Colors of Yellowstone

Blog while you can for you never know when one or all the many necessities upon which it depends might elude you. Power, signal bars of connectivity, or a computer with some memory space left in its brain. Right here in Burns, Oregon, I am close to the edge. But I cannot write about Burns and all its parallels to Winesburg, Ohio (at least the way I remember Sherwood Anderson recalling its characters - the dollar store lady who sold Leila a sweater and would not make eye contact reappeared at the pathetic Thai restaurant last night. Yes, you might wonder, I did say Thai and no, we will not make that mistake again. She with her pitch black dyed hair sat opposite her hefty husband (making assumptions here) while they played cards poker faced, anticipating their sweet and sour pork. Just minutes before the sweater changed hands and there it was out in public, but could she say hey - smile, acknowledge given this second opportunity? No way. But I am off track already here in the Silver Spur Inn. Many stories to tell before reveling in the present. That is the other strange thing about blogs - they are read in reverse chronology. Well maybe not. Guess that is the business of the world at the other end of these signal bars. 

Some last images and thoughts on the colors of Yellowstone and our fortunate chance to witness the explosion of spring, a seeming interruption of the powerful rhythms of its underworld pulsing. 

Hellroaring Hike Yellowstone

Drawing Lessons

Drawing Yellowstone brings certain physical characteristics to the fore. Dead trees and liquid earth upend the landscape of the mind. Where you expect to see verdant growth you find bodies of animals chiseled from toppled trees, bleached white by the sun. The Snake River is littered with these bold white lines sloping against brown banks. We sit for hours drawing along this river. 

I lost control of my drawing when I could not assign a river bank to a particular line. I was drawing segments, not realizing the two banks paralleled but never intersected. An obvious conceptual understanding, but less so in linear terms. 

Leila flattens the view, compressed but articulated layers of space. In her abstraction the images play with shifting identities. Trees become leaves. Trunks go from dead to alive, black to white. She remarks on the capacity of drawing to move, to rove over a landscape. So different from photography, the drawing offers multiple vanishing points in one image. A collection of views. 

Is it the space in my own mind or this place.

A barrage of lessons abound everywhere you look here in Yellowstone. 

The interconnectedness of it all, cycles, rhythms. Big trees overturn, uproot and make homes for small creatures. One thing dies and another is given a chance.

Yellowstone is inversion or sorts. The ground is more alive literally bubbling forth, and those aspects more associated with indicating life, green trees and bushes, are either dead or scratching at the door.

The Yellowstone Inversion

A summer drawing trip. It hit the twenties last night. Snow not only caps distant mountains, it interrupts our trail to the toilets and to the Madison River along which we camp. My tent is not waterproof, ice or hail proof. Ask me how I know. I woke in the night thinking I was making lots of steam on the outside of my sleeping bag. No steam, but lots of rain and melted ice. The sun is finally breaking through and I am down to my fleece pullover and still forever grateful I listened to Leila about bringing long underwear. A buffalo loped across the river at dusk last night.

Yellowstone Animals

Well they definitely rule Yellowstone. Sometimes it is hard to train your camera on the wild ones. May this year is an interesting time in terms of catching good animal sightings. Their terrain is compressed by melting snow and rising rivers. We seem to be right in that gap. Dont get me wrong. It is totally thrilling to come really close to a bear, a moose, a white fox, a blonde fox with dark undertones, bison and bear cubs. But when they cross the street, traffic piles up, people pour out of their cars and make lines dotting the roads. 

Big Gaps

In blogging time I mean. But it could be lots of things. Gaps of land. Gaps between blades of mountain slices. Gaps cut by molten waters below the surface. When I read what I last wrote it feels like months have passed. Yellowstone or not I wondered out loud almost a week ago. And Yellowstone it was. Our first destination having left Bozeman where we took shelter from the rain. We did manage to shed that water, but not the cold. 

Striking a Balance

I have yet to see the shape of our path in the form of a line. I am almost afraid to plot it out, for fear of having no answer to the ever present question: why that route. We were close to the high road of clarity heading out of Minneapolis on highway 94. But the road less traveled, an elusive sense of pioneering, and stalking discovery in places overlooked all lured us south toward the Black Hills of South Dakota. It marked quite a detour and for what precisely I cannot say now. The weather turned sour and we turned back northwest. What do we carry from the energy expended? Some riveting scenery from our wet car windows for sure. The world's largest buffalo. 

There are so many possibilities. Yellowstone or not? Interaction with more people or more nature. The spectacular places come with people. But not always. Part me longs to sit and plot our path, envision its trajectory, say to myself yes, it is wonderful following the footprints of Lewis and Clark. Or the Yellowstone River or the steam of natural hot springs. But another aspect of my personality wants no part of planning, but rather to ride out conditions in the moment, detour on a whim, resist a framework's pressing structure. 

Leila constructed wood post fences with David yesterday, hammering five inch nails through circular cross sections. I drew from the windows of Maire's house trying to scratch out details of deep mountainous space against soft floorboards of her porch. 

Movie Night

"Into the Wild" runs in parallel with David's venison chili. Que, the English Pointer paces, circles, the groans into his spot on the rug. He is thirteen and makes a welcoming substitute for my own thirteen year old Isaac who I miss. Tony, a mass of a cat forms his own dimensional rug. 

The ending of the movie hits hard in particular the protagonist's final written statement, "happiness is only real when shared." Then he dies. A conclusion long in coming for him, perhaps intensifying its truth. Search, seeking meaning in our personal journeys, all themes mapped onto every life. This character simply required more extreme more contrast.

Wild Game

Montana Rain

There are mountains out there; we can sense them but we cannot see them yet. Luckily we have taken refuge in the stunning house and farm of my former college roommate Maire and her husband David. From the windows of their restored farm house you make out the Bridgers beyond the horses, sheep, chickens, and cats. 

Bozeman is a unique college town. At once hip and savory, it is also a throw back, an old western place. Despite the pouring rain yesterday we strolled Main street stopping for browsing and chats with saddle makers, stationers, and wine merchants. All our meals so far are collaborations of the best sort. David tromps in with armfuls of fresh rhubarb. Their own eggs were scrambling when we woke to the smells of bacon and coffee. Venison chili last night with a salad of extraordinary proportions by Leila. And my bread we finally finished for toast this morning (a record ten days after emerging from my freezer - what a hearty beast it is making me love it all the more). 

driving day

Speed.

Mama said there'd be days like this, there'd be days like this Mama said. 

Today was one of them. Departing a small place outside Bismark in Mandan, North Dakota, we opted for the road less traveled - highway 6 out of Bismark to Custer National Forest through Sioux territory. Reminded me of New Mexico mesas with a different blanket over the top. Furry and soft. 

Then it started raining and the temperature dropped fourteen degrees in three hours. 

Our plan is to camp. We stocked up on groceries today: broccoli, tomatoes, pasta, bread mayonaise (for our leftover white roasted chicken meat - I have no idea how people can eat white meat with no mayo), and some chips and salsa. Leila has camp cooking down.

corrugated blue under belly of the sky

crosses grains of

ribbon candy roads

Uncle Dick's hair for fields

silky fine wheat white grasses 

sweep green velvet torsos 

rolling between black stripes of dirt.

Metaphors are about scale.

Taking what for what.

We're ahead of spring on this trip.

Might be time we consider chasing the sun. 

Things get monumental fast on this highway. 

A cow gate interrupts infinite fields

and becomes a church.  

I thought I could see the curvature of the earth this afternoon.

 

emergent themes

Contrapposto. Enantiadromia. Those terms suggesting particular formal relationships seem to recur as I look at things. Sometimes they are just simple things in nature, well what is really simple in nature. This tree that anchors a small field near Trempealeau Park seems one thing from one side and when you walk around it, it changes entirely. Not immediately or right before your eyes, but gradually and seductively. At first it is two trunks intertwined, two old partners whose skins have wrinkled into shared folds, and that is the way I drew it initially. As I drew another formal conundrum took hold. The tubular voids began pressing their shapes into my consciousness and I tried drawing the tree inside out, as if the space was trapped inside. 

Leila was out drawing another tree, a white birch in an open field of green. While leaving my tree behind to catch up to her, I turned back for a last look and saw the gaping mouth, almost heard the solemn groan from its now collected hole on the other side. What was a twisted acceptance of coexistence now seemed a cohesive, collective lament for unity. Tree stories - there may be more to come. 

Rock Lake Minnesota

This day was what it is all about: hiking, drawing, driving. Took a bit to get here - post navigation irritation desperately in need of resurrecting an institute for barely holding it all together laugh, there was the campsite conflict: by the lake, or by the sunset and swamp. The less obvious place turned out to be the right spot. Leila made a great dinner of sauteed spinach, mushrooms and layered cheese (yes my Costco cheese in hanging in hardy). Add to that a roasted chicken (purchased earlier) and well camping is good. A raccoon agreed in the middle of the night perching on our table to gather scraps. 

ticked off in Minnesota

These guys met their demise but the one I just yanked from my right hip bone got a little dinner before death. I forgot about ticks in the woods. Michigan or at least where I live in Michigan, we don't get them. Even the killer green spray could not ward off the eight or so I picked off Leila's jeans. But now, all shined up in Bismark, North Dakota hoteling it again. Needing the internet fix and every outlet they've got. Lost track of how many things we charge whenever we can. 

unfurling the Mississippi

Each small town along this grand river seems to ask you to stay awhile, sit around, and linger. Driving at 30 mph is just right. You can occupy and move through almost simultaneously. But the screen door on the Hotel Trempealeau locks the roving river gaze. Each piece is soft from careful construction and use over time, layered where it requires extra strength. It is just what it needs to be and this has served it well. 

mississippi river morning

Trempealeau Bay 2

Trempealeau Bay 1

highway 35

Paralleling the Mississippi, Leila and I cruise highway 35, weaving in and out of river towns in various states of vitality. Trempealeau marked a stunning destination and our first camp site right in view of the Mississippi. And Joan and Shirley will be happy to know, no bugs!! The composite above may require a bit of decoding - views from inside the tent (no cover necessary as the full moon launched party night for the birds and wildlife) reveal two Baltimore Orioles, a plan shows our spot in relation to the Trempealeau Bay, and the heavy paint stick our vista to the water. Heated up Korean leftovers, half of a Burek from Three Brothers in Milwaukee, and a lovely Chianti, and some chocolate...well I'd say camping is good. 

graduation Madison style

Managed to hit Madison, the isthmus town straddling two lakes, on graduation day so the place reveals itself in full glory: black gowns dotting the streets of rich diversity. We chose among many interesting options for lunch, and absorbed the consistently smiling response we encountered from strangers. A bag of ice, a small souvenir, and it was back to the lure of the road.

railroad root veggies

Milwaukee Green

A place of greenness. Green, not as in the latest greatest trendiest mandate, but in attitude. Fostering this image, concocted from one day of experience, is the lens through which we saw Milwaukee that of my cousin Rick and his wife Mel. Their house (and houses actually) are living examples of the direction we all need to go. Preserving relics that work and finding beauty in their longevity. The railroad track community garden is a literal sampling.

High Speed

Parking brake on, front row, high speed on the Lake Express crossing Lake Michigan from Muskegon to Milwaukee. Skirting the tip of our great lake, we chose not to drive through Chicago and opted for the blazing catamaran that would land us right in downtown Milwaukee just minutes from my cousin Rick and Mel's house. Not a financial savings but a beautiful ride with someone else at the wheel. 

Homeland security emboldens those at check points and our directions were so explicitly and emphatically stated that I was confused about my parking brake. At one point it appeared that releasing it, in order to move forward and off the boat, violated policy. How could we keep going?

Cars remain below and cannot be accessed during the two and a half hour crossing. We shared a table, a view, a cheeseburger, and potato chips. I stood in the window for an hour or so to ward off the impending seasickness. Riding up above in the open air was out of the question due to our speed. At one point we scoured the boat searching for Leila's lost wallet, fearing it had been blown overboard. Not the best way to launch a road trip, but she found it in a secret back pocket. 

We arrived in sync with the sun ball slipping behind the Milwaukee skyline. Rick's eggplant parmesan awaited us on Newhall Lane.

Alive Art

A phototropic building is a concept I had not considered until this morning at 10:00 am when the ritualistic wings of the Milwaukee Art Museum spread slowly over Lake Michigan. Photographers arrive on cue, children brace themselves at the railing and a symphony sings. Catching breezes, but never lifting off, it levitates instead from the interior. Light is the subject here, not art.

What For

 Momentum is my answer. Not usually good on my feet with answers to serious questions, or ones with big structural implications, so I thought I hit the nail at least near the head. What did I want to get out of a driving trip across northern America, she asked me as we hit highway 96. Heading west for work is the easy answer, the one most accept and press no further. You could fly for that and be there in hours. I guess most people get it that I like to draw. Less explicit is that movement inspires me to draw. And since it has been a while since I have experienced that addictive do-si-do of seeing and making lines, I need this journey where momentum is the hopeful byproduct.

Momentum however cannot be achieved in any form without the functions of basic human rhythms. This morning I am happy to say that I am past that – things flowing fine despite being away from home. Have not even busted into the prune supply yet, but maybe it had something to do with my cousin Rick’s phenomenal eggplant parmesan. Or maybe the hour I spent fending off seasickness on the high-speed ferry kept things poised.

So Leila, my friend and traveling companion, and I set out from Pinckney, Michigan yesterday right around 12:19 east coast time. Aiming for an earlier departure, but the scope of this journey precluded those ambitions. By that I mean we are camping. I am trying to recall the last time I camped. Oh yes, the Yuba River just before I moved from Berkeley to Ann Arbor. That was 1990 and we were mostly naked.