Shepp Ranch

I was at Shepp Ranch, up the Main Salmon River of Idaho, in the middle of May and I fell unrepentantly in love with the place.  How I was lucky enough to get connected with this place is no mystery.  Idaho is like a really big small town and it shrinks down even smaller if you’re part of fire culture and then, if you’re related to smokejumping, it’s about the tiniest little universe you could imagine.  Long story short, I have a friends who are friends with the managers of this ranch and suddenly, I found myself headed up river in a jet boat to meet those lovely managers and photograph the ranch.

Shepp is remote and currently operates as a guest ranch, fishing destination and hunting outfitter.  It can be reached by jet boat or bush plane; one could also hike in or ride in with a pack string.  It’s located 30 air-miles from Riggins on the banks of the Main Salmon River, up in the Gospel Hump Wilderness which is attached to the Frank Church Wilderness.  We all know how I feel about the Frank so I won’t blather on about it until I cry in this post but in short, this is the heart of Idaho.  This is the untamed, roadless, fathomless heart of Idaho.  Go look at a map of Idaho.  The massive green patch of space in the center of the state that remains undivided by highways, that’s what I’m talking about — wilderness area, public land.  It’s for the animals, the trees and us.  With that said, let’s talk for a moment about Idaho’s Salmon River.  This river is designated as wild and scenic.  This river canyon is deeper than the Grand Canyon but slightly shallower than Hell’s Canyon.  The break country that rises up from the water is exquisitely rumpled, creek cut, steep and woolly with conifers.  This territory is owned by the elk, managed by the wolves, surveyed by the sheep and prowled by bobcats and lions.  It’s terrific.  You can feel it in your bones when you look up at the granitic towers that frame the waterway, a massive sense of paradise, the sharp edge of humility, true fairness — this wilderness treats everyone and everything the same.

Shepp Ranch is off the grid but isn’t self-sustained…but it’s pretty close and from what I understand the ranch owners are trying to switch the property over to solar power.  For the time being, all electricity pours forth from a generator which is turned on for a short while in the morning and again in the evening (and occasionally during the day).  It’s a quiet place.  Work begins before dawn and when the sun disappears, work winds down for the day.  There’s a lovely, natural life rhythm at Shepp, a rhythm I have always associated with living rurally, ranching and farming.

Christina keeps an enormous garden, various berry patches and an orchard.  She cans and preserves continuously throughout the summer.  They have a donkey stallion they are hoping to breed their own mules with as well as a couple horses (fabulous mountain horses) and a string of mules.  Hens free range and are regularly knocked up by the roosters so new born chicks free range too, whenever they happen to hatch and show up on the property.  Wes is always busy with something — preparing for the trapping season, cutting firewood, tinkering with whatever is broken, helping out neighbors.

One of my favorite things about the Main Salmon is the way ranches and farms are spread out over a big distance but there’s still an incredible sense of community.  People who live out don’t think twice about helping each other out.  The kind heart of humanity is very alive in this place and it’s beautiful to behold.

I think about Shepp all the time.  Shepp is basically my dream ranch.  It’s 104 acres and wilderness space rolls away in three directions giving the place a sense of infiniteness.  I’m headed in again, in a moment.  My summer season will be officially bookended with trips to this place and I’m completely delighted.  Tomorrow night, after journeying by truck, jet boat, horse and mule, I’ll find myself with my friends, sleeping in the wind and stars at their high hunting camp.  It’s going to be grand.

Until I return, I leave you with some of my favorite pictures from my last visit.

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The Words To Go With

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It occurred to me that I failed to share the write up for this series in this space so I’m going to do that now.  Also, I’m about to disappear into the backcountry for a stint and while I am excited for this trip I’m taking, I just can hardly wait to get home again and sit myself down in the studio once more. More specifically, I can’t wait to make a few more pieces from this series.

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It’s difficult for me to not adore the jackrabbit. Last winter, the jackrabbit population in the desert of Idaho was unbelievable. The sagebrush seemed to be crawling with them. Their large feet cut packed highways in the deep snow that made it much easier for us to walk when we were out crossing big country on foot. I was grateful for their swell in population last year — rabbits come and go, you know. But last winter, it was a hare-a-palooza and how lucky for the owls, coyotes and birds of prey to have so much food on hand.

A brother-in-law of ours shot one for dinner while we were out quail hunting and I’ll never forget the stillness of its eyes in death or the plushness of its fur. I said to myself, “Never again. We can eat something else.”

We didn’t let that hare go to waste, he made a beautiful stew, but his memory lives in my heart. I’ve never shot a jackrabbit to eat and I promise I never will.

While hunting quail in New Mexico in February, I was hiking back to camp when I noticed a rabbit skeleton strewn about the sand dune I was crossing, I leaned my shotgun against a yucca, bent at the waist and collected a couple handfuls of vertebrae that I brought home to Idaho with me.

One of those vertebrae you see here, cast in solid sterling silver. The shape of it is beautiful, natural, and so splendidly symmetrical. I’ve flanked this sterling bone on one side with a bouquet of hand fabricated ferns — these beauties are incredibly dimensional and textural. They, themselves, almost look like castings. An old stock, deadstock turquoise cross links this sizable pendant to a study chain.

Stay peaceful.
Stay fast.
Keep an innocent light lit in the deep pools of your eyes and in your chest, hold an ever steady heart.

 

7i9a2708 7i9a2711 7i9a27157i9a2725I’m home for a couple days and I’ve been rounding up loose ends in the studio.  I have five of these necklaces made and I plan to list them in my shop tomorrow morning at 10AM, MST.

Built of: solid sterling jackrabbit vertebra,nugget-y turquoise and an opera length chain (which is adjustable).

It’s a beaut!

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https://www.thenoisyplume.com/blog/2016/09/28/12163/

7i9a2118 7i9a2126 7i9a2129 7i9a2130 7i9a2137 7i9a2149These early autumn days when the sky sits upon the earth like a bluebird on the back of a buckskin horse.

 

https://www.thenoisyplume.com/blog/2016/09/19/12143/

The Same

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In a fit of inspiration this morning, though I had about one hundred other things I needed to be doing, I went back to this batch of pictures I made at a pow wow this summer and re-worked them into slightly sepia toned black and white shots with heavy grain and muddy contrast — an obvious nod to the incredible work of Ed Curtis.

I posted one of these images in color on my Instagram account, weeks ago, and was attacked for it by what I assume was an angry, native american woman.  She accused me of appropriation via photography which is perfectly absurd.  At least, I think that’s what she was accusing me of, her comment was ridiculous and muddled with rage.  Admittedly, I resented it.  Her words were a slap in the face of what I felt and still feel is honest photography work that serves its subject in a beautiful way.  I am in the business of illumination.  I am not a new age, urban white girl playing at Indian — this is not the root of any of my work.  I didn’t bother responding to her comment.  I couldn’t come up with a response that voiced my indignation in a gracious way.

 The truth is this, I photograph pow wows because it feels like a tiny, tender way for me to offer up some kind of restitution…to capture the gritty heart of native culture here in the West with wide open eyes and to feel a sense of healing with regards to the wounds and fractures I feel in my own heart.  I am one more human who comes from a brilliant family tree that is full of brokenness, beauty, secrets, violence, romance and ruin.  When I see the dancers dance, when I photograph them, I feel what it means to be broken and smashed and to still rise up on fragments of wings.  I know what it is to seek freedom, to break a curse, to fail to rise, and to try to rise again.

We are the same.  I grow weary of constant cultural polarization in society.  There is no way to measure suffering or the crisis of the human heart.  There is no teaspoon that can quantify the oscillating swirl of darkness and light that is in every single human being on the face of this planet — past, present and future.  One of us might be missing a leg, another plagued by the physical memory of rape, and yet another haunted by the injustice and mass murder of the “Battle” at Wounded Knee.

We are all the same.  We are broken and healing.  I might be white with flaxen hair, you might be brown with raven tresses, but we are fundamentally the same.

And so I will photograph you and find the light and beauty in you because finding the light and beauty in you reveals for us all what is possible for humanity, what is possible for me, what is possible for all individual souls.  

Dancer, move with joy, uplift us, raise us from our sorrows.