I don’t know about you, but I’m always tempted to let my New Year’s resolutions pile up as high as the snowbanks at Mt. Rainier. Of course, it’s much harder to fulfill them than make them, but I know there’s at least one that I’ll have no problem keeping:
Just keep sketching.
We’re celebrating the winter break this year with a road trip to the Plains states. And while I normally love a white Christmas as much as anybody—I must admit that brown is a little more conducive to driving cross-country.
Keep your fingers crossed for me, won’t you?
The Tailor and I had completely different reasons for wanting to visit Thomas Edison’s laboratory. For my part, they had me at “National Park”—and it didn’t hurt that there existed a hilarious song about the place (which, let me tell you, played on repeat in my head for a good month afterward).
But the Tailor’s a scientist and a tinkerer at heart, so the century-old chemistry lab spoke to his very soul—
—not to mention all the iconic inventions around every corner.
Most of the machinery, chemicals and gadgets were incomprehensible to me, but I found myself getting sucked in, too. I absolutely fell in love with the sheer clutter of the place. If they say a messy workspace is a sign of genius…
…well, then clearly, we were in the presence of one of the greats.
The Tailor and I bought two new pairs of binoculars for our trip to Big Bend last year, because we knew we could expect to do some serious birdwatching there. What we didn’t find out until the ungodly hours of our first morning in the tent: the birdlistening was every bit as intense.
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!
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?
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.
Parking lots at national parks at the height of summer are the best place on earth to play the license plate game.
Anybody got Hawaii?
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.
