The Band
May 25, 2018 by
I discovered a band of wild horses on the BLM land near our farm. I drove out with a friend to see them last night. The sky was storming in three directions, at some point my camera survived a proper deluge and my hair received a second rinse for the day, the wild flowers were blooming and the horses were magnificent — the stallion in particular watching over his mares and foals with such strength and dignity. This herd was taken off BLM land and retained for a stint before being returned to the range so while they are wild, they have been gentled some to the presence of humans and they allow some people to approach them closer than most wild horses would. They are curious, you know? They want to check things out and catch a whiff of you on the wind.
I’m so excited to have this band nearby and I plan to photograph them for years to come. I look forward to watching them, knowing them better, naming them, seeing new foals born, seeing young stallions kicked out to fend for themselves. I look forward to watching them survive. They do it so well.
I already have some people asking about prints of these wild horse images and I would like to get out a few more times to capture these horses with my cameras before I begin to offer such a thing, so hang tight.
This is just the beginning, my friends.
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April 24, 2018 by
Sometimes the very thing you don’t think you can make time to do is the very thing you must make time to do. I stepped out the front door with the dogs last night, strolled down the driveway and sat down in the sage to watch the sunset, be nearer to the water, hear the birds, feel the breeze and be still. Life right now is feeling too fast and too full. I’m sick with something but I’m getting through it. Robbie keeps telling me that I am living fully when my stress levels are low and that means making sure I walk the dogs in the morning, ride a horse in the evening, work hard and find some stillness every day. I recently told someone that when we bought the farm it was a deep relief to me. This place came to us after years of dividing our lives between Idaho and Washington, years of over-working myself, years of being (lightly and heavily) abused by others, two-and-a-half years of being stalked by a malicious individual (the term “stalking” was applied by the police who helped me with the situation though I was never able to obtain a restraining order or press charges of any kind)……………and all the other general wear and tear of life.
This place has been my solace, my healing grounds, my safe haven after years of feeling tired, hurt and afraid. When I sit in the sage over my section of the river with my dogs in the echo of the wildflowers under the broad wing of God, my soul takes its rest and I know all is well — and if it isn’t, it shall be.
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I Must Go
March 3, 2018 by
I’m going to the ocean tomorrow and the thought of leaving the high desert causes me to feel a small, quiet anguish. Leaving the high desert, leaving my home canyon, leaving the sounds of the river…the tight yank required to pull my roots up for a moment creates an uncomfortable tension for me. I go places all the time but for some reason I balk at the idea of loading the car and hitting the highway. As soon as I’m out the door, the tension will go slack and I’ll know I’m headed to where I’m supposed to be. But I feel defensive, I don’t want to be distracted by other environments right now. I’m besotted with the desert, with her textures, with her moods, with her smells and sights. My writing and my metalwork are all about her at the moment. I’m afraid to look up from that inspiration and find myself elsewhere, astounded and full of wonder, pulled off in a new direction. But I must go.
I made a goal of trying to take more trips for the sole purpose of inspiration seeking this year (and all years to come). To not travel for work — to travel for the heart of my work, for the sake of my work — to travel less for freelance photography and modeling, to travel more just to keep my soul fresh and my eyes wide open, to use my cameras, to take the time to write and paint, to explore and squander my curiosity in broad terrains and exquisite cultures. To take back the road and choose my own path again. To meet my friends along the way and to enjoy the delicious lonesomeness of my escapades, too. To feel my heart brighten at the thought of homecoming.
I have a feverish wanderlust at the moment but it’s at war with my securely planted roots and rhythms. It’s a conundrum.
But I must go.
To my desert, my sagebrush, my river canyon, my muse — Zane Grey said it best:
“The spell of the desert comes back to me, as it always will come. I see the veils, like purple smoke, in the canõns, and I feel the silence. And it seems that again I must try to pierce both and to get at the strange wild life of the last American wilderness — wild still, almost, as it ever was.”
To The Dunes
February 14, 2018 by
A few weeks ago I found myself in the dark of our bedroom, wildly awake, my head lifted from the pillow with the clear thought, “Someday, I’ll be 65.” I don’t know why I suddenly woke up or why that was my waking thought or why I chose the number 65, but I found the realization shocking. I live in a way that makes me unaware of my age. I’ve lived for a long time now, 36 years. With the exception of a mostly dead thyroid gland, my body is healthy, agile, sleek. My legs keep hammering when I run those long, sweeping distances of mine. I’m small but I can carry a lot of weight over a great distance, my successful elk hunt this year is proof of this. I don’t look especially weathered though that will come the longer I live in the high desert and I hope to accept those lines with grace and gratitude. I have no knee pain. I have some arthritis in my hands when the weather turns bitterly cold but this is a legacy of silversmithing and I do what I can to protect those little, working bones of mine. I’m in great shape. The notion that my body is going to age and eventually betray me is unimaginable, yet I know it will. It’s the way of life to survive small deaths. And so we go.
Time passes. Time has passed. Time is passing. It seems like only yesterday I was a little sun bleached blond girl in the caragana stand out in the pasture, playing with romantic looking rusted tin cans and glass bottles I found in the treeline, barn cats by my side and the horses in the distance munching grass — but that was thirty years ago. In most ways, I’m still that little girl. It’s funny how many things don’t change in this tornado of constant change.
Yesterday was my birthday and we hauled horses out to Bruneau Dunes to ride for the day. It might be my favorite birthday I’ve ever had. The sky was bluebird. The sun was warm. What little breeze there was created the perfect blend of weather that whips the cheeks red and chaps the lips. I live for that kind of weather in Idaho. The sand and the brush and the wind whittled waves lay in light echoes beneath eight hooves. We found ourselves feeling homesick for New Mexico which is where we usually spend my birthday, down in the sand country where the scaled quail live.
Yesterday we felt we had found a little pocket of New Mexico here in Idaho and we rejoiced in it. The dune towered over us, its shadow slowly reaching for evening. I marveled at the sand polished stones laying like dollars on the ocean edge. All the gold on gold pinned down by vast blue, the buff of the rabbit brush, Robert on his yellow horse and the white sands shifting and roiling in every direction. What beauty to behold. Such beauty was ours. We rode the dunes alone and in perfect harmony.
We circled back to the truck and trailer and cooked up franks with kraut for late lunch. The dogs begged, the horses slurped water, the coyotes sang, we laughed when the smoke stung our eyes. Our drive home was merry, I felt so full of joy and contentment. Once, I felt such deep envy for people on horses on trails. It made me want to cry. I wanted that life so terribly. I saw those nice folks with their trailers, hauling their stock to beautiful places so they could explore and camp and hunt with their steeds. Oh, my heart yearned to have that same thing in my life. To have this horse of mine is the greatest gift. To haul Resero beyond our usual haunts, to have him in hunting camp this past fall, to be able to take him wherever I go is not just a luxury, it is a magical luxury. This I know.
When I didn’t think my birthday could be more beautiful, Robert gave me my final gift — a bow. I have talked for two years about wanting to make the shift from rifle hunting to bow hunting and last night he launched me in the direction of fulfilling another dream of mine. It’s a gorgeous bow. He was too good to me. Now I must learn and master a new skill.
It’s a good thing I’m only 36. I have so much to do.
Note: The palomino in these photos is not our horse, he belongs to our neighbors who have become some of our best friends — we are so lucky to have them living across our hay field from us. They are too kind to let Robert ride their horses. Every day I whisper a little prayer of thanks for them.