Tala joined Raymond and I for a camping and climbing trip to Wyoming in the Wrangler — our jaunty little pickup camper. Once a gritty rolling rodeo locker room, it’s since retired into a sweet, clean, cozy home-on-wheels — full of character, stories, and the scent of freedom.
The Things That Hold On
I’ve claimed old “Cliff things” over the years and woven them into my studio and life—at first as a way to move through grief, and always as a way to honor his presence.
Cliff had so many tire chains draped from the stout branches of the trees around his cabin, it was as if the forest itself wore his handiwork. I’ve since used those chains to adorn not only my studio, but also his cabin—now a vacation rental—and his old sawmill, which is slowly being transformed into an office and workshop for Raymond.
The curvy tractor wrenches are a collection of my own—gathered slowly over time, but with new devotion during the quiet solitude of Covid.
Crystals and rust. Stones and glass. Spirit and steel.
But the most precious tradition of all—the one that still makes my heart catch—is the springtime hanging plant.
Every spring, Cliff used to bring a plant to brighten the front of my studio—his quiet way of showing up, of tending. He’d hook it onto the frilly, wrought iron hanger outside my door, like clockwork.
The first spring after he passed, my mother-in-law arrived with a plant in hand and a card that simply said the plant was from Cliff.
I cried. Hard.
That spring, I gently hung the old timber sling hook—one Cliff once used—onto the frilly one. Then I hung the “Cliff plant” from it.
Some gestures are more than tradition.
They’re echoes of love…
Love Under the Big Sky 🤍
June gifted us this tender moment — a wedding Raymond officiated beneath Montana’s wide-open heavens. He’s married more than a dozen couples now, each ceremony laced with laughter, love, and more than a touch of wild grace.
Once upon a rodeo, a bull was named “Reverend Ray Ray” after him — fitting for a man who’s spent a lifetime standing between danger and devotion, courage and tenderness.
I love how life loops its stories — how the same heart that once stepped into the dust and dirt of a rodeo arena to protect bull riders now blesses unions beneath that same big sky… and how lucky I am that he shares such a big piece of that heart with me. 🤍
Rooted in Return...
I thoroughly enjoyed the sacred art of porch sit’n during my trip to the Deep South—feet up, mug in hand, heart tuned to the rhythm of frogs and falling rain…
My time there unfurled like Spanish moss—slow, sacred, stretched long with porch-sitting and soul-sipping. A week deep in sisterhood, surrounded by the soft stillness of cicadas and ceremony, punctuated by a sing-out-loud solo spin down the tree-lined interstate to reunite with family. Realignment.
My heart feels fuller, my skin softer, and my breath a little deeper after brushing the dust off my spirit in the wild, moist lushness of ancient forest and my dear friend’s magical creative cabin.
Raymond met me at the airport with a grin and a long hug; sharing how much he enjoyed watching my bronze bison bench keep company with every traveler passing through.
Home feels familiar as a lifetime.
Our love lives between lifetimes.
A Quiet Sendoff from an Old Companion
There’s a quiet comfort in finding an old friend just when you’re about to leave — even if he’s made of bronze. I carved him from Black Walnut in my 20s — and frankly, he carved a part of me.
Now, decades later, he waits, steady and silent — a patient companion at the threshold of so many journeys. I leave, I return — and still, he waits, steady as the mountains that first shaped us both.
Mother’s Day at the Filigree Altar
The grouse began drumming as the sun was just beginning to streak pink across the horizon—a low, rhythmic pulse echoing through the trees, like the forest remembering the heartbeat of spring.
Barefoot, I stepped onto the soft green grass. The earth, still dappled with patches of melting snow, welcomed me with a chill and the thrum of new life.
I carried a steaming cup of ceremonial cacao to the small, white filigree garden set—an heirloom once belonging to my grandmother, then my mother. Their hands touched it. Their stories linger in its delicate curves.
As a child, I held tea parties for stuffed animals and imaginary friends on that delicate-looking furniture when it beckoned to me from the manicured lawn of my grandparents’ Nebraska farm. Now an altar, the white, doily-like filigree carries more than its weight in wrought iron—it holds memory, moonlight, magic, and the soft laughter of children across time.
I sat. I prayed. I sipped. Heart open, I honored the women who shaped me—now beyond the veil, yet so deeply present. Their love stirs in the breeze, shimmers in sunlight, and wakens the motherliness in my bones.
Happy Birthday Tala
Ten years ago this BIG little spirit came into this world and found her way into hearts. Born the day after New Year’s, we brought her home the day after Valentine’s at just 5 weeks old. Seems like simply months ago rather than years. Raymond and I had to do the math a few times together to be certain that she is already a decade old. Full of life and overflowing with smarts.
Happy Birthday Tala.
Tala is ten…!
Winter Solstice - journal thoughts and drawings
Christmas tree lights delight me and accompany early morning journaling during the longest nights of the year…
Chasing Frost: Ice Climbing at The Cooke Out in Cooke City
Nestled in the rugged terrain of Montana, Cooke City is a hidden gem with a tight-knit community of just 77 residents and blissfully devoid of cell service. Last weekend, Raymond and I had the pleasure of returning to this remote enclave for the second annual ice festival, The Cooke Out, masterminded by our friend Aaron Mulkey—a stellar athlete and the driving force behind Coldfear.
The Cooke Out is not your typical festival; it's an intimate, grassroots gathering that draws ice climbing enthusiasts from across the region to celebrate their passion amidst the stunning frozen waterfalls of Cooke City. Unlike larger, more commercial festivals, The Cooke Out offers a unique, personal experience that reflects the spirit of the ice climbing community—bonding over shared challenges and the raw beauty of Montana's winter landscape.
Each ascent on the icy crags not only tests my physical limits but also sparks a surge of creativity. The majestic, frost-laden settings fuel my imagination, translating into dynamic forms and themes once I’m back in my studio. These adventures outdoors are not just escapes—they are essential to my artistic process, providing fresh inspiration that I channel into my sculptures and paintings. The seamless transition from the exhilarating heights of ice climbing to the contemplative solitude of my studio is where my creativity thrives, shaping art that echoes the wild beauty of Montana.
My life changed forever...
Thirty years ago lightning struck. That charged bolt of light from the Thunder Beings led to one of the absolute greatest blessings and dearest loves of my life.
Cliff saw the lightning strike while logging with two buddies up Smith Creek in the Crazy Mountains; then they saw the smoke rise. Winds had already whipped the fire into a blaze when they got to it but they worked together to saw trees down to protect a batch of cabins. The buffer zone Cliff, Ralph and Mo created during the hours before the Forest Service arrived saved what turned out to be third-generation-owned historical cabins.
Thirty years ago this month when I returned to the Forest Service office in West Yellowstone after a 4-day hitch alone in the backcountry as a wilderness ranger, I was immediately sent along with another fella to the Crazies to help fight what had become a large 5-division fire.
A few days later in a quirky twist of fate, Cliff and I ended up working together as a two-person saw team on the Smith Creek Fire. I’d never seen anyone so skilled with a saw. His biceps were as big around as my thighs. He wielded a 36” bar on his saw with calm coolness and eyes that sparkled like Santa Claus.
The friendship begun in the blackened soot on steep slopes beneath blue skies defies definition and forged much of who I am, where I live and how I show up in this world. I’ve grieved him perhaps more this October than a handful of the last Octobers. Autumn this year has played out much like it did that season, languid and long with lavish foliage, starry nights, exceptionally warm days and a handful of dramatic storms. The past few weeks I’ve shed tears beneath stars, at sunrise and sunset and spaces between. I’ve also reveled in the warm fuzzies and awe of the love we shared for each other and this mountain.
I am lucky. So. Damn. Lucky.
Everyone should have a Cliff in their life. I can’t imagine my life without having had him in it.
Happy Birthday dear Cliff! I miss you beyond words. I love you dearly. Eternally.
Bhutanese Prayer Flags
For thousands of years, prayer flags have been created and hung to promote peace, compassion, strength and wisdom. Raymond and I brought these home from Bhutan.
Three prayer flags were raised in front of my studio one-year-to-the-day after Cliff’s death. Three more prayer flags were added on our first anniversary. Nine days later three more flags were raised one year after my mother’s death. The nine prayer flags danced through nearly two full years of sun and snow.
Released by air and wind, prayers and mantras sanctify and purify all-pervading space which becomes a permanent part of the Universe even as the flags fade. Life is replaced by new life. Prayer flags acknowledge the greater cycle which all beings are part of. I gathered the tattered and torn material before the elements scattered them to the ground. Precious pieces of the prayer flags have been dancing their way into my work… finding new life.
Memorable Easter Sunday
Raymond and I were honored to share Easter Sunday adventures on ice with legends Pat Callis and Conrad Anker. Pat is an 86 year old sprite who discovered the ice at Hyalite Canyon decades ago. He is a full time professor at MSU and inspires us all with his gumption and strength.
I highly recommend the documentary “Piton” about Pat Callis for inspiration.
Google Conrad Anker hours of articles (cover of National Geographic, TIME, Outside, etc. The stellar documentary movie Meru is one of our favorites.
Wishing you the jolliest of holidays!!!
Perhaps some of you remember the santa carvings I did for Big Sky Carvers during my 20’s? Here is one I stained with pin-striped overalls like my grandfather used to wear as a gift for my mother decades ago.
Seasonal Ritual
In the enchanting glow of tree lights and the nostalgia-laden hum of Christmas carols, I find myself enveloped in the warmth of memories, with my mother's spirit embracing me most tenderly during this magical season. Christmas was her time to shine, and the air still carries echoes of her laughter and the rustle of wrapping paper.
Before dawn tiptoes into the room, I retreat to the antique desk, a relic that my father and I restored together. A soft glow emanates from the lights of the Christmas tree, casting a gentle ambiance on my quiet morning ritual. There, by the flickering lights, I open my journal and find solace.
In the delicate stillness, I light a candle in my mother's cherished porcelain ashtray. The golden bird, poised on the edge of a pink blush bloom, is almost too beautiful for lipstick-stained cigarettes but, of course, perfect for my mother. It's a treasure which sits this morning next to a small porcelain cup adorned with a whimsical rabbit—a token from my adventures in Japan many moons ago.
Dried rose petals, a tender reminder of fleeting beauty, float gracefully in the velvety darkness of ceremonial chocolate, crafted with care by Guatemalan women and prepared by me each morning with intention and reverence for the subtle plant medicine and female lineage. The air is infused with the rich aroma, creating a delicate dance of scents and memories. I am transported to the heart of the holiday season, surrounded by the essence of love, tradition, and the enduring spirit of my mother.
Lady Tatterley
Her tattered right ear inspired her name. Remarkably bold, Lady Tatterley is a rather tough regal and demanding o'l gal. She's been in our life up here at the end of the road near the top of this mountain for quite a few years. We LOVE her. Don’t you?
Glorious Commute
Sooooooooo blessed….
Happy Birthday Cliff
Chico - 2012
Cliff and I would celebrate his birthday each year in the tiny intimate o’l bar lounge back of the dining room at Chico. We’d share appetizers. Oysters Rockefeller and “Green Cheese” were the headliners. Green cheese was his name for Brie as he misunderstood me the first we had it up here in this cabin on the mountain. Like most “Cliff-isms” the name stuck and so it was and still is Green Cheese.
I’d splurged then, when I brought Brie home that first time (which he loved but which of course didn’t compete with the pastry wrapped, huckleberry sauce embellished Brie that Chico’s menu faithfully offered). Those birthday dinners were special.
His birthday is still special and celebrated throughout the season. Autumn always ushers in extra “Cliffness.” His favorite time of year - as the light and air change, the leaves explode into richness and crispness, the stars shine brighter and the weather gets moodier - I hike his places and feel his graces. I cry. I smile. I talk to him. I feel him -more each year (thankfully).
My reverence for this mountain, the love we shared for Momma Nature, the respect we had of each other’s nature, the deep friendship and forever love we have - Precious.
Happy Birthday Cliff
10/21/47 - 5/1/16
Walking Down the Aisle
During the few months leading up to our big day, I imagined the moment when Cliff would walk me down the aisle. I would lean into him as I’d done for the better part of my adult life. He would offer his never-in-a-gym bulging mountain man arm for me to wrap into. He would have said something “Cliffy” in that moment meant only for me but loud enough for the guests, the birds and the bears to hear. Whatever he uttered would have been unpredictable with the exception of the inevitable endearment “Honey” spoken like a punctuation point; laden and dripping with golden sweet richness.
Guests wrote on prayer flags and tied them to the Aspen tree under which Cliff and I would have begun the wedding walk together. Strips of wispy white cotton blasted prayers, love and grace which emboldened the steps I took alone.
Not alone.
Despite many kind offers to walk me down the aisle no one could have taken Cliff’s place.
Musical notes leapt from Leslie’s violin and danced with birdsong. I began the walk, seven years ago today.
Spring Sunrise
Tala and I enjoy our early morning hikes on the mountain. The “antlered ones” are in velvet, tiny bambi’s and an occasional bear greet us here and there during our wanderings accompanied by wildflowers and birdsong.
Tala posing near our humble cabin home.
Season's First Summit
BEAUTIFUL and stunningly memorable summit shared with a dear friend - AND a violinist and ballerina who performed on the summit.
Carrie Krause and Genevieve Tygstad-Burke perform on top of Blackmore Peak (see article here)