A Look Back

Steps and Cliffs

16" X 20"

Acrylic on Canvas

A year ago this week I accomplished something that I never in my wildest dreams thought I could—or would—ever do. This week marks the one-year anniversary of when my husband and I, and our dear friends Bob and Peter hiked to the top of Mt. Whitney.

For those of you that don’t know me well, I am not lean and athletic. I’m about as willowy as the dancing hippos in Fantasia. Growing up, I was the last one chosen for any sport. If there was a ball involved, it usually hit me in the face. I was the one they put in the way-out outfield. So for me, this was a huge accomplishment.

A large part of my success is owed to the love and support of my hubby and friends who encouraged me the entire way up the hill. It was an emotional and cathartic trip. So please indulge me this moment of remembrance (then I promise to move on).

Over the past year, I’ve shared the enormity of this challenge with you through many stories and paintings. I’ve described the trail and the rocky terrain and if I were to distill the trail down into a word or three, it would be rocks, steps, and cliffs.

I thought I was fully prepared for the trail. I read every account and looked at every photo I could lay my hands on. Clint had even made a chart that broke the trail into sections, providing the distance, elevation gain, and average grade for each section. It was part of his “how to eat an elephant” strategy (one bite at a time) to get me up the mountain. Laminated and hung off my backpack, this chart was my road map. I knew what to expect and mentally prepared myself for each section (10% grade for 2.25 miles—a cinch!).

However, that road map didn't tell me anything about the nature of the trail, whether it was smooth, rocky, or full of steps. That's what left me slack-jawed in surprise—the number of steps. I don't mean how many times I put one foot in front of the other. I mean stair steps—that ranged from six to a honking eighteen inches tall—cut into the rock in places, naturally occurring in others. I expected steep—but not all those damn steps.

 Steps and Cliffs

9" X 12"

Pastel 

By the time we arrived at Trail Camp, six miles into our journey, I'd climbed enough steps to last me the rest of my life. I had to take three breaths and then heave-ho to get up many of them. I was carrying a 33-lb. pack and with my extremely short legs, some of those steps were above my knees in height. Somehow, I made it.

It was three days of extreme focus: getting up (and then down) those steps and calculating every foot placement to stay balanced and in control. I was so intensely alert, that in my dreams I was still hiking. I couldn't stop. The second night, after we summited Whitney, when I was drifting off I dreamed I misjudged a step and stumbled—jerking myself awake, my heart pounding, my mouth like paste.

And so, not long after the trip, I had to draw and paint that unforgettable memory of steps. Steps ascending a trail hung on the edge of the world.

I worked quickly and completely from memory.

I wasn’t sure about putting these pieces up on the blog because, well, who wants to buy something like this? When we trotted out the pieces to decide on which of them to frame, I put these in the “No” pile. Who would want them? They are kind of Mordor-ish, disturbing, alien.

I thought about painting over the canvas. Why not re-use it? But I can't. If I cover it up, it will nullify all the hard work and dogged determination I put into that trip. Failure was not an option for me.

In honor of this anniversary, I wanted to share these pieces with you. They may not be my best work, and are not likely to end up in anyone’s living room, but they truly represent what my art is all about, releasing my feelings onto canvas and paper. Whether that is joy, awe, euphoria, or fear, there it is.

Cirquel in the Sky

Cirquel in the Sky

18" X 24"

Acrylic on Canvas

This is the canvas that was so wonderful to paint on that I fell in love with it.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010: I was one big ball of nerves; spaghetti stomach with worms. I was only a day away from the biggest undertaking in my life, hiking to the top of Mt. Whitney.

What if I trip and fall and break something? What if I get sick? What if something happens to one of the guys? My Clint? My imagination played out dozens of horrific scenarios on the theatre screen in my head. There was scary crescendo music like the kind you hear right before something terrible happens (yes, my life has an ongoing soundtrack that only I can hear).

At some point, my brain and body became exhausted from all the worrying. I tilted, like an old pinball machine that's been jiggled just a little too vigorously. My lights went out and the flipper bars went dead. I could no longer snap the ball of worry up for another go round, bouncing, ringing, spinning. It would be what it would be.

The next day, we picked up our permit and WAG bags (that's another story) for the next day’s journey. Then we headed out for a hike up the trail to Little Meysan Lake. The plan was to get out and stretch our legs and lungs, with the goal of climbing to 10,000 feet. It was one last conditioning exercise to expose us to “up” and “elevation” (the great equalizer).

We were all a bit sluggish as we started out on the steep and messy trail. Eroded from heavy use from the quarter-mile hikers, it was difficult to get into any kind of hiking rhythm. The worry ball shot up and bounced around a few times. If I felt like this now, how was I going to feel tomorrow for The Big Hike? I focused on my breathing, keeping it in time with my steps. It didn't take long before I started to feel better. We passed the beat-up section of the trail and moved on into the reward. My breathing evened out, I warmed up, and the steady climb didn't feel so bad. Everyone had loosened up and the joking began...

It was a beautiful day! Puffy clouds dotted a cobalt sky. The light was soft, intensifying the colors of the landscape. A hawk soared above us. A light breeze was blowing. The trail rapidly zigzagged up a steep slope giving us a wonderful view out over what seemed like a bottomless canyon. The near vertical granite wall across the gap was painted with every color of lichen imaginable.

Before long, the view ahead opened up and we could see the distinctive bowl of rock that marked the outer edge of the cirque holding Little Meysan Lake. Of all the cirques we would see in the next few days, this was the most defined and dramatic. Oddly, the clouds seemed to almost echo the roundness, forming a concentric shape inside the bowl.

The clouds continued to build as we climbed. It got grayer and grayer. This didn't dampen our mood nor lessen the beauty of the surroundings. In fact, the colors grew deeper in intensity. Now our vantage point revealed a waterfall tumbling off the edge of the cirque, nearly fluorescent against the black stained granite. Alongside the trail were several large flat rocks. It was the perfect spot to have lunch and enjoy the view.

The breeze kicked up a notch and we suddenly went from hot and sweaty, to cold. Jackets came out along with our lunches, and big, fat, wide-spread raindrops began to fall. It wasn't enough to get us wet, just enough to make it fun.

The consensus was that we would head back down after our break. The temperature had dropped and the clouds were heavy and purple above us. We’d nearly reached the 10,000-foot mark and we had regained our hiking legs and confidence, no need to push our luck and climb higher where we were likely to encounter snow. It was just what we needed to warm us up for the next day's adventure.

Dawn Moon

Dawn Moon
11" X 14"
Watercolor

One of the many amazing things about our Whitney trip was that it occurred as the moon waxed full. Although Clint planned it that way, for me it was a magical surprise when the moon—golden from the smoke of fires further north—slowly rose over the edge of the cirque at Trail Camp.

As it climbed, it became bigger and brighter, and whiter, throwing so much light into the clear, indigo evening, it created an eerie, almost daylight effect. I've never experienced a moon so bright. I had to sleep on my stomach so the light wouldn't keep me awake.

When we awoke, just before dawn, there was our moon, gently hanging over the ridge to the west. A big pearl casting a soft glow over the cup of earth where we sipped our tea, and thought about the day ahead.

The next night, the moon was fully revealed, looming even larger and brighter than the night before. It had been a big day—summit day. We were tired, turning in well before the moon had traveled far from the horizon.

But I couldn’t sleep. I was restless—hot and cold at the same time. I dozed a little off and on, and although I tried to ignore the urge, finally got up to empty my bladder. When I crawled out of the tent, I was astounded by the brightness of the porcelain ridges lit by the moon. The sharp, surreal black and white landscape absolutely took my breath away.

Again, I was struck by the eerie not-daylight—but not night—kind of light. It was stark and beautiful. And the stars! Even with the fluorescent moon, a bazillion diamond pinpoints crowded the sky. The unmistakable swath of the Milky Way hung over me in all its glory. I felt very small and insignificant, but honored.

I crawled back into the tent and finally slept until nearly dawn. We enjoyed that last delicious daybreak, the iridescent moon against the ridge surface that moved from cool blues and grays with a blush of pink, to coral-orange, then fading as the sun peeked over the Inyos. There are many people who will never see a sunrise as amazing as this. How lucky we were.

With this painting, I wanted to keep the feeling loose and wild. I wanted to capture the colossal and luminous moon in those last moments before dawn. That magical light and magical nights I will never forget.

The 99 Switchbacks Reward

From Trail Crest

Acrylic on Canvas

18" X 24"

This is one of the “wow” spots on the Mt. Whitney trail; an OMG trail reward as mentioned in my last post; stick it out and you get this gift. However, this one occurs deeper into the journey—nearly 10 miles in, after the world-famous 99 switchbacks.

The 99 switchbacks lie between Trail Camp (named for the obvious reason) and Trail Crest. When we arrived at Trail Camp, set up our tents, and the guys pointed out where we were headed the next day, I couldn’t believe there was actually a trail on the near-vertical slope rising out of Trail Camp.

As night fell, we watched the headlamps—distant stars of light bobbing along the invisible trail as hikers made their way down. When it was daylight, I searched the spots where I’d seen the lights, looking for some sign of a trail. Eventually, I could pick out a few gnat-sized hikers, working their way back and forth. Only then was I able to pick out the barest wisp of a trail scribed upon the surface.

The 99 switchbacks is an awesome section of trail. It zigzags upward quickly, presenting an expansive view of the cirque where Trail Camp resides. Bodies of water dot the landscape: the small golden pool next to the camp, the startling blue water of Consultation Lake, and copper penny puddles of snowmelt lying in the low spots.

Soon, the tents left behind, patiently waiting for the hikers to return from the summit, become tiny specs of brilliant color in the putty landscape. The higher you go, the more spectacular the view as you near the shoulder of the ridge where the named and unnamed spires jut upward, towering over the trail. The terrain is rugged, rough, and red—shattered by wind and ice.

Trail Crest sits at about 13,000 feet above sea level. As we hiked around that last nose of ridge (the 99^th switchback), we reaped the reward of the breath-stealing view that makes you feel as though you are looking down at the earth from a window seat high in the air. All of a sudden, you are on the knife-edge spine of a massive ridge that separates east from west. The Owens Valley to the East and Sequoia to the West. And it's a long way down on either side.

In the bottom of the valley to the west sits Hitchcock Lake, brilliant blue and green, mirroring the deep ridges of Mt. Hitchcock rising to the south. There is an unreal contrast to the barren, rocky terrain interrupted by this jewel serenely cradled in the low folds of the valley. Does anything live in a lake that high above tree line? Some day I must go there and find out.

I've been working with this image for a while now. I don't know that any rendering could communicate the scale of this view. It’s too vast. But I was determined to capture it some how.

I started with a small acrylic painting, moved on to a sketch, which I turned into a gelatin print. Then, I took that sketch and created a watercolor. None of them worked out very well. Eventually my persistence paid off though, and here you have it.

On to the next adventure in art. I’ve been thinking about the magical full moon over Trail Camp…

The Mountain

The Mountain
11" X 14"
Monotype, Ink and Tempera

There was a point when I didn’t think I was going to make it. I had just stumbled over the scariest half mile of trail—that seemed like ten—in my life, with only fleeting glances away from the narrow path that jellied my legs and set the cloud of butterflies whirling in my stomach. Beautiful, but terrifying, each step carefully placed on the loose jumble of rocks they called a trail. Talk about mindfulness, I was nowhere else but right there, focused on one step in front of the other.

We stopped at the outside of a spire where there was a blessedly wide spot to rest. While we recharged, a couple passed us; the man was lifting his wife down the fractured rock steps of the narrow trail. In only two steps, the tops of their heads disappeared down the steep path.

Off to the north, was the mountain. It was impossibly distant, the summit hut barely visible from where we sat. There was an urgent whisper inside me:

I can't do it. I’m scared. I don't want to climb over scary rocks on the edge of a cliff anymore. What if I break an ankle? What if I fall, making a coyote cloud in the bottom of the canyon? That would sure ruin the trip.

I caught myself and immediately shut down the thoughts. Can’t think about it. Gotta just do it. Can’t be the reason we stop after getting so far. Pride—overruling fear and fatigue. We shouldered our packs and kept on moving.

I will remember that moment sitting there and looking at the summit of Whitney the rest of my life. Overcoming the fear and moving on was a powerful moment in my life. The image of the ridge is burned into the movie screen in my head. Sometimes it appears without my summoning it. Like with this painting.

This is a monotype. Starting out as a gelatin print, I don't think I had anything specific in mind when I was putting ink and tempera on the plate—or maybe I did—I don’t remember. What I do recall is that I was either out of time or out of patience when I tossed the print onto the table.

Over the weekend, I decided I needed some studio time or my head was going to explode. Climbing the stairs, I found the wind had blown my pile of sketches, half-finished watercolors, and various rejects all over the studio. I picked up the discarded gelatin print and saw the ghost of the mountain in it. The image was backwards and not exactly the shape of the ridge, but it was reminiscent of the image tattooed on my brain. I added a little more color and teased the shape into existence, bringing it back to life out of the hint of what was there.

Close to the Mountain

Whitney Afternoon

6" X 9", Watercolor

On our last trip, we were the closest to Mt. Whitney we had been since our hike last fall. Whitney towered over our campsite, seeming close enough to touch. Saturday, we got even closer when we drove up to Whitney Portal to have lunch. Seeing the trailhead again brought back a rush of memories: this place marked the beginning and the end of the trip—this was the place where I was filled with fear, anxiety, elation, pride, and love.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.

(Bob: “Sioux, are you crying again?”)

When I am close to Whitney, I feel the mountain’s presence strong within my soul. And all of us that were there, we have a kinship. We have shared sweat and tears. Whitney gave us leave to climb onto its shoulder and look out over the world. It did not break us; it nurtured us and made us stronger. I will always have a bond with the mountain and with the dear ones who were there with me (and got me there in the first place!).

Saturday afternoon as the sun worked its way to the west, Whitney was lit through gaps in the clouds that had gathered over the ridge. The light kept changing as the clouds shifted. We contently sat in camp and watched the show above us. The sun was warm and intense, the breeze cool. We quietly drank in the surroundings; you could feel the collective peace.

I broke out my watercolors and predictably; the wind kicked up, tossing most of my gear off the table. I set up once again, with my palettes tucked under a tie-down strap. This was a "flow" painting. It was quick and effortless. The spirit of the mountain was with me.

Returning to Lone Pine Creek

Creek Crossing

9" X 12", Watercolor and Sepia Ink

A few of you have asked me about my painting of the creek. It's still sitting in my studio. In fact, I propped it up next to my drawing table so it can get a good look at me while it simmers. In the meantime, I took a stab at another version of the same scene, only this time using watercolor.

Lone Pine Creek is akin to a hiking companion on the trail up to Whitney. It meanders across the trail and travels along one side or the other in many places along the journey. It’s a cheerful constant, whether foaming white with a rainbow mist halo as it tumbles over cirque edges, gurgling gold where it lazily spreads out in the sun, or above tree line where it blackly murmurs over sun burnt rocks fringed with brilliant spikes of green—the only green you’ll see for a while.

This was one of those paintings that came together veh-rrrr-ry slowly. Usually I bang out a painting in one or two extended sessions, but this one took shape a little bit at a time over several different studio stints. I'd work on it a little and then set it aside, never fully committed to whether it was a success or not—until this past weekend when I finally opened the door that took me to the finish.

I was having one of those days when I didn't know what I wanted to work on. I had a small canvas of the view from Trail Crest out over the Hitchcock Lakes that I'd started back during the Top of the World paintings. Although it was off to a promising start, it went spiraling out of control and had to be put out of it’s misery.

And so, I went back to the creek painting. At some point in my dabbling, I added ink to the piece. That turned out to be a good decision, leading to a nice completion. It felt good to express this impression of Lone Pine Creek, particularly this crossing.

I know this is just the beginning though, as I explore the other faces of Lone Pine Creek.

Top of the World

When I look back on my life so far, it seems my destiny was to end up in the mountains. I grew up looking out my bedroom window at the mountain range where I would eventually live. Our house was on Mountain View Drive and I went to Top of the World Elementary. And that's the kicker in the odd synchronicity of these things. Little did I know that one day I would climb a mountain and stand on what felt like the top of the world to me.

Once you reach Trail Crest, you've gained most of the elevation on your way to the summit of Mt. Whitney. At 13,600 feet, you find yourself on a knife-edge ridge, where you can see forever. Valleys give way to ridges that march off into the distance, growing bluer and paler, eventually melting into the sky. It brings new meaning to bird's eye view. I had never been that high—on the ground, without pharmaceutical aids—in my life. I wanted to soar out over the ridges and valleys as I have in my dreams so many times.

Last weekend, it snowed like crazy. We were supposed to go camping, but due to the storm coming in, we cancelled. We had planned to go to the campground where we stayed the night before we began the hike up Whitney. It's my favorite place to camp and I was looking forward to seeing the eastern Sierra ridge and Whitney once again.

I was extremely disappointed, my moping increased as the weather outlook got nastier. So, since I couldn't visit my mountains, I painted them instead.

Top of the World I, Top of the World II

Panorama Set

8" X 8", Acrylic on Canvas

Repetition is Good for the Soul

With some images, I find them coming back to me—in my head, that is. I keep thinking about them and imagine how they might appear in different media. I think about the feel of the medium. Watercolor across a light pencil drawing, color pooling in the blue shadows. The roughness of pastel, the carved ruggedness of a relief print. I might be washing dishes, or sitting in a meeting, or just daydreaming when the image returns to center stage in my thoughts.

I think it's because I haven't said all there is to say about a subject. The art hasn't finished spilling out of me. I'm not finished reflecting the impression it made. The image of Trail Camp at sunrise is one of those subjects. And so, I decided to explore it again with pastel.

Pastel has an energy and a texture that was just what I needed to capture the shattered planes of color in the jagged rocks; I wanted loose strokes on rough paper. I wanted that gritty brilliance and glow.

As I worked, I remembered…

The second morning we were at Trail Camp, we were tired and dehydrated, but still riding high from reaching the summit of Mt. Whitney the day before. We sipped our tea to warm us while waiting for the sun to tip over the ridge. We had just started to repack our backpacks for the trip back down to Whitney Portal. It was cold, but the ridge looked like fire.

I kept looking at the ridge, wanting to burn it into my brain, knowing I'd never be back.

Trail Camp at Sunrise

Pastel on Paper. 9" X 12".

Overhead Companion

The day before we tackled Mt. Whitney, we hiked up the trail to Little Meysan Lake. Our goal was to get in a little elevation and get the muscles moving. We felt sluggish. Inside, I was panicking. The next day was only the event of my lifetime, and here I was huffing and puffing and feeling achy. Yet our surroundings were so breathtaking, that eventually we all fell into a rhythm and began to enjoy the climb up the trail. You could see the cirque that held the lake above us, and to the southeast, we looked out over a deep canyon.

Although we had a blue sky when we started, clouds were starting to gather. You could see the winds swirling and pulling tendrils from the clouds, eventually pushing them up against the ridge where they darkened. Was it going to rain? Maybe snow? I stopped to look up at the sky and saw this hawk circling above us. He had joined the party and accompanied us for a while on our journey. It seemed to portend good things.

As we climbed, the clouds continued to thicken. When we stopped for lunch, the breeze kicked up and out came the jackets—even ahead of our lunches. Fat drops landed here and there—just enough to make it fun—but also enough that we decided to head back after our lunch in case the rain got serious. It never did and neither did we. It was a great day.

Acrylic on Canvas 18" X 24"

Trail Camp at Sunrise

This is one of the more iconic views from the trip: the needles to the south of Mt. Whitney as seen from Trail Camp. We spent two nights at Trail Camp, which sits at an elevation of about 12,000 feet. It is as barren as the face of the moon and has a stark beauty about it that will stay with me always.

The sun rising on the needles is an amazing symphony of color. Even before the sun peeks up over the horizon, there is a warm, coral alpenglow. Then, as the light gets stronger, the color heats up to a fiery orange. When the sun is fully in the sky, the bright spires become the color of bleached bones that have lain in the sun for a million years.

Have you ever been somewhere that you know will remain etched in your memory forever? Where was it? Why were you there?

This painting is acrylic on canvas. It is 18" X 24".