Category Archives: Wanderlusting

Field Notes, Photography, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

Real Naturalists

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Shrewd Naturalists

It was still morning twilight, before the blue hour when we started laying the trap. I was part of John Marzluff’s class on ravens in Yellowstone, and we hoped to capture one to band and fit with a transmitter as part of his study.

As we were scattering the bait, two coyotes began yipping and howling just beyond us in the woods, though it was still too dark for us to see them. A third joined in behind us and we paused to listen as the morning conversation went on for several minutes. Then…the very different howl of a wolf from across the valley and the coyotes instantly were silenced.

Getting out the spotting scopes we set them up in the direction of the howls, though the sky was just beginning to lighten. When it was finally bright enough we focused in a pack of wolves on the nearby ridge. Some were lying down, some wrestling and playing and it was clear they had just feasted on a kill and were in a state of postprandial lassitude. Searching the hillside further, we found the large red stain in the snow where the ravens were gathered and a coyote was cautiously approaching. This was the kind of viewing opportunity hoards of visitors seek and for awhile we had it all to ourselves.

Eventually the guided vans appeared and disgorged the long lensers (photographers) and people crowded around the spotting scopes. I have always assiduously avoided these kinds of wolf jams–it feels like being in a zoo to me. There is a real difference between being shown something and discovering something on your own.

As a couple of us turned away from the spotting scopes, we saw a tiny creature scamper from beneath the bus and scurry across the road. One of the men in the group ran after it and managed to capture it, letting it crawl up the arm of his jacket. Abandoning the scopes and the growing crowd, we all came over to view the little shrew until it jumped and headed off for the safety of a nearby tree. The group followed, taking photos of the little creature and watching its behavior. The wolf people thought we were certainly crazy, but…

“Naturalist have been known to measure their experiences by comparing their wildlife encounters with other naturalists of similar interests. When speaking of the Rockies, they often joust their encounters with such animals as Mountain Lions and Grizzly Bears to validate their experience. A true measure of a naturalist’s character, however, may not lie with such sightings as these, but instead with appreciating the under-appreciated. (A shrew) is so rarely seen that any naturalist who does come across it can count him-or herself exceptionally lucky.” From Mammals of the Rocky Mountains

Field Notes, Reading Nature, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

Kinship and Ravens

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In January I spent two weeks in Yellowstone, taking classes from Yellowstone Forever, exploring the park, and skiing around photographing , in spite of the worrying paucity of snow. The first week’s workshop was on Kinship where we explored the ideas of Robin Wall Kimmerer in Braiding Sweetgrass, and the rich and varied essays found in the collection Kinship: Belonging In A World of Relations. Changing our relationship with the more than human world and our place in it is a transformative process, and one that is vital if we are to confront our current situation.

Yellowstone is a perfect place to study the many different ways of knowing that have shaped cultures throughout history. From indigenous perspectives, to the western settler’s influence, to the birth of the national park idea and the beginnings of the conservation movement, up to the practice of rewilding and the current crisis of climate change.

Kinship is a process. It is working to repair our severed ties with all our relations in the more- than- human world. It is reconnecting with our bodies, minds and spirits to the interdependent community we are all a part of. It isn’t easy changing a world view. But I see great hope as we recognize our disconnection and look to the wisdom of cultures who have not severed their ties.

“Without knowing our place in nature, we are bound to tamper with nature’s design in a manner that might not always be in its best interest. The objective is to create a deeper understanding within us to help us realize our place in nature, so that instead of tampering, we complement its design by applying our imagination, intuition, and intellect for mutual benefit.” Sunil Chauhan from the Kinship Series/ vol. 5: Practice.

I didn’t leave with any answers, but I think I’m beginning to ask the right questions. And I realize that the place to start on this journey toward kinship is through listening–not to the pundits or policy makers, but to the land itself. It has a great deal to teach us if only we will have the humility to listen.

The second week I spent with John and Colleen Marzluff, preeminent raven researchers. This course was a wonderful compliment to the course I took several years ago on raven and coyote mythology. Ravens are birds who have had a relationship with humans for millennia. And we got an opportunity to study their behaviors and life stories in the field. Whether you think of them as a conspiracy, a storytelling or an unkindness of ravens, they have a great deal to teach us about how we view another creature and they offer us crucial lessons on adaptation and finding your place within an ecosystem.

Untangling all that I learned and experienced last month will take a lot of thought and study. But I have some fascinating, intertwined tracks to follow to see where they might lead me.

Wolf, coyote and raven tracks.
Photography, Reading Nature, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

It’s Just Reflections

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I step carefully to the shore of the lake, avoiding the muddy seeps in the tall grasses. It looks as if the sky has fallen into the water, clouds floating like lily pads on the surface. Behind me, the rumble of cars crossing the bridge over Pelican Creek in Yellowstone is an ever-present reminder of the summer crowds. I raise my camera to my eye and frame the reeds growing through reflections of pines.

A car stops behind me. “What do you got? Bears?” shouts the driver. Clouds cover the sun, extinguishing the the sparkles that had danced across the water’s surface. “No, not bears. Reflections,” I answer, pointing with my camera. The driver turns to his passengers, “It’s just reflections!” and ducks back into the shell of his car, spraying gravel in their retreat.

I feel water soaking my shoes as I sink into the soft bank. Stepping back, a tiny frog leaps from beneath my foot, splashing the water and sending a cascade of ripples across the surface. The reflections refract into a kaleidoscope of color, settle and the clouds suddenly come to life–four white pelicans swim into view and I gasp.

Ignoring the mucky smell that rises with every step, I make my way a bit closer. A fallen log provides the perfect bench to sit and watch the great white birds that swim in unison like a water ballet team. What if I hadn’t stopped to take pictures? I ask myself. What else have I missed, like that car full of tourists, in my rush through the park?

The camera lies idle in my hands as I sit and watch the pelicans feed, diving beneath the surface and rising, water streaming from the great ladles of their beaks.

I think about the connections between the bears and the pelicans. How, after lake trout appeared 30 years ago, the cutthroat began to disappear. Both bears and pelicans as well as eagles, ospreys, and numerous other species depended on the cutthroat and they too began to disappear from the lake. Now, after decades of work, the lake trout numbers have been reduced significantly, the cutthroat have rebounded and so too, the pelicans and bears.

Pull one small thread and whole fabric unravels. But I whisper gratitude to all those who worked so long to darn this small piece of the world back together.

***

June was a time of travel for me. I spent one week based in Yellowstone visiting the places that I can’t get to in winter–over Beartooth Pass, out the Northeast entrance to the Cody museum, a tour of the Heritage Center in Gardiner and a trip to Dubois in Wyoming where I went to learn about the Sheepeater Shoshone who lived in Yellowstone before the park was established.

Following that, I went to the Centennial Valley to attend a Full Ecology writing workshop put on by Gary Ferguson and Mary Clare. There I reignited my writing practice which had fallen by the wayside these last few years.

It was easy to become cynical after my time in Yellowstone in the summer. Bear jams miles long, people crowding the boardwalks, barely looking at the scenery that was nothing more than a backdrop for their selfies and overcrowded campgrounds with TV’s blaring. So the Full Ecology workshop was a wonderful antidote to all that.

Not only was the Centennial Valley peaceful and unpeopled, but Gary and Mary reminded me that “There’s more truth and energy to be found in awe than in cynicism. In our culture, being cynical is often associated with being cool; but it’s really the intellect playing separation games, finding cheap ways to reassure you that you’re the clever one, that you’re ‘above all that.’ Cynicism pushes aside wonder, and with great bluster demands to lead. But it has no vision, no humility, no curiosity. And so over and over, it lands us in the same dark corner of the same small room.” from Full Ecology

My first thought after encountering the carload of tourists looking to see a bear and ignoring all else, was cynicism–something I’ve been more and more guilty of these last few years with the way the culture wars are dividing us. But I have to believe that carload of tourists had come all the way to Yellowstone to reconnect in some way with the wild. To experience that wonder and awe that has been lost to so many. That is what I hope to achieve in some small way with this book–to reignite my reader’s curiosity and wonder.

(The prose piece above was written to the Building a Scene prompt from Craig Child’s workshop at Fishtrap Summer Conference this year.)

Book Arts, Photography, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

A New Project

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Welcome, or welcome back to Backwoods and Beyond. For the past few years I haven’t been posting as I got overwhelmed by the news, social media, the pandemic and life in general. But I am about to embark on a new book and I wanted to share the process of its creation.

There is a photo project I have working off and on for the last 6 years or so. It started out as a portfolio of images taken in Yellowstone each winter. At the same time I have been journaling about my experiences skiing in the park and also studying the natural and cultural histories. In 2018 I created a show incorporating images printed with gum dicromate-the first color printing process that produces prints echoing the early paintings and hand-colored photos of Yellowstone. (To see how this process works click the Exploritorium tab in the menu) This past year I have been experimenting with using natural pigments made from rocks in the process. This has sparked an idea for putting together a handmade book incorporating those images and a series of micro–essays that explore the complicated questions arising from our relationship to wilderness, to the more-than-human world and the profound impacts of our disconnect from nature. If we have any hope of responding to climate change, it will require us to reimagine our world view and reintegrate our way of living to be part of rather than apart from the rest of the ecosystems we depend on for our survival.

The book will be a chronicle of my personal journey toward that new vision. As a way of keeping myself accountable and focused, I will be posting periodic updates here of the process of creating the book, both the photographic and writing, as I develop it. If you are interested in following along on my journey please subscribe to the blog–or simply check in here at Backwoods and Beyond whenever you like.

Belly River--Glacier National Park, Field Notes, Wanderlusting

Year End Reflections

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Our Cabin in the Belly River

The garden is put to bed, the pantry full of salsas, sauces, jams and relishes, and the freezer full of antelope, and Christmas come and gone.  With the new year only a few days away, it is time for some quiet reflection on this past year—the experiences we harvested, the images preserved, not on film, but in pixels.

In January Candace and I sold the art center and I built (or I should say, Ted built) a little studio at home where I can look out on the backwoods as I work and  avoid going into town for days at a time. I think of it as my exploritorium—a place where I can feed my curiosity, learn and spend even more time exploring in the woods.

And then last summer Ted and I embarked on a new journey, though in many ways it felt like a return to one of the best parts of our past.  We became volunteer wilderness rangers in Glacier National Park.  While Ted was a backcountry ranger 30years ago, first at Kintla Lake in the northwest corner of the park and then at Walton on the southern tip along the Middle Fork, this time we were stationed in a part of the park we had never gotten a chance to explore—the Belly River in the northeast corner.  For a week or two every month from May through September we hiked the 6 miles in to the Belly River Ranger station and assisted the two full time rangers—Tracey Wiese and Bruce Carter—by patrolling the trails, checking campsites, talking to visitors and doing weed surveys and maintenance. 

First of all, if you haven’t backpacked in 30 years it is quite a reckoning to realize that you just aren’t as young and fit as you used to be.  Thankfully we were assigned a cabin to stay in so we didn’t have pack in a tent and all our cooking gear.  We even got our food packed in once the station received their stock—two pack mules and a horse.

The Belly River is a many storied place and unique in its remoteness.  Few visitors come to the Belly River—the limited number of campsites are by permit only the trailhead takes off from the Canadian border, a long    mile drive from the nearest “tourist” destination of Many Glacier, so day hikers are a rare phenomena.  We do get a lot of Continental Divide hikers on the last leg of their phenomenal 3,000 mile journey from the Mexican border, but they are a different breed from the typical tourist in Glacier.  And we are looking forward to returning this summer to continue the adventure.

So, with my new home studio and a whole new world in the Belly River to explore in the coming year, I am restarting my blog as a way to reflect on and deepen my experiences in the natural world and to record whatever I may discover.  I hope you’ll join me on my explorations and share whatever wonders you may find in the coming year.

Sunset on Mount Cleveland–Belly River
Ground Truthing, Wanderlusting

Farewell to the Moab Symposium

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In May I attended the final Moab Photography Symposium.  For the last three years I can honestly say the experience, combined with the Terrific Trio workshop in the three days leading up to the larger gathering, has changed my life.  I have been “studying” photography for the last 10 years or so–learning my f-stops and depth of field and composition and photoshop techniques.  But on my first Terrific Trio workshop with Guy Tal, Bruce Hucko and Colleen Miniuk Sperry, I learned what it is to create art with my camera.

We were out on a shoot at a well-known overlook in Canyonlands.  Canyonlands and I have a long history, reaching back to my childhood exploring the then primitive area in my geologist father’s jeep.  

I wasn’t consciously composing or worrying about my camera settings.  I was sitting quietly, camera beside me as I watched the light changing across the landscape.

With a hard rock against my back, supporting me, allowing for rest, my mind focused on the present–the pungent scent of sun baked sage, the sound of the wind in the gnarled branches of the piñon pines, the dust of dry gritty sand on my tongue.  

Suddenly I felt something behind me–not another person or an animal, but a palpable presence.  I turned and there, dancing before a sunlit cliff face was a bare limbed tree.  I could see the tree’s gnarled body, but then it appeared as if it were a shadow cast on the rock and then–the cliff face seems to crack open, with the memory Dad’s stories of the creation of this landscape–of ancient seas, upheaval and the sculpting fingers of wind and water.  I quietly raised my camera and took a single shot.  For me that single shot captured the essence of Canyonlands, both the present and the past.

When I showed the photograph in critique the next day, Guy and Bruce and Colleen did more than look at my photo and murmur their praise.  They experienced it and responded to it.  They even remembered it years later.  In the flood of images we encounter every day, to have my image remain in another person’s memory is a profound experience and helped me realize the purpose of all art–which is to deeply connect to another human being.

“The best teachers always remind us that photography is about connection, about sharing experiences, a means of self-exploration and global discovery, a way to get outside of our own small lives and expand beyond our own limitations.  Perhaps the next time you’re out in the world with your camera you can use all the techniques and aesthetics you’ve learned from your mentors–not to make a great picture, but rather to connect with another human being, heart to heart, through the artwork you are striving so hard to create.” Brooks Jensen

I will be forever grateful to my mentors–Guy, Colleen and Bruce.  You have given me more than you could know.

Field Notes, Wanderlusting

Plein Air Writing

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Last month the Dana Gallery in Missoula held their annual Paintout.  Several local writers were invited to accompany the artists into the field and write in response to the scene.  I was fortunate to join Robert Moore in the Lavelle Creek valley.  The paintings and writings are on display at the gallery through August.

 

 

 

 

Word Painting 

Begin with an underpainting. Great gravelly shores of a lake tens of thousands of years gone. Dusky grey with thin soils that lie heaped to the horizon line. Begin to sketch in the grasses whose network of roots hold that soil from gathering up into the winds that rake this slope.

Pull the individual stems from the plain brown hillside. Mix words on your palette to give definition to those grasses. Timothy and fescue, tawney and ecru, tufted hairgrass and sedge, raffia and buff. Struggle to give the right shape to your words so feathery seed heads come alive and dance on the page as they are shimmying now in the breeze. Look closer and see the greens that are woven into the tapestry. Sagey lupine heavy with furred pods and dusty verdigris balsam root drying in the searing sun. Try to capture the rustle of leaves and stems as some unseen creature darts among the safe cover of grasses, while overhead a feathered form sails across the clear blue sky.

Upslope, the burnt umber shadow of the single pine pools from its base and crawls uphill. How to render the ponderosa? Not spired like spruce or leggy like lodgepole. Words must spread in great boles and boughs, tufted with long needles. Pull the vanilla scent from the puzzled bark onto the page. Try to find the right values for your words. Suddenly the rock nestled at the foot of the ponderosa resolves itself into the hunched form of a wild turkey, escaping the midday sun.

Let the image of the turkey pull you into your own cool shade. Hunker yourself into the shadow of the serviceberry bush that softens the roadcut where you sit, dabbing letter into word into image.

You read the scene you have painted on the page. You like the way the colors mix and blend, the shading that has given it depth, and pulled you into the picture.

A branch dangles just above your eyes, heavy with small hard berries. Know they will ripen with time into something that will nourish you, the way all this foliage is transforming sunlight into life.

Field Notes, Wanderlusting

Refuge in Yellowstone

“It is important to attend to the outer world and your responsibilities in it, but sometimes it is just as important to attend to the inner, spiritual world.”  words from a tarot card

These last couple of months have thrown me into the outer world–the daily news, the obsessive tweets by our new leader, everyone talking of their outrage, incredulity, calls to action.  And we must respond and resist.  We cannot let things go unprotested.  

But in the midst of all this, Ted and I found refuge in a place where there were no TVs, no radios, no newspapers, no cell phone or internet.  We silenced the cacophony for 5 days, attending instead to the earth whose heart beat just a few miles below our feet, whose life blood boiled to the surface in hot pools which melted the heavy snow and ice clogging open water and offered forage to hungry bison and elk and refuge to trumpeter swans and geese.  For five glorious days the only thing spouting off were the geysers.  We could take a breath, take in the wonder of the snowy woods where the imagination stirring snow ghosts lurked.  An angel hovering in the pines, or a snow snail crawling upstream against the current of the pewter river reminding me that it is always slow going against the current, but like a snail, we must just keep plugging along.  The forces of nature–snow falling in gale force winds–drifts blocking the trails–steam billowing in the frosted air obscuring the sights, but giving the woods an etherial other-worldly quality were all there to remind us that beyond the walls of civilization were forces far more powerful and fierce than our own greed and self-centeredness.  

Of course, we had to return home to the turmoil of the latest news, but our experience was a strong reminder to take time every day to stop obsessing over the latest outrage, the latest tweet and go to the woods –pay attention to the real tweets and songs of the birds.  To reflect rather than react.  And most importantly, to not get distracted from what we really care about.  Focusing on the reality show going on in Washington means we might take our eye off of the crucial issues here at home.  And so I have limited myself to giving my attention to what’s happening in the state legislature and making sure that our representatives don’t forget that they represent all of us.  And with Montana’s representative Ryan Zinke up for Interior Secretary, it is incredibly important that we let him know how crucial these wild refuges are for all our souls.