INKtober 2026 - eleven years later…

Many years ago, when Instagram still seemed fairly new in my world, I happened across a challenge someone had posted called INKtober. It was September of 2015, and the idea played around in my mind as something perhaps I should do.

I hadn't created anything new all summer. Not since a pack of three pit bulls attacked me early that spring. The traumatic experience had left me with wounds far deeper than the physical ones. For the first time in my life, even the studio and creativity didn't feel like a healing place.

Fear held me hostage.

October 1st rolled around without me committing to the challenge or creating a drawing. But later that night, sleepless and wide awake, I crawled out of bed, plucked two pens from a drawer, found a sketchbook somewhere in the house and made an ink drawing.

And then I kept going.

Every single day for the rest of October, I made a drawing and shared it publicly. I remember squeezing a daily drawing into the spaces and places life took me. Drawing while waiting for dinner at a restaurant in Billings before heading to a rodeo with Raymond. Drawing at home. In the studio. In the wilderness. One dawn, after we'd danced alongside generations of a family at an autumn barn dance, I sat on a dry grassy hillside and drew their historic barn.

Curiosity and discipline got the drawings made. Courage helped me post them. Ink is unforgiving. You can't erase. There were imperfections. These were exercises. I certainly hadn't set out to make anything “sell-worthy,” whatever that means…

But to my surprise, people responded. They began asking if they could purchase the drawings. Some I gave away. Many found homes.

I kept just one.

A little drawing of the Velveteen Rabbit from a favorite childhood story. Looking back now, I believe I saw something of myself in that tender, well-loved and unintentionally abandoned little rabbit. Somehow, that stuffed rabbit spoke to the place I was finding my way out of.

Those 31 days became what I later described in my Journal as “baby steps through the fear.” And now, eleven years later, October 1st has rolled around again. This time, I'm saying yes before the day slips away.

INKtober 2026 begins today.

I will create one original 6 × 8 inch ink drawing every day throughout October and share it as it emerges. This time, each new original will also be offered for sale.

I don't know what today's drawing will be.
That's part of the adventure.
31 days. 31 original drawings.
One day, one drawing, one small act of creative courage at a time.

Follow INKtober 2026 as the collection unfolds →

Living Brave

Three days after returning from the Yukon, I pulled the hiking boots and high-country gear out of my carry-on and replaced them with heels, boots, bling and outfits for Living Brave Live in Denver. Quite the gear shift - but honestly, it’s not at all unusual for my trip packing to appear rather eclectic, as I often mix business and formal events with backcountry adventure. You know…heels and ice crampons, sculptures and climbing harnesses, rodeo and mountain bike, etc.

New Friends

How joyful to join 2,000 women from more than 30 countries for a few days of deep diving into courageous business possibilities.

I met beautiful, inspiring women of all ages. I listened, laughed, danced, dressed up and took notes. I returned home with insight into some of the ways I’ve been living small and inspired to step up my game, be braver and live more boldly.

The Wild, the Wonderful, the Unexpected and…the Unimaginable

We were honored to be invited by dear friends to join them on a hiking trip to the Yukon, the kind of friends that, when you find yourselves sharing the only hotel room available in Vancouver after a delayed flight, you are not only comfortable with but somehow sincerely more in love with by morning.

We relished our unexpected layover day, being treated to their favorite Vancouver eateries and spending hours in the absolutely stellar Museum of Anthropology at UBC. The hiking adventure began the next morning after a late-night flight into Whitehorse.

Oooooooooo the MOUNTAINS...!

Raymond, Heidi and Kobi on the trail

Beautiful. Beckoning. I wanted desperately to disappear into them, to explore and climb for days. Alas this trip had a schedule and also, I got sick.

I missed one hiking day entirely, holed up in a hotel room, but rallied enough to enjoy a day hike with Raymond and get a whiff of what is called “the Patagonia of the Yukon.”

Those sculptural peaks were tantalizing…!

Here I was surrounded by exactly the kind of wild country that makes every adventurous cell in my body light up, on an organized guided hiking trip no less, and my body simply wasn't willing to cooperate. But truthfully, I can't remember the last time I was sick. And rather than feeling betrayed by my body, I found myself strangely proud of it. Sleep had been especially elusive since the beginning of May, and still this body of mine carried me through a whole lot of living this summer.

There is a time for everything. And so very much to be thankful for.

My girlfriend Heidi ended up sick too, but that didn’t deter her and I from partaking in the infamous Sourtoe Cocktail in Dawson City. Look it up. It's more than a little crazy.

And yes. It involves a real human toe.

There's a new Beaver in Town...

I’ve had this little bugger in mind ever since a special encounter with a baby beaver while hiking three summers ago. When I finally gathered up a lump of clay and began, something unexpected happened.

I almost stopped.

The reference images scattered across my table looked much more, well… rodent-like… than the remarkable little creature who had been living in my imagination all these years. Doubt crept in. Where was the compelling, magical being I remembered?

I took a break. Walked in the woods. Thought of my childhood. Then returned to the studio and downloaded a delightfully read audio version of “The Wind in the Willows.” I returned to that moment three summers ago when the baby beaver popped its head out of the water. I remembered.

The curiosity. The industriousness. The almost comical earnestness of a creature who can alter an entire landscape one stick at a time.

And slowly, this little bugger emerged through eight hours of “The Wind in the Willows” followed by a fabulous reading of “Watership Down.” I found my way back into that magical world we are all part of when we open our hearts and quiet our minds.

Beaver enjoyed an enthusiastic debut at Sculpture in the Park in Loveland. Apparently, I’m not the only one who found this lil being irresistible. Within two weeks, all 50 bronzes from the first batch had been claimed by enthusiastic humans.

The foundry is now busy with the next batch from the limited edition of 100. I am a bit blown away by the love this newest member of my palm-size bronze menagerie has received. Perhaps there’s something about a creature who quietly reminds us what can happen when we keep building the life we imagine.

Reserve a Beaver →

Answering the Mountain's Call

Raymond and I habitually snatch an adventure between the blur of July and the big annual Sculpture in the Park show.

This year, we scooted to the Scapegoat Wilderness, where we slept beneath a full moon in the back of my mother-in-law’s Subaru, windows open, listening to the mountain creek so we could rise before dawn and begin our climb toward the summit of Crown Mountain. We walked toward the round lantern of the moon in that magical hour between night and morning. The first rays of sunlight set Crown aglow.

Sleep had been elusive for me since the end of June. The cool morning movement felt right in my soul, ’tho challenging in my sleep-deprived bones and psyche. The air, quietude and freedom quenched a thirst Raymond had acquired during the chunk of July he spent working in the dust and dirt of the Big Sky PBR arena. His stoke fueled mine as we moved together off-trail and across far-stretching talus slopes toward the rocky summit.

Hours later, we stood on top. Time in the mountains never feels like time taken away from everything else…it feels like time returned.

Snatching a Day from the Blur

July in Montana tends to fill itself to overflowing.

Our mountain-retreat lifestyle becomes a revolving door of people we love who understandably want to be in Montana during this glorious sliver of summer. Family and friends, rodeos and the Big Sky PBR, long evenings entertaining, sharing sunsets and stories.

I managed to snatch a day from the blur to share with my niece Jillian. We struck out at the break of dawn and spent a glorious day hiking in the Crazy Mountains.

There’s something especially delicious about adventuring with someone you love, and Jillian is one special being.

Rock under our paws.
Big country all around us.
A mountain lake surrounded by goats on the lingering snow for me to plunge into—and snow slopes for Jillian to “sled” down on her raincoat.

Pure mountain joy.

Come Hither

The Castle Mountains are bewitching.

Giant rock formations appear seemingly out of nowhere in a deeply forested fairy landscape. Hidden until you hike through luscious grass and wildflowers embellished with fresh bear and moose sign—and suddenly a tower or two comes into view and beckons.

I love the feeling of my paws on rock.

Recently, at a Professional Bull Riders event in our little hometown, I heard the announcer proclaim that bull riding was about “conquering the bull.” My stomach twisted in dissent and dismay. I turned to the friend sitting next to me, a retired bullfighter who runs a school for bullfighters and whom Raymond and his fellow bullfighting friends reverently call “The Don,” and asked him if he thought bull riding or bullfighting was about “conquering the bull.”

He said no. It is about conquering yourself.

I agree. The same is true of mountains, cliffs and towers in climbing. And of the creative process, as I experience it in the studio. The only thing I have to conquer during the creative process is myself.

AKA…my fear.

Being present. Giving myself fully over to the process. Trusting what I know and what I don't know. Moving beyond the places where fear tells me to stop. Perhaps conquer isn't even the right word.

Maybe it is about meeting myself. On the rock. In the studio.

And continuing up and over the “come hither” arch.

The Desert Prepared Me...

Before the long conversations, the hospital rooms, the memories, the goodbyes.

There was stone.

A spontaneous trip to Red Rock Canyon with a new friend. Two days of climbing beneath vast desert skies. Hours spent moving slowly upward through exposure, focus, trust, and wonder.

Looking back, I realize the gift wasn't simply the climbing. It was the way those days gathered something inside me - strength, presence, perspective. The quiet focus. The way the world narrows to a handhold, a foothold, a breath - and somehow becomes infinitely larger at the same time.

I didn't know then how much I would draw upon that steadiness in the weeks ahead. My fingers smoothed by stone, my soul stretched by sky, I returned home to a month immersed in the beautiful complexity of family visits in Nebraska and Texas; tender conversations, difficult goodbyes, and the profound privilege of showing up for those I love.

The desert gave me something before I knew I needed it; a reminder that strength and softness can occupy the same heart. Sometimes the gifts arrive before we understand their purpose.

Touched By Travelers

The obligatory Bison Bench photo before our quick trip to Seattle to celebrate our dear friend Heidi’s stage acting debut. I still smile knowing this o’l buffalo continues greeting weary travelers arriving home to Montana. I love the shiny places in his patina, worn smooth by the touch of countless passing hands.

There are so many stories tucked inside this sculpture - from carving the original in black walnut to the long journey into bronze. Watching travelers unconsciously wear parts of the patina smooth through touch reminds me how artworks continue evolving long after they leave the studio. Perhaps I should host small studio storytelling evenings to share some of the hidden journeys…

Fire Horse

There are moments when something opens… and there is no going back to the way it was before.

On stage…

Vú Ja Dè was one of those nights - an evening of artists gathering without script, creating in real time, held only by presence and trust.

“Paint and tears flowing - my edges felt edgeless - my heart soft, expansive and powerful.”

From my journal…

Painting while sharing energy, love, loss, presence…it felt like riding a Fire Horse bareback.
Gentleness. Power.

Moments barely hanging on - knowing I could be thrown, and also feeling the horse and I in flight.

I had to trust memory carried through lifetimes of making while immersed in the energy of the audience - the energy of my dear friends on stage and my own emotions.

Prayer and play.

I wasn’t just painting a horse - I was cracking something open in myself. The veil was thin. I became devotion.

Now I am back in the quiet of the studio. Back in the stable. Muscles still trembling from the ride.

The painting is here with me and I am listening for what it wants now.

Vú Ja Dè was a threshold night. An activation. A transformation. Holding intense presence. Feeling everything. No sense of time

Flow - and flowing.

Offering and receiving. Emergence and impermance revealed.

For those who feel curious to witness the evening as it unfolded, the livestream is still available here → Vú Ja Dè event photos courtesy of Yarrow Kranner

Unseen Currents...

I have been immersed.

There has been so much life between the last entry and now.
Mountains and ice climbed. Unknowns beckoned and stepped into. Soft fur and new life curled into the rhythm of home.

And beneath it all -
the unseen currents that shape us from within.
Frequencies felt in my bones.
Heart opening. Dreams deepening.

The studio has begun to beckon with new songs,
some of which feel familiar, yet older than this life.

For now, they’ve been held quietly. Tucked into handwritten pages.
Listening in the dark. Dancing in the light.

I can feel something stirring.
Strong. Tender.

I’ll share more… as it begins to unfold.

Glaciated Mt Baker

We arrived at base camp in the mist. That night a full moon eclipse was felt though unseen in the blanketed sky. The world felt hushed, holy and alive.

Before dawn we geared up, roped in, and began the slow, steady climb. Crevasses opened around us - luminous layers of blue and white, breathtakingly deep. Steam rose from the crater’s edge; the living pulse of the mountain.

We stood on the summit - small and smiling. Endless peaks stretched across a sea of clouds, beckoning with quiet invitation.

Memories carved in ice and light.
Our friendship woven stronger in the sacred rhythm of challenge and grace.

View more images on a short 20 second reel here

Saying Yes to Mt. Baker

While at Sculpture in the Park, a dear girlfriend asked if I’d join her for an expedition on Mt. Baker. I said yes.

Livingston Peak with Tala

Decades ago, I’d followed a boyfriend in a whiteout up Mt. Rainier, blissfully unaware of what glaciated mountains really meant. Mt. Baker, as it turns out, has less elevation than Crazy Peak (which Raymond and I had just summited before the show) - but it starts 5,000 feet lower.

The guiding company recommended six months of training.
I had three weeks.

So, I traded studio time for trail time - stuffing a pack with 30 pounds and hiking daily with Tala up our mountain and summiting three local peaks (with a lighter pack) to prepare.

Summers are short in the Rockies, and guiltlessly “training” was the perfect excuse to be outside. I swaped bronze dust for wild air and deadlines for ridgelines. Saying yes can lead to the most extraordinary adventures.

Grounded in Stone and Sky

After the whirlwind of Sculpture in the Park, the feel of granite beneath my hands and sun on my face grounds me.

There’s something about trading the hum of crowds for the steady pulse of stone. My friend and I climbed high into the quiet, our laughter echoing across the canyon walls.

Up there, surrounded by silence and sky, I could feel my creative rhythm returning; each breath a reminder that inspiration doesn’t only come from doing, but from being.

With paws on rock and heart wide open, this too is part of my art; grounding, breathing, becoming.

Cold Mountain Medicine

I slip into cold mountain lakes with intention and ritual. A breathless moment when water meets skin and heart meets spirit. Humbled. Stregthened. Connected

Each plunge feels like prayer, a return to presence - to trust, surrender, and belong within something vast, wild and kind.

I feel similar during moments of creation - enticed to the edge between resistance and release, when the mind lets go and Spirit moves through my hands.

Whether in water or in art, the invitation is the same:
to breathe, to soften, to listen - to let the mystery shape me.

From Rodeo Roads to Rock Walls

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 for Raymond, 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 - is the springtime hanging plant.

Every spring, Cliff used to bring a plant to brighten the front of my studio; one of his many 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 at 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. So 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 this young buffalo from Black Walnut in my 20s. 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.