted.  Humbled.  Horrified. 

We found ourselves underground on one of the first hot sunny summer days after being lured by Sami to take a tour of the Orphan Girl Mine.  Our day began in a rainstorm before sunup when we piled ourselves (a bit blurry-eyed) into the truck, struck out across rolling fields and snow-capped peaks toward Homestake Pass with the obligatory scrumptious stop at Wheat Montana Bakery for scones, cinnamon rolls, and turnovers – to go.  They hold the World's Record for the fasted bread from harvest to loaves.  We rolled down the pass into the wonderful rich quirky historical town of Butte in time for Ali’s pre-game warm-up at 7:30 a.m.  Wet from rain, the grass sparkled until the sun powered up.  Blitz (blue) team won their first soccer game.  After the 2nd game, we put on hardhats and headlamps then spent 1.5 hours underground.  Cold.  Clammy.  Creepy.  Disturbing.  Fascinating.  The men (and mules) who worked more than 10,000 miles of horizontal drifts and 4,000 miles of vertical shafts under Butte were tough buggers - to say the least.  Lordy.

Using candlelight, picks, hammers, shovels and dynamite, the fellas worked 12 hour shifts seven days a week underground.  Wet, hot/cold, dusty, toxic and LOUD (no ear protection back then).  I am blown away by the stories, the weight of the worn tools I held, the conditions I witnessed and the many thoughts I have of their plight.

Springtime in the Rockys has its usual smorgasbord of weather.  Sun. Snow. Sun. Rain. Sun.  Hail. Last Sunday the sun beckoned.   I loaded bikes in my truck and took a jaunt with two lovely ladies down Paradise Valley to Yellowstone Park.  We rode our bikes over bumpy moose and elk tracks on a lovely loop of dirt road below Electric Peak and near the Yellowstone River.  We munched on ice cream bars at Mammoth, then crossed the 45th parallel as we zipped down the paved road to the Boiling River where we soaked in the hot springs beneath a blue sky.  Sami and I goofing off in the store at Mammoth. Sami’s in the Coon Hat and I’m wearing…um…yes…that’s a stuffed moose.

The hot water flows down the falls into the Yellowstone River (murky from spring run-off – but soooo good for the body and soul!) Karen and I at the Boiling River.

“The logs lie and wait.  My fingers itch and my mind tumbles over the possibilities.  Last week I visited the Devil Woman Saloon in Texas to get a feel for the place where the mesquite sculptures will reside once I’ve carved and completed them.  I’m excited, inspired and challenged. 

I’m also swamped. 

Never has such a long stretch kept me from creating in woodchips and sawdust.  The demons have engaged in battle, pushed me into the trenches and gained ground.  I’m struggling.  Post surgery hormone craziness has fried my nerves, unsettled my stomach, messed with my mind and clenched my heart within an iron fist of anxiety.  The Blue Funk unpacked its bags, crowded the shelves, claimed the drawers, rolled up the rugs, and pulled the shades.  I hunker in a dark corner of my mind under the unrelenting glare of the Blue Funk’s unblinking stare.   Unclothed.  Shivering.  Vulnerable.  Scared and sad.”  

I actually wrote those words in February.   

I am happy to report that the Blue Funk is no longer a resident.  Unexpectedly the Blue Funk still plops down as an unwelcome guest now and then.  I feel the funk mostly in my chest - as if I swallowed a shoe.  The bugger makes me tired.  But between the naps and the long dream-filled nights, I am getting the studio ready.  Those logs sure smell good…I hear them calling… Here’s a little peak at the Mesquite:  Devil Woman Logs Video I’ll keep ya posted!  Stay tuned. 

Returned from the desert yesterday. 

Red sandy camping gear was washed and put away.  Sandals, climbing pack, biking pack, helmets and headlamps are stowed away in the gear closet.  Last night my pink rose flannel sheets and fluffy pillows felt scrumptious.  The post-midnight-pee lacked the butt-chilling,  sandy-toe-under-the-stars-stumble of cold desert nights in camp.  My emotions are mixed.  I’ve only been home a handful of nights in the last four weeks – home sweet home feels good.  Snow blankets the hillside behind my cabin.  Dust and neglected plants compete for attention inside my cabin.  I am sporting big new bruises, a few scrapes, and a sunburned nose but am encouraged by how well my post-surgery body handled the activity. 

My body is healing. 

My heart still feels rough and raw like the desert rock.  Bare, exposed, burnished by sand and sun - a bit gritty.  Expansive.  I drank deep from the stars.  I snuggled, encouraged and laughed with the kids.  I dreamt that I had stuffed their colorful kickball under my shirt to see how pregnancy felt, did a deep easy knee bend with my shirt stretched tight and knew that pregnancy would have felt right.  I lay awake at night in a family tent big enough for a disco ball dance party, listened to the sweet sounds of kids sleeping, and simply felt.   Love and loss.  I marvel at the contrast of beauty and the harshness of a desert landscape heart.  Barren. 

Promising open spaces.

Gratitude and a grin.  Longing.   Deep sigh.  Big breath. 

Fresh start.        

Just over a week since my last post.  I certainly could have written LONG exploring bits from my life and adventures during the last 9 days…an emotional rollercoaster but time was allusive.  The short version is:  I went back to Texas – flew down there with my dear o’l retired logging pal Cliff to be with him and oversee his heart procedure.  Last Thursday I was at the hospital in Austin from 5 a.m until 10 p.m. while he had an ablation procedure which proved very successful.   Once released from the hospital, we hung out with my aunt in the “hill country” near Blanco Texas while Cliff recouped for a few days before he was strong enough for the flight home Tuesday.  The night before flying out I “called in the troops” to be there to help care for Cliff so that I could go straight from the airport to oversee a custom patina on a beautiful bronze (cast from a carving of a filly).  From the foundry I went home to my little cabin and CRASHED for a few hours.  Alas I was up before the sun to unpack and repack.  Paul, the kids and I drove 10 hours to Moab where we have been camping, mountain biking, and climbing as a much-needed outing for them, regrouping for me, and adventure. Snow pelted the tent this morning and rolled down the red desert rock….good reason to put a little Bailey’s in the tea before breakfast.  Currently I’m at an internet cafe in Moab catching up with the world, business, and posting a quick little note on my whereabouts.  I’ve photos to share, projects in the works, emotions all over the place, creative juices gurgling, fingers itching, muscles to stretch, and s’mores to make. 

Restless.  A blue funk had hold of me so I took a few days ago to visit my dear pal Yogi up at Swan Lake (near Big Fork).  His house is tucked into the forest in a narrow tree-filled valley between the majestic Mission Mountains and frozen lakes.   No cell service.

Sweet.

The last stretch of road to Yogi’s bends and winds for an hour through thick forest.  Deer must be watched for.  Glimpses of lakes were a respite from trees.  Ice fishermen sat like salt and pepper   shakers on white linen – the remnants of a grand white-table clothed feast stained here and there with abandoned fishing holes.

We had a few shots at Yogi’s before attending the “Fireman’s Ball.”  Slipping in cowboy boots, I navigated across the obstacle course of slush and ice toward the community center where pink and red paper Valentine decorations hung from the paneled ceiling and cornmeal dusted the dance floor.  Yogi scored some Rose Tequila, Jack Daniels and a giant propane torch in the silent auction.  Other items included a delivery of propane, a load of gravel, a basket brimming with hand knit washcloths and a crocheted quilt. 

I met a  bubbly animated writer – a pretty little gal married to a big handsome clam grower.  They wintered in the Swan Valley while their clams hibernated in Vermont.  The cheerful big-boned ladies in the kitchen joked with me as we unwrapped tinfoil and plastic wrap from potluck food items.  The tiny community has less than 200 residents and it seemed like most of them were at the ball.

I’m guessing many of the Fireman’s Ball attendees were nursing hangovers the next day but we were out skiing with the dogs.  Yogi adopted two abandoned puppies…fluffy little bouncing fur balls. 

A few summers ago I had the privilege to accompany 10  young students from our little town of Livingston to our “sister city” of  Naganohara, Japan.  The cultural exchange between the two beautiful towns is the kind of stuff I believe strongly in.  Travel stretches the minds, hearts, souls, and perception of our young people by exploring and sharing openly with another culture.  Neither Naganohara or Livingston are actually “cities.”  Rather they are both small towns in valleys along rivers with natural hot springs near by.  At least those are a few of the reasons why we were “paired.”  I’ve zillions of stories from a grand trip.  The Sister City Program is having an auction soon so of course I donated art.    Does your “city” have a sister city?  “Ray of Light” donated to the Sister City Auction

I’m feeling a sparkly blue-moon-dust kind of  excitement for 1010.   Not only was it a big full BLUE Moon last night but there was a partial lunar eclipse as well.  We had a rather blustery night and a blurry sky which kept my dinner guests and I inside the cozy cabin for the evening’s festivities.  No one expected to stay awake ‘til the New Year after stuffing ourselves with elk spaghetti.  Felicia blew out the bright pink candles on her chocolate birthday cake, we drank more wine, and the sky brightened.  Sometime after 11 pm, the wind quieted enough to entice us out…and UP…to Leroy’s Lookout.  Toting plastic sleds, we plodded up the mountain to the humble little cabin I used to call home.  Perched on top (and cabled to the rocks) the plywood shack is where I lived my first winter on the Wineglass Mountain.  Memorable. 

We heard thunder, twice before reaching the cabin.  I have never heard winter storm thunder before.  I didn’t even know it was possible but the thunder added another rather auspicious punctuation point to the old year/new year night.  Three of us toasted at midnight with Jack Daniels Snow Slushies.  We hung out on top of the world and swapped stories while the fire crackled and the Coleman lantern hummed.  The valley stretched bright below.  Livingston lights twinkled.  The moon stayed mostly obscure in a winter white sky but grew potent enough to cast shadows. 

Magical. 

We bundled up and headed out into the moon shadows.  We’d stashed the sleds under a tree near an edge of the mountain top saddle.  I lined up in my sled and led the way down the steep slope.  Many years ago when I lived up there, I would sled down each morning in a cheek reddening rush while Shiva practiced her border collie herding skills and tried to nip my snow boots.  The slope is long and steep with curves and a sharp switchback.  We all screamed with glee (and fear) while the dogs barked in the moonlight. 

Laughing, sliding, and bumbling along, we made it back to my cabin at 2 am without any serious injuries.  I packed up birthday cake for my guests, took a handful of Ibuprofen, and crawled under the covers with a cold butt and a heart which glowed warm with blue moon dust. 

My thoughts have been preoccupied with the untimely loss of an exceptional human being.  Guy was a cross between Buddha and a leprechaun; he radiated a delightful spark and spirit emulated from his connection to Mother Nature, his depth of character and his passion.  Somehow just meeting him felt like a blessing.  I walked away from a simple encounter with Guy wearing a grin and feeling awestruck – not so much by Guy’s accomplishments (which are legendary) but rather by his uncluttered simplicity which stemmed from his enlightened embrace of life.  He was wise, humble and content.  Guy inspired us.

Last week his special spirit was snuffed when an avalanche swept him off a cliff while participating in the annual Hyalite “Icebreakers” climbing competition.  I felt like puking when a friend told me Guy Lacelle died that morning in our local ice climbing haven.  Full of shock and disbelief, my heart wept for JoJo (a long time friend and climbing partner of Guy’s) and for Guy’s wife Marge whom I don’t know but feel a connection to simply because Guy shared pictures and stories of her.  Later as the full tragic story came together in bits and pieces, my sorrow and shock was deepened by compassion for the other climbers; Adam – Guy’s partner that day, Sam and Josh who were climbing above.  

I want to admit also, that I am uncomfortable with the fact that the tragedy occurred here, in our own ice climbing “backyard.”  Guy was from Canada.  He climbed all over the world.  Somehow the tragic loss would be more palpable if it happened somewhere else - anywhere else; another country, another state.  My thought is purely selfish.  Anywhere is still a “backyard” for others.  But the fact is, Guy was a special guest…here.  On a purely selfish note; I feel disheartened and a bit let down by Hyalite even though I know how ridicules that sounds.  However I am heartened by the love, respect and care in which the local community handled the tragedy.  I talked with the sergeant in charge of Gallatin County SAR (search and rescue).  He told me it was an honor to be involved – an unforgettable day that felt like he and others had recovered a Viking.

I am too choked up to write more.  Let me share a letter written for The Bozeman Daily Chronicle by my dear friend JoJo:

“As an organizer and emcee of the recent Bozeman Ice Climbing Festival, I want to extend my deepest appreciation to Bozeman, all the great folks that traveled from across the country and Canada to be here, and the entire outdoor community for all your love and support in the face of the tragic loss of our dear friend and mentor Guy Lacelle. Guy (rhymes with see) was lost in an avalanche on Silken Falls in Hyalite Canyon on Thursday, December 10th.

Guy, originally from Ontario and living in Prince George, British Columbia, was the greatest and most accomplished waterfall ice climber to ever live, experiencing routes around the world that may never be surpassed. But more importantly I, and scores of others, knew Guy as the most wonderful and inspiring human being we've ever known. In 18 years of loving and being loved by this man, I've never known anyone to be as ethically pure, morally strong, competitive yet compassionate, such a committed conservationist, and so caring of others and animals.

Last Thursday Guy and 23 others were engaged what we call the Hyalite Ice Breaker. Simply, I designed this as a like-minded event where old and new friends simply go out and try to climb as many routes in Hyalite as they can. Whoever does the most gets only their name inscribed on a special ice axe on display at Northern Lights Trading Company. It is a celebration of the partnerships, bonds and experiences found while ice climbing in the Hyalite Canyon. Guy truly embraced the Ice Breaker more than anyone. He was here for weeks in advance to re-connect with friends and climb and strategize. He was competitive but not in a "I'm out to beat you" sort of way. He just loved the gamesmanship of it. And like the true gentleman and hero he was, he only enjoyed it if you where having fun right along with him.

When Guy's wife Marge told me on Friday morning that Guy and his family would want the Festival to continue, it gave me the emotional strength required to go forward. After all, if there was one thing I knew about Guy, it was that he would be heartbroken if he knew anyone did not have a good time nor didn't get to experience the joys of ice climbing because of his expense, even in dying.

Yet I need to acknowledge the local community again for embracing that spirit and helping us make the most of the weekend. Personally I wouldn't have made it through three more days without you. Thank you to all the participants for your enthusiasm in the clinics, many of you trying ice climbing for the first time. It would have been easy to cancel the whole thing, but seeing so many of you energized by the sport over the next three days made it all worthwhile. Thank you for attending the wonderful public tribute at the Emerson Friday night. Thank you for the respect and care during the private reception we held for Marge and her family at the Emerson Grill on Saturday. They too are humbled and grateful for the love and support shown by the Bozeman community and look forward to returning soon. Many people have asked on how they can donate to the memory of Guy Lacelle and his family. Without hesitation they requested any donations be made to the local animal shelter, Heart of the Valley. Please follow the "Donate Now" links at www.heartofthevalleyshelter.org. Please be sure to check the "In Memory of" option.

Thank you all. May you all have a happy and safe holidays with your loved ones.”

Joe Josephson – Livingston, MT

A little over a week ago I posted a note about a BIG pile of bear poop I found 100 yards from my cabin (see “Holy Bear Poop Batman”).  Of course I took a photo when I discovered the poop but didn’t have the guts to post it because this is suppose to be an inspiring art blog and I wasn’t sure just how poop photos fair on the internet.  BUT you asked for it!!  Ok…maybe you didn’t…but plenty of people did…so…here you go:  Um.  Yuck?!  Actually it was both impressive and a bit fascinating.  Either it was left by one BIG bear or a regular-sized bear with an irregular digestive problem.  Regardless…right after I shot the photo, I returned to my cabin to grab the bear spray before getting back to my hike.  Finding “Amber parts” in a pile of bear poop might be interesting but I’d rather they stick to the berries.

Zaydee and I went for a hike earlier this evening.  About 100 yards from my cabin I saw the biggest pile of bear sh*t I've ever seen.  Seriously, without exaggerating I've seen LOTS of bear poop during the years up here, my time in the back country, and

Earlier this morning I walked outside to my truck in the driveway. The crisp cold, the low light, the long shadows, the tall yellow grass and the instant cold nose created a flash-back; shiny new lunchbox, brand new backpack waiting for the bus with some excitement and a bit of purpose.  I love this time of year.

(First Grade…can you guess which one is me?)

I’ve zillions to do but snow is in the future  forecast so I get up before sunrise and work, then play, then work. Sunset is early. Climbed in the hot afternoon sun last Wednesday then stripped to my undies and jumped into the cold Yellowstone River with a girlfriend. I hiked to the Fountain of Youth late Thursday afternoon, sat in the thick soft moss, drank from the spring, and returned to civilization for a giant fishbowl-sized margarita at a local haunt (didn’t get any work done after that). After a meeting in Bozeman Friday, I mountain biked in the Bridger Mountain Range with a girlfriend and two happy stray dogs, grabbed a quick shower in town, joined girlfriends and be-bopped about Livingston in a miniskirt and flip flops for the last art walk of the season.  My town looks like a movie set.  Afterwards we made dinner and played cards (um…ok…I didn’t get any more work done that night either). After a sleepless night I climbed Alex Lowe Peak Saturday (14 miles and over a mile in elevation gain…spectacular!)

Yesterday two batches of visitors bounced up the mountain to visit. Each group included an interesting new person…one from LA and the other from Hungary. I worked in the early hours and even sold five original Works on Paper, not bad for a  lazy sunny Sunday. I received photos of the mesquite logs via e-mail yesterday…the first I’ve seen the buggers…just a day or two before they arrive. Keep your fingers crossed…the logs were supposed to be here four weeks ago but the Universe had other plans. The “big” picture proved the delay a gift (or perhaps it is simply my attitude which makes it appear that way). I feel like I did decades ago waiting for the school bus; a bit of purpose… crisp cold air outside…warm excited glow inside.

How many places on this planet can one enjoy music, good food and wine outdoors at the very same creek I had followed up to a summit earlier in the day? Pine Creek Café is a magical place! So…after hiking 7 miles and gaining over a mile in elevation to the summit of Black Mountain, one must glissade down the snow slope, jump into the freezing cold topaz blue lake (or at least consider jumping into it), climb the cliffs around the edge of the lake knowing one little slip will plunge you into the frigid water (backpack and all), run, trip, and gimp another 5 miles back to the trailhead, put on sandals, drive a few miles downstream to Pine Creek Café and wash the trail dust from your toes in the very creek fed by the 10,000’ snow field ya slid down that afternoon. Pine Creek runs right behind the outdoor stage with party lights and next to the big BBQ. So after a quick rinse in the creek (while chatting with two cute 8 year old boys who have better sense than to play in the cold water look at you in admiration and disbelief), ya pull on a clean pair of blue jeans while the buffalo look at you from across the road, then ya snarf down a burger, drink wine, enjoy GOOD music and kick up the dust with café owner Ned. Thanks for sharing the dance Ned!

 

Last Saturday morning came early. I’d been out late the night before at the Livingston Art Walk…which would have been ok in itself except my obnoxious old unwelcome prickly bedmate Insomnia has been a rather constant companion this summer. I lay there in the wee morning hours thinking I should simply give up on sleep and get out for a super early alpine start…wouldn’t it be spectacular to be on the summit for sunrise?!! Each time I got out of bed, I felt sick-to-my-stomach-tired, turned around and crawled back into bed. But sleep eluded me. Insomnia scooted the minute my alarm clock went off. Here’s how it goes: toss, turn, toss, turn, ALARM…sleep. I swear the alarm clock is to Insomnia what garlic is to vampires…the instant the alarm sounds, insomnia flees and I’m free to sleep…except I CAN’T because I HAVE to get up. Do you think I should set my alarm for an hour or so after I go to bed and TRICK Insomnia into vanishing? I had to drag myself from beneath comfy covers and bumble about the process of packing and eating while groggy from only 2 hours of sleep. Thankfully the peak I planned to climb was not technical or extreme (although I have climbed technical AND extreme peaks on far less sleep). Black Mountain is a 10,941 foot peak above Pine Creek Lake. Thomas Turiano, writes in his book, Select Peaks of the Greater Yellowstone, that Black Mountain is the “most spectacular mountain in the Western Beartooths north of Mount Cowen. He goes on to say, “Most first-time visitors to Pine Creek Lake are stunned by its sheer size, which is completely unexpected in such steep mountains.” The trailhead to Pine Creek Lake is only about 20 minutes from my house and is a popular winter destination for me since there are some fun frozen falls to climb just a mile up the trail. I’ve been to the lake several times but I have never climbed "spectacular" Black Mountain. While the hike is not extreme, one does gain a mile of elevation during the 7 miles it takes to get to the summit. The final two miles are a trail-less scramble up talus slopes to a rocky ridge leading to the summit. Fun Fun. The scenery between the topaz blue lake and the summit of Black Mountain is beyond amazing since it includes giant blue quartz-like crystal rocks. Very blue…gemstone blue…baby blue. Other giant rocks are a pastel variety of pinks and whites along with charcoal black rocks with hints of purple. Feels like you’ve wandered onto a beautiful Chinese ink-brush painting complete with waterfalls, springs, and bright green grassy slopes perfectly placed between stone and sky. Many mountain ranges and peaks can be seen from the summit of Black Mountain. I shot some video on the summit and have begun to learn the ins and outs of editing (phew!) Soon I will share a whole new series of short candid videos from my life exploring inside and outside the studio. Stay tuned!   top photo - Zaydee and I below the summit of Black Mountain bottom photo - View of Mt Cowen (on left) and Fire Spire (pointy thing on right) from the summit of Black Mountain...and YES!! I have been on both!!

Whoa! How did it get to be Friday?! Zillions to share from another stuffed week…but I guess I should start with Air Force One since Obama is landing in a few minutes at the Bozeman airport near the Bridger Mountains. I hear there is plenty of beautiful B-roll footage on CNN highlighting this gorgeous part of the world I have the privilege to call home. Speaking of which…here’s a few photos taken on the ridge traverse of the Bridger Range Amy and I did last weekend (yes…the very same mountains Obama will see today if they aren’t covered in clouds). Amy and I enjoyed a perfect summer Sunday together chatting non-stop for five and a half hours while hiking an easy 12-14 miles of ridge with three peaks and well over 5000 feet of elevation gain. We shared sandwiches with homemade bread, homemade peanut butter, and homemade service berry jam (compliments of Amy’s impressive domestic skill). The rocky exposed ridge would usually be painfully hot on an August day but this summer Mother Nature has been acting as unpredictable as a teenage drama queen…thus…I actually wore a hat and gloves during some of the chillier sections. Really was a pleasant temp - the clouds were just teasing us. We threw our packs in the truck after the steep descent from Mt Baldy, then scooted to Sweet Pea for some shopping and a performance of “The Tempest” by Shakespeare in the Parks while Zaydee crashed in the truck, tuckered from the traverse. My ankles showed trail dirt but it looked like a tan-line, so without fuss, I joined another girlfriend at Ale Works for dinner and wine . The perfect summer Sunday was topped by a rendezvous with Paul when he arrived home after a week long road trip with the kids.

I’m off to the wilderness…plan to summit three peaks tomorrow…

LizAnn's first rafting float trip since her accident last summer.

 

The "Ding-a-lings" - Leslie, Zaydee and I

Eight gals, two boats, and Yogi who is the kind of friend his name implies. Made banana split cake early this a.m. for Yogi’s 50th celebration on a sandy-beached river island. Missed the storms, soaked in the sun, watched the dramatic sky...baby ducks, marmot musings, bald eagle sightings and gulped Brandi Slush. Shared LizAnn’s first river float and swim since her accident on Cowen nearly a year ago. Healing, feeling, and fun.

 

Beautiful 300 foot climb on an arête up Emigrant gulch. The climb is named after Britney Spears...?! Emigrant creek roared 1000 feet below and big black birds circled overhead. Leslie and I swapped leads then celebrated on the summit with chocolate, salami, and tiny swigs from my girlie flask. Later...homemade sushi, tempura shrimp and wine with friends on my deck at sunset. We rallied after dark and bounced down my mountain to town for a night out in a bar full of cowboys...”Livingston Saturday Night.” Now I gotta grab a few hours of sleep before floating the river…  

   

             

We’ve had a hot week. Thank goodness for delicious cool mountain breeze nights. Perhaps a snow photo would almost feel good. Taken the 4th of July on a ridge below the summit of Ramshorn Peak, my nieces enjoyed the huge snow bank. Just in case you are wondering…yes! Of course we had a giggly fun ridge top snowball fight!  

 

Zaydee jumped in the Yellowstone for a swim after a post-sunrise climb on cliffs above the river. Three pelicans flew in formation downriver as I traveled up the valley at 9 a.m. to begin the staining stage of the carving commission up Tom Miner Basin. Love working with wood after touching rock. Mmmm...the fresh rainbow trout dinner was pretty good too!

Sweet little nieces tagged their first summit! Ramshorn Peak - 8 miles, 10, 223 feet - total troopers, super strong, no complaints, LOTS of fun. Snow ball fights, fried chicken, chocolate, watermelon and a late night soak at Chico complete with pool games and fireworks.

What?! Friday already? A week ago today I attended the first Art Walk of the summer season in Bozeman. I had a skirt on but luckily switched to jeans since the evening was crisp, cool and goose-bumpy with the spring smell of distant thunderstorms in the air. People were out in droves…a wonderful festive and good-energy feeling and much needed salve for the wound of the explosion that happened in March (see blog post about the explosion). I believe the best way to honor Tara’s untimely death was to celebrate art and artists. Early Saturday morning I caught up a bit with the desk part of life before pulling on padded shorts and driving to the Natural Bridge up the infamous Boulder Valley. Two girlfriends and I panted and puffed our way up Green Mountain on our mountain bikes. Wow…I’m out of shape. But we actually made good time, sat “on top of the world” in a wild flower filled meadow. I shared the elk salami and dark chocolate packed for lunch, we took in the views, giggled a bit and laughed a lot while Zaydee rolled gleefully in the thick grass. The descent was a fast and furious spin downhill over rocks and roots without any accidents. I changed in the trailhead parking lot and “gussied up” a bit for an evening at a Women’s Spirit camp. I had been invited to speak so I drove the primitive road another 12 miles up the Boulder Valley in a downpour. The ladies were inviting and fun…the evening entertaining and sweet. The barely made it home by midnight without falling asleep at the wheel.Five hours later I was putting away the mountain bike backpack and loading up my climbing backpack for a day of climbing with two other gal pals. I’ll post a few photos rather than ramble.

 

I found myself exploring this big cave while wearing a little skirt and no underwear. The explanation is actually quite reasonable and boring (night out, tent in, plans to mountain bike and lord knows undies are uncomfortable under padded biking shorts). Understand? Anyway the cave was an unplanned detour on our way to a mountain biking trail. So here I was in a cool dank dark and scary place feeling especially exposed. Funny how a little bit of cotton fabric can add extra bravado and a sense of security taken for granted unless it is missing.   I would love to create an experiential sculpture exhibit that would illicit the combination of curiosity, compulsion, fear, vulnerability and magic that a cave holds.                      

Momma Nature has unleashed spring. The Yellowstone River is engorged like an overfed snake winding through town and the valley below my cabin. I was actually supposed to be on the Selway River right now. I was lucky enough to draw a permit. A dozen river rat friends and I put in for permits every year but Selway permits are rare. Second only to the Grand Canyon trip on the Colorado River, the Selway is extremely difficult to get a permit for. Only one group is allowed to launch each day. The wilderness river is a classic challenge very few are priviledged to attempt. Only fifty percent of the lucky people awarded a permit actually get to launch since river conditions must be carefully monitored. Seven years ago I was the only girl to join a group of guys on an early season Selway river trip. Two days into the trip, spring run-off coupled with high mountain thunderstorms raised the river three feet overnight. FLOOD STAGE. We camped on the edge of the raging river and waited. Huge rocks made the rumbling sound of thunder and vibrated the earth beneath our feet as they rolled in the strong current. Giant trees tumbled like twigs in the tumultuous murky ice cold water. Each morning we hiked to the rapids below our camp, tucked our tails, and returned to camp. We actually hiked to high country one afternoon carrying hammocks to nap away from the loud fury of river sound. Seeking whitewater high adrenaline thrills, we found ourselves in awe of the river and actually more rested up and relaxed in the forced stand still. I literally watched snails move on blades of grass in the early morning sun, ate chocolate covered raisons and drank wine in the middle of the day while reading out loud. Eventually I packed a small fanny pack and hiked 20-something miles downriver out of the wilderness and back to civilization. The boys waited out the flood…for weeks…before giving up and flying out. They returned by small plane many weeks later to get the rafts and gear. So…I have floated part of the infamous Selway River. Someday luck and Momma Nature might give me another chance. Meanwhile, I am glad for the spring and the moisture. Right now rain is pelting my metal roof; the forest floor is gratefully and greedily quenching it’s thirst, and I am reveling in the lush life-full green.

May 15th

Five days without being “connected” to the internet world. Oceanside. Sweet sunshine…crisp cool sea breeze…seals with whiskers…whales spouting…waves lapping…blue sky…exotic plants…fresh fish…new friends.

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.

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.

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...

 

 

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

 

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.