There’s a little trail that makes a circuit around the base of Devils Tower, and it’s not hard to see why.
There’s just no bad angle anywhere—every side of the mountain is its good side.
For me, the problem wasn’t finding a good sketch spot—it was racing the clock and recording every “shot” I wanted (plus a few unexpected critters and Wall Drug signs…) before the sun went down on me!
Speaking of bears, the great state of Montana must have a lot of them…
…since they get their own highway exit and all.
Don’t let these pictures fool you—it might look like I was sketching in an idyllic environment, but I couldn’t spend much time marveling at the scenery or relaxing with my paints. That’s because I had to take a break approximately every 4.5 seconds to swat at biting insects, or to take cover from the dive-bombing hummingbirds.
This wasn’t a backcountry trail—it was nature’s war zone. And I’ll tell you one thing: a blank sketchbook page makes for a pretty serviceable white flag of surrender in a pinch.
I’ve talked before about being on Island Time—and in a weird way, this is kind of the same thing. You see, islands don’t just exist in water; you can find them in the middle of the desert, too.
The Chisos Mountains, in the heart of Big Bend National Park, rise 4,000 feet above the parched desert floor below. The elevation gain gives them a dramatically different climate than their surroundings. The name they call these types of mountains just melts my heart: sky islands.
I don’t know about you, but that reminds me of the sort of things I used to dream up when I was a kid. Of Shangri-la and castles in the air. Of quests and secrets. Of dirigibles and airships.
Who says park rangers aren’t romantics?
The winding river channels in the sketch I posted on Wednesday reminded me of the unusual hiking “trails” they have on the campus of the Penland School of Crafts. They’re just mown right into the grass of the huge central meadow in front of the school. From up the hill, it looks like some sort of fairy maze.
Considering the otherworldly haze of the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounding the spot on all sides, I’d believe it.
Tomorrow is my fifth anniversary of living in Washington state—so in honor of the occasion, the next few posts will highlight the Pacific Northwest. It’s been fascinating to see all the faces and incarnations of Mt. Rainier in my time here (so fascinating, in fact, that I did a whole book about it). But I have never seen “the Mountain” (as we call it here) like I did on the day of this drawing. Because of the wildfires that were raging elsewhere the Cascades at that time, I was literally standing on the Mountain, and I could barely make it out.
Unfortunately, with the increase of wildfires we’ve seen in the West lately, I fear this might not be the last time I see the Mountain like this. Sending good thoughts to everyone living in areas affected by wildfires this summer.
The Tailor and I make for an odd pair on a road trip. I’m likely to put enormous thought into the road tunes, to cue up the exact perfect song to play as we pass through certain landscapes (I am also usually the only one who notices or cares, no matter who’s with me on a trip). He, on the other hand, is likely to have one half of his mind in the present moment, and the other half somewhere in the Annals of Random History.
For instance, on this day, I was all wrapped up in how the weather seemed to shift with the music, when the Tailor turned to me and said, “Did you know that considering today’s date and our current time zone, the Titanic was sinking precisely one hundred years ago?!?”
So of course I had to add that to the sketchbook. Doesn’t the desert remind everyone of maritime disasters?
The Tailor and I visited Big Bend in mid-April, our best chance to catch the cacti in bloom. When we got there, a park ranger warned us not to get our hopes up. He told us they’d been experiencing a record drought—the park had only received about three inches of rain, total, over the past two years.
And then, that night, the wind picked up and the skies opened.
It absolutely poured on our tiny two-man tent (which miraculously stayed dry). Half an inch in four hours. Now, if you live in a naturally stormy place, you’re probably thinking, “That’s nothing!” But in the Chihuahuan Desert, after a prolonged drought, that storm gave us just cause to worry about washed-out roads and flash flooding.
The next morning, we thought our best reward might be cooler temperatures—until we went on a hike, and discovered what was waiting for us:
These guys wasted absolutely no time. Nearly every plant in the park went from zero to peak bloom in just a few short hours. I have never seen anything like it.
That day the phrase “painted desert” had a whole new meaning.
You know when you’re on a road trip, and you see a highway billboard that says something like, “World’s Largest Two-Headed Calf, Exit Now!” and you consider stopping, just for a moment? And then your spouse looks it up on the map, and you discover that yeah, it’s this exit, plus maybe another 140 miles of dirt-road switchbacks in the opposite direction? And then you laugh, because who on earth would ever actually go there?
Well, that’s me. I am the one who goes there.
And I bring my sketchbook and a little box of paints with me. This is what I do. I’ve logged a lot of miles in my life, visiting as many patches of earth as possible and getting as much down on paper as I can. And for the first time, I’m putting these sketches out into the world. So here we are: I’ve collected all my drawings of crazy tourist traps and Paul Bunyan statues and hidden gems and panoramic vistas, and I’m sending them out like postcards. To you.
Welcome to my world—let’s hit the road, shall we?
